He can tell she’s asking Emma a question within that question—one that has nothing to do with being Syrena. He shoves his hands in his pockets, abandoning his scrutiny of her in favor of memorizing each thread in the carpet. He can’t meet her eyes, knowing what she, at this moment, is envisioning him and Emma doing. Idiot! She’s not worried why Galen the Syrena would be at her house. She’s worried why Galen the human boy would.

Emma clears her throat. “Yep. This is him.”

“I see. Will you excuse us for a moment, Galen? Emma, can I talk with you privately please? Upstairs?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply from either of them. Before Emma follows her up, she throws him an I-told-you-so smirk. He acknowledges with a nod.

Since he doesn’t feel welcome to wander around the house and take in all the pictures, he trudges to the window, staring into the dune grass without seeing it. No noises—yelling, or otherwise—escape from upstairs, but he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. Humans resolve problems differently than Syrena, and even differently from each other. Sure, the Royals tend to have bad tempers. But most Syrena enlist the help of a third party, a mediator to keep things fair. Humans almost never do. They resort to yelling, fighting, sometimes even murder—how he found Rachel is proof enough of that. Tied to a cement block and thrown into the gulf. He was only thirteen years old at the time, but he still remembers how fast she sank, wriggling like live bait and screaming through the tape over her mouth. And the knots. He tore his fingers bloody and raw getting those knots loose.

When he took her to shore, she begged him not to leave her. He didn’t want to stay, but she shook so hard he thought she might be dying anyway. Grom had just taught him how to build a fire—something most Syrena don’t learn until it’s time for them to mate on the islands—so he caught a few fish and cooked them for her. With guarded curiosity, he lingered while she ate. Any other adult human would have been rattled at seeing his fin. Not Rachel. In fact, she ignored it so well he thought she might not have noticed—until she told him she’d spent the last thirty years keeping secrets for people, and why should he be any different? So he stayed with her all night while she drifted in and out of sleep. In the morning, he announced it was time to part ways. She wouldn’t accept that, said she wanted to pay him back. Reluctantly, he agreed.

In exchange for saving her life, he asked her to tell him about humans. He met her on the beach every night, in a place she called Miami, and she answered all the questions he could think of and questions he wouldn’t know to ask. After he felt she’d repaid the debt, he insisted again on parting ways. That’s when she offered to be his assistant. She said if he really wanted to learn about humans, to protect his kind from them, he would need her particular set of skills. When he asked her what skills she meant, she’d said simply, “I can do just about anything. That’s why they tried to kill me, sweet pea. To humans, there’s such a thing as knowing too much.” And many times over, she’s proved just what she can do. Their running joke is how he’s the richest nonhuman on the planet.

Footsteps from the stairwell startle him out of the past. He turns around as Emma’s mother takes the last step into the dining area, Emma right behind her.

Mrs. McIntosh glides over and puts her arm around him. The smile on her face is genuine, but Emma’s smile is more like a straight line. And she’s blushing.

“Galen, it’s very nice to meet you,” she says, ushering him into the kitchen. “Emma tells me you’re taking her to the beach behind your house today. To swim?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her transformation makes him wary.

She smiles. “Well, good luck with getting her in the water. Since I’m a little pressed for time, I can’t follow you over there, so I just need to see your driver’s license while Emma runs outside to get your plate number.”

Emma rolls her eyes as she shuffles through a drawer and pulls out a pen and paper. She slams the door behind her when she leaves, which shakes the dishes on the wall.

Galen nods, pulls out his wallet, and hands over the fake license. Mrs. McIntosh studies it and rummages through her purse until she produces a pen—which she uses to write on her hand. “Just need your license number in case we ever have any problems. But we’re not going to have any problems, are we, Galen? Because you’ll always have my daughter—my only daughter—home on time, isn’t that right?”

He nods, then swallows. She holds out his license. When he accepts it, she grabs his wrist, pulling him close. She glances at the garage door and back to him. “Tell me right now, Galen Forza. Are you or are you not dating my daughter?”

Great. She still doesn’t believe Emma. If she won’t believe them anyway, why keep trying to convince her? If she thinks they’re dating, the time he intends to spend with Emma will seem normal. But if they spend time together and tell her they’re not dating, she’ll be nothing but suspicious. Possibly even spy on them—which is less than ideal.

So, dating Emma is the only way to make sure she mates with Grom. Things just get better and better. “Yes,” he says. “We’re definitely dating.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why would she tell me you’re not?”

He shrugs. “Maybe she’s ashamed of me.”

To his surprise, she chuckles. “I seriously doubt that, Galen Forza.” Her humor is short lived. She grabs a fistful of his T-shirt. “Are you sleeping with her?”