Page 14 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

“Little boys love that sort of shit,” Tom said.

“Less talk,” Logan said, “more action. Coffee awaits!” He hopped aboard and motioned for Tom to pass him the fins.

“You know you don’t have to do a second haul with us,” I told them, shielding my eyes against the sun. The water shimmered in a watercolor blend of pastel hues.

“I’ve been raised by dive instructors with zero tolerance for diva behavior,” Logan said. “I’m not about to start slacking just because they can’t see me right now.”

“And I’m counting this as a workout,” Tom said. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Well. Thank you, in that case.” I looked away from the flex of Logan’s arm muscles and told myself it was just casual appreciation for a pretty thing.

Yeah, right. Kind of like how I was a casual fan of oxygen.

Some divers must have foundtheir certification at the bottom of a cereal box.

Today’s exhibit? Jordan, in his early forties with the sinewy body of a marathon runner and the underwater coordination of a toddler taking his first bath. In theory, this should have been an advanced group. Logan and Tom did just fine, and so did a mother and her daughter who were celebrating the daughter’s graduation with a tropical trip. Jordan, though? JesusChrist.

I spent the majority of the dive chasing after him so he’d stop plowing through seagrass or grab at anything that didn’t dash away. Half an hour in, I was ready to strangle the guy. But hey, at least Logan and Tom seemed to have a good laugh at my expense. Every time they caught me checking on them, they faked over-the-top incompetence—from wearing their fins on their hands to bumping into each other as though they’d had a few too many. Jerks.

To exactly no one’s surprise, Jordan also used up air much faster than the others. Forty minutes into the dive, I had to guide everyone back towards the boat and signaled for the group to hang around while I wrestled Jordan through a safety stop.

Once he was out of the water, I took the others for one more spin. We happened upon a hawksbill turtle, its distinctive beak andpatterned shell immediately recognizable. Nestled near a coral outcrop, it was feasting on a piece of sponge with deliberate, almost methodical bites, unbothered by our presence. Tiny fish darted around as we watched, a contrast to the turtle’s unhurried air.

We resurfaced some twenty minutes later. I rid myself of my own equipment before I helped Nia secure people’s tanks, Logan and Tom the only guests who’d taken care of it themselves. The mother and her daughter had moved to the front of the boat for a sunbath while Jordan was talking into his phone, wildly gesticulating about something. I’d need to have a chat with him about a refresher course before we could allow him at any dive site that required finesse or an ability to handle current. Ugh. I’d deal with him later.

Instead, I joined Logan and Tom. Side by side, they were propped against the railing, swim trunks and bare feet, wide grins as they chatted between themselves. “You two looked good down there,” I told them. “When you weren’t playing bumper cars, that is.”

Logan’s smile staged a show-stopping appearance. He flicked a meaningful glance at Jordan. “You mean we looked good by comparison?”

“A hippo on a sugar rush would have looked more competent than that,” Tom said, and man, I wasn’t supposed to gossip with guests about other guests, but… true.

“At least the rest of you still got to hang out with a turtle,” I said.

“That was a nice touch,” Logan agreed, then changed his tone to that of a TV host, voice low so Jordan wouldn’t overhear. “Five star dive—good visibility, turtle was epic, and slapstick incompetence that had me damn near choking with laughter. Highly recommended!”

“We endeavor to entertain,” I said dryly.

Logan’s full-bodied laugh made it impossible to take offense. “Mission accomplished.”

I grabbed the railing when Nia started the engine, theBlueberry Seasrumbling awake. I glanced over just in time to catch Logan watching me, something hot and open in his eyes. An electric jolt twisted through my gut, breath catching at the back of my throat.

Bad idea.

I fitted an easy smile onto my face. “You’ve seen hawksbill turtles before?”

It was Tom who answered. “Yeah. We get them around Miami too.”

Miami?

“You guys from there?” I asked, striving for neutral, as the boat sliced through the calm sea, its shimmering blue occasionally shadowed by a passing fish swarm. The coastline of Dominica loomed to our left, a tapestry of green cascading down to meet the rocky shore.

“Born and bred,” Logan said.

“Not me.” Tom shook his head. “Dallas, man. We moved when I was six, though. Met this loser on my first day of school, and the rest is history.”

“What about you?” Logan asked me. “There’s not much of an accent, far as I can tell.”

It wasn’t like my origins were a secret, nor was it highly unusual to meet others from the Miami area—some six million people were bound to get around. Fellow divers, though?

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