“Two sets of nines, please. And if you can find ones where the size is hard to see, all the better.”

Xiavera nods appreciatively. “Good idea.” After some digging through a bin behind her, she hands him the fins.

All I can do is blink. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like people, you sure are good with older women.”

He shrugs. “I have a lot of experience.”

What the heck does that mean?

With the extra fins tucked under one arm and his own equipment piled against his chest, Graeme heads over to the bench where Donna is perched, waiting in anticipation with her hands on her knees. Beside her, Charles is already wearing his wet suit and has his nose buried in what looks like a guidebook.

Gathering up my snorkeling equipment, I shuffle off to an empty spot across the deck from Graeme and Donna and drop everything onto a low bench.

I only just met Donna, but I know Donna. Because in any given group, there’s always a Donna—the one who is dead-set on complaining about everything. The thing is, Donnas also love to fill out comment cards. If you’re lucky enough to get on a Donna’s good side, she’ll sing your praises to the moon. And in this case that’s Graeme, who is well on his way to snagging a glowing report that will undoubtedly make its way to James.

My gut tightens. Our marketing proposals are the most important thing when it comes to this promotion, but making a positive impression on the guests can’t hurt. If this is how Graeme is going to play, I need to step up my game.

Reaching down, I thumb off my sandals, remove my sunglasses, and pull my shirt over my head. Shimmying out of my shorts, I pick up my wet suit and steal a glance at Graeme. He’s down on one knee in front of Donna, helping her slip her foot into a fin, Prince Charming style.

She beams down at him, entranced. Gripping his arm for balance, she stands and nods. Graeme stands as well. When he glances up our gazes connect. He looks away, but then pulls a double-take.

All I’m wearing is a bikini. And Graeme won’t stop staring. I swallow so hard my throat nearly closes.

Sweet baby Jesus, somebody save me.

9

Why, oh why did I bring a bikini instead of the matronly one-piece tucked in the back of my dresser at home? My bathing suit is teal with little red flowers and a ruffle that runs along the top’s deep V, highlighting my cleavage. Each ray of sun, each lick of breeze whispering across my skin, reminds me how much of it is on display.

I fight the urge to dive for cover under my wet suit. I look away, then back. Graeme stands slowly, still staring. His eyes traverse my body; they’re wide, almost unfocused.