A strange sense of power zings through me. He clearly likes what he sees, enough to throw polite convention to the wind. Is my body really that captivating?

I push my shoulders back a fraction and lift my chin.

When his gaze drifts to my face and we lock eyes, his expression transforms into pure horror.

Busted.

He takes a jerky step as though to quickly turn around, and smashes directly into the edge of the bench. Rubbing his shin, he hops to the nearest deck chair. I snort a laugh. I can’t help it. Donna flaps her hands, all motherly concern, but Graeme waves her away with a pained smile. Peeking out from under his lashes, he offers me an apologetic wince.

Yeah, I caught you checking me out. Bracing a hand on my hip, I mouth the words “human resources.”

His lips quirk and his eyebrows bounce upward. In one smooth move he stands, grips the back of his T-shirt, and yanks it over his head. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t look away. I can’t. His bare chest is strong with a smattering of dark brown hair and the perfect amount of muscle, the kind of chest that would make a nice pillow. His waist is narrow and his abs are flat and subtly defined without being so ripped that I’m self-conscious about my own lack of definition. I swallow hard.

Catching my gaze, he extends his arms. “Human resources,” he mouths.

My lips threaten to smile, so I shake my head and look away. When I look back, he’s stepping into his wet suit. I do the same. I don’t miss his shadow of a grin.

Warmth bubbles through my chest and my breath quickens like I’ve run a sprint. I’m not sure what happened there, but it was unprofessional, unprovoked, and I liked it. Way. Too. Much.

But this is Graham Cracker-Collins, not some random piece of eye candy. Enough window shopping Time to focus.

After adjusting the neoprene fabric where it ends around my knees and elbows and confirming that everything fits, I peel it off and put my shorts and shirt back on. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud, so I stick my sunglasses on top of my head. Gathering up both sets of snorkeling equipment, I shuffle over to the stairs.

Graeme is already standing there. When he spots me, he shifts so he’s blocking the top step. I try to edge around him, but he leans so close his breath fans against my neck and I stop. He nods toward Donna, who’s currently supervising her husband packing away their snorkeling gear with a scowl on her face.

“There’s always one, isn’t there?”

“Always.”