“We’ll be professional.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be completely unbothered.”
“Completely.”
“Rex, I swear to every water spirit in this lake, if your face does that thing?—”
“What thing? I’m not doing a thing.” He picks up his paper bag with tremendous dignity. “I’ll see you at the dock. Eight o’clock. We’ve got two tours and a gear check.” He pauses at the top of the porch steps. “Oh, and the bonfire committee called. They want to know if we’d do a couples’ set this Friday.”
He is at his truck before I can find anything appropriate to throw.
CHAPTER 4
MUIR
I arriveat the dock at seven fifty-five. Five minutes early because I’ve been awake since four rehearsing what I’ll say when I see her.
The lake is quiet this early, mist still clinging to the far shore. I stand on the dock.
Then I hear footsteps.
Cora San Pedro walks out of the equipment shed with a clipboard in one hand and a travel mug in the other, and I forget how to breathe.
Four years. I knew she’d be different. I thought I’d prepared for it.
I was wrong.
She’s more beautiful than I remember. More settled. The morning light catches her dark skin and throws it into relief—the sharp angles of her heart-shaped face, the curve of her shoulders, the fluid grace of how she moves.
Her eyes are huge and dark, with that green undercurrent that only shows when she’s near water, and they’re looking right through me. She’s maybe five-three in the faded green San Pedro Eco-Tours shirt with the sleeves cut off, her black hair escaping from its braid in the humidity. Her swimsuit—practical, fitted—is designed to move with her, to accommodate the shifts between forms.
Lean and certain and completely herself in a way that makes my chest ache. There’s something in the way she carries herself, a fluidity that marks her as more than human, a creature equally at home in two worlds. The water knows her. You can see it in how she moves through space, like she’s always swimming even on dry land.
This is her dock. Her water. She built this.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
Her expression stays neutral. Contained. The way you look when you’ve decided in advance what mask you will show to the world.
“Muir,” she says. Not a greeting. Just acknowledgment.
“Cora.”
“Rex told me he offered you the position.” She glances at her clipboard. “Freshwater dive certification, marine salvage experience, first aid current.”
“All current. I can send documentation.”
“I’ll need it before you go in the water.” She makes a note. “We run eco-survey dives for Dr. Davis at Natural Resources and Fisheries. Precision matters. And tourist dives, certifiedrecreational, which means you’re managing group experience and safety simultaneously.” She looks up. “Which have you done more of?”
“Both. More survey work the last two years. Some guiding before that, a season off the Hebrides.” I pause. “I know how to read a tourist panic response.”
Something flickers across her face. Not quite a smile. “Good. We start with an assessment dive today. I need to see how you move in the water before I put you with guests.”
“Reasonable.”