Coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug as I fumble it. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Give or take.” His tentacles curl inward. “My metabolism runs quite hot, especially when healing. I normally hunt in deeper waters, but in this condition…”
I sink into one of my kitchen chairs, mind racing. “Thirty pounds of fish. Daily.” The logistics are already giving me a headache. “I can’t exactly buy out the fish market. This town runs on gossip. If I started procuring industrial quantities of fish, everyone would know before lunch.”
I can already imagine the rumors. The speculation. In Cape Tempest, buying an unusual amount of coffee creamer is enough to fuel a week of theories. Bulk-ordering fish?
Yeah,thatwon’t go unnoticed.
A tentacle reaches out to steady my coffee mug before I can spill more of it. “I understand if this is too much to ask—” Roark begins.
“No, no, I’ll figure something out.” The solution hits me, and my stomach clenches. “I’ll just have to catch it myself.”
I haven’t been fishing since Dad died. Haven’t even opened the storage locker where we kept the gear. But Dad’s old boat is still in the boathouse, and I know these waters. Know where the big schools run, where the deep channels hold the bigger fish.
“You fish?” Roark asks, and there’s something in his tone—interest? respect?—that makes me straighten.
“Used to. With my dad.” I take a long sip of coffee, letting the familiar bitter taste ground me. “He loved the water. Professionally, he was a diver. But his favorite thing to do was fish… before the accident. He taught me everything he knew about these waters.”
One of his tentacles brushes my shoulder, so lightly I almost think I imagined it. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” I straighten up, decision made. “Because unless you’ve got a better idea for feeding a cthulhu in secret, this is our best option. I’ll need to get supplies, though. Bait. New line.” I glance at the clock and groan. “And I have tours starting in two hours.”
His expression shifts to alarm. “Tours?”
Right. We probably should have discussed that part last night. “Yeah, the lighthouse is open to the public three days a week. Today being one of them.” I run a hand through my mess of hair. “So we need to figure out how to handle that too. But first things first. I can’t have you starving to death, and I don’t think my four measly cans of tuna in the cupboard are going to cut it.”
“Well.” His hands and tentacles move with careful precision as he starts cleaning, efficiently managing multiple tasks. “I can stay out of sight. I’m well-practiced at remaining unnoticed.”
I hide behind my coffee cup, needing the barrier. “The tours stick to a set route—lighthouse tower, gallery, museum room. They don’t come into the private quarters, but…”
“But?”
“People get nosy.” I trace the rim of my mug. “Especially about the ‘mysterious lighthouse keeper who lives alone.’” The memory of Mrs. Harrison’s concerned tutting makes me cringe. “Everyone’s got an opinion about it.”
Roark pauses his cleaning, and I feel his focus shift to me. “They disapprove of your solitude?”
“Small town.” I shrug, aiming for casual, even though the judgment still stings. “Being alone is weird enough. Being alone and female? Apparently incomprehensible.”
He’s quiet for a moment, tentacles drawing back as if giving me space. “I… understand something of isolation.” His formal tone carries an edge of something raw. “I wasn’t always alone. Before the Great Unveiling, I maintained a human disguise. Served as a ship’s captain.”
That makes me look up. “You were a captain?”
“For several decades.” His posture straightens, almost proud. “Though I imagine those credentials mean little now.”
The revelation throws me off balance. I keep discovering layers to him, and each one makes it harder to think of him as just some creature I’m helping. “That explains the kitchen efficiency.”
“Running a galley requires organization.” He gestures to my spice rack with what might be disapproval. “Though I had rather more to work with at sea.”
I drain my coffee, forcing myself to focus on practicalities instead of the way his tentacles move with such precise grace. “Right. Well, I should get going. There’s a shop down by the docks—Marina’s. Half bait shop, half coffee spot. Marina’s kindof the town mother figure. Taught me to tie my first fisherman’s knot when I was six.”
“You trust her?” His tentacles curl inward, betraying concern.
“With my life.” I head for my bedroom to change. “But maybe not with the whole ‘hiding a cthulhu’ thing just yet.”
When I return in my turtleneck and jeans, I pause at the door. “Just… stay in the private quarters? Even if you hear voices. There’s always lookie-loos.”
He inclines his head. “Of course.”
