He laughs, pausing to drop a kiss on my lips. “In more ways than one.”
“And now?” I ask, tipping up my face, asking for more. “Has your thirst been quenched?”
“Not at all.” He obliges me, kissing me again and again. The ocean reaches for us on the shore, the cool water enveloping our ankles. We break apart, watching the water recede. “I think she wants you to come in one more time. She’s beckoning you.”
“Not a chance.”
Turning around suddenly, I start running backward and twirling my fingers at him. “Come in, Klein. Comeiiin.”
He bends his knees and ducks, rushing me. I have time for only half a shriek before I’m in his arms, thrown over his shoulder.
Laughing, I run my palms over his back. He does the same to my backside.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks, setting me down.
“Nothing that can be found on an itinerary.”
“Agreed.”
We make good on that agreement. We ride bikes to get ice cream, and I stop at the little grocery store for chicken necks. Klein grimaces, but I refuse to tell him what I’m up to, asking that he trust me.
I take him out to a dock in the marsh, producing two lines of durable string I found in the shed when I was putting Klein’s malfunctioning (lucky us!) air mattress away earlier. The find led to me spending copious amounts of time on the internet learning if someone with a shellfish allergy can go crabbing. The conclusion was affirmative.
“You’re not doing a very good job keeping the disgust off your face,” I say, laughing at his contorted features.
“Maybe it’s because you’re tying a knot around a chicken neck.”
“Raw chicken neck,” I clarify.
“The designation does not help your case.”
“Here.” I hand him a line. “Drop that in the water.”
“Am I going to catch a water monster?”
“Yep.”
“For real?”
“If you consider a crab to be a water monster, then yes.”
Excitement widens his eyes. “I’m fishing for crab?”
A peal of laughter slips out of me. “You’recrabbingfor crab.”
He nods once, decisively. “Fishing for crab, then. It’s not an issue with my allergy?”
“I spent twenty minutes this morning reading about it. It appears to be fine, but if you’re worried, we can scrap it.”
“I want to stay. I just won’t touch them.”
“Good idea. They pinch.”
“I—” His line jerks. “Fish on!”
“Crab on,” I correct, jumping to my feet so I can help him. “You have to be very quiet.” I say this with almost no volume. “The crab will let go if they hear you.”
He goes silent. His muscles are tense as he takes the line from the water inch by inch. His thrill at the activity has my heart twisting.
