Page 5 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

Sure, that rule had been bent in the past, but some of the others could get away with far more than me. I was just a tiny fish in this big pond, and Richard would gladly replace me with someone a little less gay and a little more loyal to him. For all his claims about how difficult it was to find a competent third person to support us—that was just him trying to make our lives harder. The reality was that if my spot was up for grabs, there’d be a lineup of willing, qualified dive instructors all the way around the island.

I needed this job more than it needed me.

“Let’s go,” I said, voice even. I turned without waiting for a reply.

Logan was quiet as he followed me out into the golden glow of the morning—hopefully, that didn’t mean he was silently rehearsing complaints about me ogling him. I shook off the thought and let the new day settle around my shoulders.

Just past nine, the resort was waking up, most guests still asleep in their villas or enjoying breakfast on private terraces that overlooked the sea or rolling hills. They were covered in lush forest fostered by volcanic earth and frequent, heavy rains. Slight humidity weighed down the air, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the lingering scent of hibiscus flowers.

The first few months after I’d arrived, I’d wake with the phantom taste of exhaust in my throat, still half-expecting Michael to be nextto me, his breathing slow and steady. But I’d long since left that life behind—Miami and its steady hum of traffic, bars spilling music into the streets, people rushing, shouting into their phones. Some things I missed, like the mad riot of spring break and the diffuse glow of yachts docked in the port, the smell of tobacco wafting from a cigar store in Little Havana.

Dinners with my parents. Katie and her dive center.

But I didn’t miss life on fast-forward—always late, always chasing something. That wasn’t me anymore. If Miami was a highway, Dominica was an overgrown forest path that became impassable for some of the rainy season. Time here flowed more like a sluggish river than a wild stream, its passing measured by the steady rhythm of the waves, push and pull, advance and retreat.

I led the way down weathered limestone steps that wound to the sea, the rhythmic slap of Logan’s flip-flops trailing me. Clouds chased across the sky and cast their patterns on the turquoise water.

Our gear was waiting for us on the beach. With introductory dives, I usually kept the theory to a minimum—that could wait until a first-timer decided to do a course. It turned out Logan hadquestions, though. What did that mean—compressed air? How did it work? How deep would we go, and how would that impact his body? Why did we need to go slow when coming up? What if he needed topee?

That last one pulled me up short.

I took a moment to study him—the slope of his mouth and the ocean color of his eyes, his strong features softened by a hint of boyish charm. Was he messing with me?

“By all means.” I quirked a brow. “But you pee in it, you buy it.”

A sudden grin washed across his face. It pressed a dimple into his left cheek, deep enough to hold a shot of bourbon.Dammit. “No refunds?” he asked with a dramatic widening of his eyes.

“Nope—golden rule, I’m sure you understand. Consider it a liquid asset.”

“Right, yeah.” He pursed his mouth, bright humor etched into its corners. “But with an added splash of personality.”

I bit down on an actual smile—so maybe he wasn’tallbad. “One of a kind, for sure. Now, any more questions?”

“Eh. Think I’ll hold them.” Still grinning, he raised his arms for a leisurely stretch that drew attention to the flat expanse of his stomach and the subtle shift of muscle. I looked away.

“See that you do,” I said, crouching down by our gear for a final check. It’d be good to finally get into the water—a cooldown for Logan even more than for me. He still deserved it.

Our dive startedas an unscripted buoyancy battle.

Logan paddled wildly and inflated his vest at random. He would have shot up like a rocket if I hadn’t grabbed him in time. His flailing nearly knocked off my mask, and even though I’d told him it wasn’t a race, he seemed intent on trying to cover as much ground as possible, his fins kicking sand in my face. Thanks, dude.

After several minutes of this madness, I grabbed him by the shoulders, forced him to stop andlookat me. I expected wide-eyed discomfort. Instead, he was grinning around his mouthpiece.

Odd.

I motioned for him to time his breathing to mine. In. And out. In. And out.

Look around you.

Everything here flowed with languid grace, its peace marred only by the rare shadow of a predator. Steep sunbeams slanted into the water, broken into visible strings of light that sparked off a silvery school of bass. Sponges and corals formed a colorful maze, a lionfish drifting through in all its splendor—red and white bands marking its body, its showy fins splayed like palm fronds. Each of our exhales sent up a cascade of bubbles, the loudest sound in this tranquil underwater world.

Logan’s breathing had slowed considerably. I squeezed his shoulder, and he gave me a quick, happy nod. Well—we’d see.

Except I was diving with a different person after that. He floatedeasily, no need for me to interfere, and when I glanced at his pressure gauge some thirty minutes in, his remaining air made me do a double take.

This was not his first dive.

What the fuck, though? Why would he lie?

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