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I hate lying, but at least I have lines prepared. It’s my profession to remember and deliver accurate information, and I stick tightly to the script. “There wasn’t much to think about. The second I saw him falling, I knew what I had to do.”

“You were strangers before that moment, right?” the reporter follows-up. “Would you have jumped forward so confidently if you knew what you were risking?”

Even though the scenario we’re talking about is pure fiction, my brain insists yes . I’d do what I needed to keep him safe.

Although in this specific situation, given the chance, I’d simply go and get the damn crew next time, no doubt about that.

Emphatic, I lean forward. “I haven’t regretted it for a moment,” I say.

An appreciative murmur rolls through the crowd.

“You seem awfully close,” a man says from the back. “There’s no truth to the rumors that you were previously involved, either professionally or personally?”

The publicist steps forward. “Absolutely not,” he says. “And I’ll remind you that we won’t be entertaining frivolous or malignant rumors.”

“It’s a fair question,” the reporter objects. “Considering your connections through FCS,” he adds, referencing the accounting firm. “And we’re learning that the island where you were located belongs to a member of the British aristocracy who himself has funds handled by FCS.”

I’m not surprised to hear that the baronet had some finances pass through the office. Most wealthy people in the region do, and considering the level of grunt details that we handle, he likely didn’t even realize it.

But this is quickly turning sour. The entire point of this press conference is to disassociate with FCS. Eager to correct, I lean into the mic, returning us to facts.

“Elliot Peterson and I were stranded together,” I say firmly. “That’s the entire extent of our relationship. We’re essentially strangers.”

Glad that I summoned some gumption, I turn to glance at Elliot and see the hint of a sting in his expression.

Shit. He’s not a stranger to me now. I didn’t mean it that way, but of course I can’t correct myself.

“There you have it. Let’s take something from the back. Chef and Table , yes?”

“What did you eat to sustain yourselves?”

It’s another prepared question, one we knew would be coming. Elliot summons a smile again and fields it. “Berries and violets,” he says. “And excessive seaweed. Plus clams when we were lucky.”

“Elliot is a champion at gathering sea algae,” I add, completing our scripted answer.

Elliot smiles at me and improvises. “Hank found us fiddlehead ferns. They’re delicious. Like asparagus. Nearly worth going back to the island for.”

It gets a laugh from the crowd, and the digression off-script seems okay with the publicist. I turn to Elliot, and when he catches my eyes, I strengthen my focus.

We got this. Over in no time.

“One more from the back,” the publicist says while pointing.

“I’m on our social media right now, and I’ve got to say, people aren’t buying that you’re strangers. What brought Elliot to the casino boat that night in the first place?”

Damn it.

“We’re not…” I try, searching carefully for my words.

Elliot jumps in. “It’s just that… Since Hank first found me stuck on the raft, a lot has happened. And?—”

“Excuse me,” someone up front interrupts. “I thought you both came to investigate an injured bird?”

I lean forward. “That’s correct,” I say, trying to save. “That’s what Elliot means.”

“The bird,” Elliot says quickly, agreeing. “Hank was helping me when he slipped.”

“You slipped,” I correct him.

“Right,” Elliot agrees.

“We’re both quite tired,” I say, my pulse pounding in my ears. “And still recovering. From when I first saved Elliot?—”

“What about Elliot’s connections to radical climate terrorists?” a man with a clipboard asks as he stands suddenly. “We’re supposed to believe there’s no connection between Elliot’s terrorism against oil companies and the fact that Hank personally services major oil and gas accounts?”

“That’s all we have time for,” the publicist says, his voice clipped but friendly. “We promised the doctors that these gentlemen wouldn’t be kept under the bright lights for more than a brief event. If you have further questions, please refer to the informational packets. Thank you!”

The room erupts in commotion while Elliot and I are brought off stage.

“That didn’t go great,” I whisper. I realize I’m sweating.

“Sorry. I think that qualifies as me fucking up,” Elliot whispers back. “But maybe it’s not that bad.”

“No more than inconsequential details,” I offer. It was an honest mistake from Elliot under difficult circumstances, and I don’t want him to beat himself up.

The publicist stops and gives us a look that clearly says yes, it’s bad, before hurrying away.

I rub my temples. “Shit. I want this all to go away so I can just sleep.”

“I don’t like being called a terrorist, but that guy sounded like he was from some bananas extremist news magazine. No one reasonable will listen to him, and there are already a million confused stories out there.”

“There you are,” Mr. Peterson says, joining us in the small room behind the press conference. “Not what we were looking for, gentlemen.”

“Please go easy, Dad,” Elliot says, loosening his scarf. “I did the best I could.”

Behind his glasses, Mr. Peterson narrows his eyes at his son.

“Your disappearance has occurred during a sensitive time at the firm. You won’t face the consequences of a diminished professional reputation.

That’s not a problem you have to deal with, son, but some of us do. Including Mr. Hansley here.”

Even though he doesn’t explicitly name Elliot’s career and his disapproval of it, I hear the critique in his voice.

It annoys me enough, and my energy is worked up so much from the press conference, I respond after he says my name.

“Excuse me, sir. But your son and I are still recovering our health. We have plenty of consequences to occupy our attention, but I think his rest needs to come first.”

My mouth falls slightly ajar, surprise at what I just said pulsing through me.

My boss turns and sets his stern gaze on me. “Did I ask you?”

“Dad, drop it,” Elliot says. “Just drop it.”

Mr. Peterson’s lips draw tight. “Fine. Hansley, you clearly need time to clear your head and think straight again. Take until next Monday. We’ll assess where everything stands with public relations then, and see if you can return to the professionalism we expect.”

He walks away, and I let out a shaky breath.

“Shit, Hank,” Elliot says. “Sorry about that. Sorry about him.” He winces. “Damn it! I really don’t want this to cause you problems at work.”

I shake my head. “It’s not your fault, Elliot. We shouldn’t have been in this position in the first place.” But cold dread sinks through me. I’m an accomplished professional, and not used to being scolded. Could my job seriously be at risk?

“Thanks for defending me,” he adds softly.

Before I can gather my thoughts, Angie and Taylor emerge to join us.

Taylor frowns, and Angie holds her hand horizontal and waves it side-to-side. “Some good answers. Some not so good.”

I rub the back of my head. “I think the bad answers won out. I’m in hot water with work now.”

Taylor lifts her phone. “If it helps, your fans loved it. Especially the part where you smiled at each other with love hearts in your eyes and talked about eating seaweed.”

“Oh wow.” Elliot says as he leans back against the wall. “People noticed that?”

“Probably just people who use the internet,” Angie says.

My cheeks flush. I certainly didn’t have love-hearts in my eyes, but I know objecting will get me nowhere.

Elliot gives me a funny smile. I’m not sure exactly what it’s about, considering we just humiliated ourselves on television and angered his father.

“Put it out of mind if you can,” Taylor offers. “Social media moves so fast. People will forget about this.”

“Thanks. I’ve got plenty more sleeping to distract me.”

“But maybe first,” Elliot adds, “you and I could sneak off and get a drink?”

I arch an eyebrow. “We just made unintended splashes with our press conference. I don’t think a public appearance is in order.”

“The club where Marko tends bar is just down the block. They’re not open yet, but he’s in there getting ready and listening to music.

We don’t need to drink, but it’s a private place we could talk.

” He tilts his eyes up to me. “There’s a lot we should probably talk about,” he adds. “And I’d like to see you.”

“You’re right,” I agree, feeling some relief just at the thought of it. “I’d appreciate that.”

Truthfully, I’m so exhausted and fraught from the press conference, I’ll probably get home after this and knock out for another twenty-four hours.

But I’ll sleep even better assured that Elliot is okay, too.