I bit back the word “bitch,” reminding myself that Karma had arranged the trip knowing Ford wouldn’t be here. What was her point—staking a claim before the boat even left port? Braden’s voice rumbled through the galley, deep and smooth, like warm velvet sliding over my nerves. “Ford? New York type? Asshole? Dives the stainless doubles?” he asked, leaning against the bulkhead with one shoulder, salt freckles on his forearm catching the overhead light.

Braden braced himself against the nearest bulkhead with a casual, almost bored elegance, one knee bent and arms spilling confidence. The overhead light caught on the constellation of salt freckles along his forearms, and a stripe of shadow bisected his face, making him look mythic and dangerous. He didn’t blink, just watched my response with that same amusement he’d had on the dock, like he was waiting to see if I’d rise to the bait or run from it.

The galley was small enough that Braden hadn’t had to raise his voice, but he projected like a bartender calling last round—his words bounced off the walls, audible even on the deck.

“Ford? New York type? Asshole? Dives stainless steel doubles?” The way he said it, he wasn’t asking a question. He sounded like he was reciting a rap sheet of a criminal. I heard the divers go silent as they stopped talking. The whole crew was tuning in from behind their mugs and phones. Even Mike, who never passed up the chance for drama and unnecessary commentary, suddenly found his granola fascinating.

I blinked, momentarily speechless to hear Ford called out like that. “Yeah—he’s a bit of an asshole, but he’s a good diver.”

“I dove a U-boat in the Gulf with him. He’s too self-focused to be a good buddy or a boyfriend.” My heart drummed in my ears as his gaze swept me up and down. “He definitely doesn’t deserve you,” he said, low and certain.

It wasn’t just Karma’s glare burning a hole in my back; it was the way Braden said it—low, offhand, like he’d already made up his mind and was announcing a verdict rather than a backhanded compliment.

What the hell did I say to that assessment? What made it worse was that he wasn’t wrong. I forced out a laugh—overbright, drilling through the sudden tightness in my throat. “Diving is a small world, right?” I said, louder for the nosey audience. I tried shoving my hands into pockets and then realized I didn’t have any.

“No one’s good enough for me.”I stuck out my thumbs and pointed at myself. “I’m awesome. Just ask anyone.” My cheeks went hot. I was full of bravado, but despite that, I could feel the blush radiating down my neck, as if my skin had been set on fire.

Karma, still at the galley table, who had been making a show of reviewing the dive plan, had set her jaw just slightly whenever Braden spoke. At my boast, she stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the deck. She didn’t say anything, but she grabbed the dive log and her papers and left—her entire body broadcasting that, actually, she did have something better to do.

I watched her go, feeling slightly abandoned. Braden leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She doesn’t like me much, does she?”

It was curious. It could be that she was always a little overprotective of other female divers. She’d never treated me like the serious, experienced diver that I was. I technically had been diving longer and was more experienced than she was. But somehow she always treated me as a bit of an incompetent. It was frustrating. But I got the feeling- my intuition- was usually right, that this was completely different.

The tension between the two of them was palpable, and I couldn’t decide if her hostility was about Braden or about me.

Looking at his hotness, I was suddenly hyper-aware of how tight my tank top felt, how my hair had long since gone frizzy from the salt air, how I hadn’t bothered with mascara because who wore makeup on a dive boat, anyway? I pulled on a braid. I must look like shit.

Braden’s eyes flicked over my braids, my face. His eyes heated with intensity when they hit my lips for a beat before he looked away, as if he’d just been confirming that yes, I was actually there and not some hallucination. There was that little smirk still at the corner of his lips.

I tried to project “unbothered” by pouring myself a mug of cheap decaf coffee. I still planned on taking a nap. My hands shook anyway. I couldn’t control my curiosity. “So, what brings a guy like you to these old rust buckets?” I asked, meaning it as a joke, but my voice came out a notch above a whisper.

His answer was a slow shrug. “I like the cold. The darkness. The history. I crave the sea.” He paused between each statement. I reached across the counter for a refill, and for a second our fingers nearly touched. My breath caught; I hoped he hadn’t noticed, but of course he had.

His eyes went distant, unfocused, like he was looking through the hull of the boat at something far below. “You know what it is, really?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s the only place left where you can put your hand on something and know—*know*—you’re the first person to touch it since the men who went down with it.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “The rust comes off on your glove. You bring a piece of it back up with you.” His gaze returned to mine like a slow tide coming in. “You carry the dead.”

He grinned. “The deeper, the better. You get past a hundred feet and it’s just you, your buddy, and the bones of the past. No room for bullshit down there.” He sipped his coffee, and suddenly I wanted to know what he looked like underwater, if that confidence translated to calm or if he was one of those cowboys who thought rules were for other people.

I caught myself staring, then looked away, the mug clattering as I set it down. “You know, you’re a little…intense,” I said, hoping it would check the vibe or at least deflect it.

He laughed, a sound so genuine I almost forgave him for everything he’d said so far. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I didn’t say that,” I replied. The words felt bolder than I felt.

He smiled at me, but his dark eyes held mine, unflinching. “You need a dive buddy?” The words were simple, but in his tone they were an invitation—something more.

“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice smaller than I’d intended. “I’m flying solo this weekend.” My stomach knotted with nerves and anticipation at the thought of diving the U-boats with this guy.

“Same here,” he said, flashing one of those broad, easy grins that spread warmth across his face. “W

e should hook up.” His casual suggestion made the deck feel suddenly too small.