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“-or a seahorse guy?” Holding up the latter causes the object to sway back and forth from its dangling location. “Or maybe a crab?” Juvenile amusement jumps onto my face. “Ohmygod, should I give him crabs?!”
Wes tosses the baby blue shark t-shirt he’s found over his black hoodie covered shoulder at the same time his head tilts to the side. “I disapprove of the double-entendres, Miss Winters.”
“And I disapprove of that shirt length you’re planning to buy me, Mr. Wilcox.”
Despite my inability to completely see all of his face, I can spot his frustration. “It’s the same length as the one you have on!”
“No, it’s not. This,” my keychain free index finger gestures inward to the yellow shirt displaying a Batman symbol, “is a crop top. That,” the digit is tossed his direction, “is a nightgown.”
“This,” he taps the material, “reminds me of your eyes.”
“Then you wear one.”
“I don’t wear colors.”
Seeing a fun opportunity to push more of his boundaries is what leads to me suggesting, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll wear a shirt you pick out if you wear one, I pick out.” The corners of my lips curl upward. “From this giftshop just to be Caribbean clear.”
Wes folds his arms firmly across his chest taking what I’ve come to brand as the negotiation stance. “It has to be black.”
“Mine can’t be blue.”
“Mine has to have long sleeves.”
“Mine can’t have any.”
A heavy sigh bounces his shoulders. “No puns.”
“No whales.”
“Deal.”
Glee instantly spreads through my expression.
“But I’m still getting you this one,” he motions his head to the one he already grabbed. “Even if you only wear it to bed.”
“I thought you liked that I sleep naked.”
“I said to bed.” My boyfriend wolfishly smirks. “Not in it.”
Salacious snickers seep free prior to me preparing to hunt. After grabbing my mom the seahorse keychain, J.T. a crab, and Wes a shark pen, I drop them in my shopping basket, pick it up, and scurry to the outer walls where the clothing is displayed. Side by side, we shop the options, playfully criticizing one another’s “poor choices” and pretending to pick the worst items imaginable.
Eventually, we each find something suitable.
I grab Wes a black, long sleeve shirt with a shark shape made of smaller sharks in the center – and pay for it along with my souvenirs regardless of his complaining – while he snags me an aquamarine – which technically isn’t blue – “Jaws Ready to Party” tank top along with the other shirt, sleep shorts, a “hangry” shark mug, a stuffed hammerhead, and a glass blue shark figurine for his desk.
Just as we finish dropping our goodies off in the room we’ll be resting in, Heidi Fanning, one of the aquarists we’ve encountered during our visit, appears in the doorway with a warm grin. “You ready for your special activity, Bryn?”
Curiosity crinkles my forehead. “What special activity?”
“I take it Mr. Wilcox-”
“Wes,” quietly corrects my boyfriend.
“-didn’t mention it?”
“No,” he states, tone firm yet friendly. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I thought visiting this place afterhours at our leisure was the surprise.”
