Once I hauled myself up onto the deck, Mike—one of the regulars I’d spotted on Myrtle Beach trips—hustled over, grinning ear to ear. “Eva! Hey, hey—you made it!” He pointed at a pair of tanks and my gear neatly stacked on the starboard bench. “Braden dumped your stuff right there. Need a hand?”

“Thanks, Mike. I’ve got it,” I lied, too absorbed in scanning the horizon and the other divers scrambling around. Still, he jabbered on: “Hope you found the parking lot okay. Traffic was brutal, huh?” I located my bag and started unpacking my regulator and gauges. Mike continued his nonstop commentary—where the vice grip was, whether the current might shift, how last week’s sea state was flat as glass—while I clipped hoses and secured weights.

I’ve done this routine about every other weekend for the past year, chasing wrecks off the South Carolina coast, but this trip was different. I was stoked. North Carolina’s waters are littered with history—downed German U-boats, torpedoed cargo ships, even whole convoys buried beneath sand ripples. My hands shook slightly at the thought of finally penetrating the hull of an actual U-boat. I’ve read the logs, memorized every contour from photos, but reading about it and staring at that barnacled steel are worlds apart.

On deck, half the crew were familiar faces, mostly older guys with sun-creased skin and salty jokes. They waved when they saw me, hollering invitations—“Eva, beer after!” and “Wanna buddy up?” Despite a steady boyfriend back home, I’ve always been a magnet for male divers craving adrenaline and a bit of flirtation. Aha. There was Brian, a thirty-something married dentist with three kids. He was always a fun buddy. Being the only woman in a boatload of middle-aged men never bothered me—until today. Because I was overwhelmed by Braden.

He’d changed. He stood near the bow, leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed over a fitted rash guard. Tall, blond, the kind of heat that made you catch your breath. I’d never had to think so hard about whether I’d ever met anyone in real life who looked that good. Every other thought scattered like bubbles in my wake.

I walked to the head, the bathroom on a boat, replaying in my mind the image of his profile as he stared at the water. Karma intercepted me in the galley. This was her domain: the captain’s swivel chair, an eat-in alcove cushioned in retro white-and-orange vinyl, light wood paneling on the walls. She reached out and squeezed my arm with an energy that jolted me out of my stupor.

Karma was one of the OG female wreck divers—pull-all-nighters, mapped every hull breach, and had enough stories to fill a dive shop. From Texas, she had a heavy drawl and believed Texas was better at everything. She’d masterminded this U-boat expedition, but our friendship always teetered on rivalry. She had pseudo-taken me under her wing, but I was fifteen years younger, and “cool” meant she couldn’t let anyone else steal the spotlight.

“You look like you fought a hurricane,” she blurted, voice pitched low so the guys milling around wouldn’t hear. Did I really look that bad? “How was the drive down?”

I leaned against the counter, fingers brushing the chipped Formica. “Uneventful. Just the way I like it.” I smoothed down the stray strands of red hair that had escaped my tight pigtail braids—my secret for keeping hair out of my regulator.

Karma’s eyes flicked upward. “Did you even sleep?”
I chuckled, wide-eyed. “Thirty minutes at a rest stop. I was dreaming of dozing on this boat, but here we are.”

“You can take one of the beds below. Or sleep on deck if you are really inspired.” She slid across the table, shoving a neat stack of disclosure forms and liability waivers toward me. “I need to see your cert card and sign these forms before we depart.”

I groaned, exasperated. “Seriously? You gotta be kidding. I dive with you nearly every weekend during the season. Can’t I get a pass on at least one of these pages?”

Just then, a deep voice cut through our spat. “Karma, introduce us.”

I looked up—and froze. Braden stood there, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on me. Karma’s stern facade melted into a grin that could have swallowed the room. I wasn’t the only one who’d lost her train of thought.

Karma blinked, then snapped her head between me and him. She looked like a bobble head. Her expression sharpened in a flash—no longer playful friend, but competitor. Lines formed between her brows as she glanced at the paperwork, ensuring all of the signatures were there. She stuffed the paperwork in a folder.

“Braden—meet Eva. Eva—this is our Dive Master filling in for Kevin. He’s an expert on German boats, especially the U-boats.” She flicked a perfect catlike smile at me. “Oh, and Eva, is Ford making it this weekend?” His name hit me like a thermocline, a sudden, deep cold that stole the air from my lungs.

I’d danced this dance with other women before. Even with the spark of chemistry crackling between Braden and me, I wasn’t about to step into the ring as her rival. My relationship with Ford was messy, a tangled web of on-again and off-again moments, but it was still something real. I wasn’t about to throw it all away for a magnetic pull that felt both thrilling and reckless. If Braden wanted to pursue Karma, or vice versa, he or she was free to do so. I wouldn’t be the one to disrupt their dynamic.

I felt embarrassed having to explain for some reason. “No, he’s in New York this weekend.” My pulse hammered in my ears as Braden stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Good to finally meet you, Eva.” His voice was calm but intense, like the sea itself pulling you under. I took his hand, and there were those tingles again. I tried not to stare as his tanned hand closed around mine. “Braden, good to officially meet you.” I managed, heart racing. Pulling my gaze away with obvious effort, I saw the pissed-off expression she wasn’t trying to hide. Maybe they were a thing?