In embarrassment, I grabbed some cleaner and paper towels and wiped down the bunk—just in case. The dream still buzzed through my body like static—my heart thumping wild, my skin hypersensitive. The line between the dream and what was real blurred; every time I blinked, I saw flashes: Braden’s hands, his mouth, the slow melt of his voice in my ear, the way he’d made me admit what I wanted before I could stop myself. I remembered the pressure of his fingers, the hungry weight of him on top of me. My nipples tightened at the thought, which only made things worse, because suddenly I was hyper-aware of every place my clammy tank top clung to me, the cool air licking across skin that felt… marked. Branded.

I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep thinking about him. To be fair, Braden was the kind of man designed for daydreams. Tall, hard-muscled, all jaw and shoulders and those stupid perfect hands.

Speaking of bashing, I let my head fall against the bunk with a thunk. Uggh. I gave myself a pep talk. Maybe no one had noticed. Or maybe they’d all noticed, and I’d be “that girl” for the rest of the trip: the one who woke up moaning in the bunk room. It would be just my luck. Maybe I could say it was a nightmare?

God. I needed to get a grip. My hand hovered over my stomach, just below my navel, where the heat of the dream still lingered. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could pretend none of it had happened. That I wasn’t, at this very moment, marinating in a cocktail of longing and shame. I wasn’t stupid enough to think that light flirting or even desiring another abnormal. But my reaction to this one guy felt wrong.

I heard a deep voice announce, “briefing time.”

I gave up. I took three deep breaths. I could do this. I could face them. I could at least make it to the head, maybe even the galley, without combusting from the inside out. If Karma said anything, I would lie. Blame it on the motion of the boat, or a bad can of Red Bull, or—fuck it—just admit I was “really, really into diving.” took a few deep breaths and steeled myself as I climbed the stairs to where everyone was gathered.

My eyes squinted as the sunlight hit me. The air on deck was bracing—cold, briny, alive with the tang of diesel and salt. I paused at the top, blinking. For a moment, I couldn’t see a thing, just blue-white light bouncing off everything: the white hull, the row of tanks lashed to the starboard rail, the wind-bleached blonde of Karma’s ponytail bobbing near the stern.

Braden was there too. I saw him before he saw me, standing with his tanned back to the sun, hair glowing, bent over the gear table as he adjusted his tank. He moved with an offhand confidence, like he’d been born on the water. The sight of him sent a stupid, involuntary thrill through me, followed immediately by a cold rush of shame. I ducked my head, made a show of checking my dive bag, and tried to will myself invisible.

The other male divers—there were eight on this trip, with the exception of Brian and Brandon were all guys in various stages of dad bod—were chatting, trading stories about hurricane dives and gear failures. They turned in unison. “Rise and Shine, sleepyhead,” Mario called out. “Funny Mario. How much sleep did you get? Your drive is like twenty minutes.” It came out more bitchy than I had intended.

Kash chimed in. “Need more coffee?” I glared. I grumbled. I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to play it safe and focused on the routine. I shifted out of the now sticky and stifling tank top and shorts. I tried to wiggle into my wetsuit. I had gotten a second-hand wetsuit, but it was a 7mm, which meant it was thick and almost impossible to get up without a skin. I wiggled and jumped like trying to get on pair of too tight jeans.

My skin still tingled from the dream, every nerve ending set to “live wire.” My fingers fumbled the zipper pull.

Of course, that was the moment Braden chose to glance my way. I felt his eyes on me before I looked up. He didn’t say anything—just a half smile, a slow nod, as if we were sharing a private joke. I wanted to launch myself overboard and disappear.

I chose the more practical approach. I doubled down on my wetsuit. I tried to wiggle into it while standing up, which was a mistake. The lining stuck to my calves and bunched at the knees. I yanked and huffed, but the neoprene barely budged. By the time I reached my upper thighs, it was a full-on wrestling match.

“I am going to lose five pounds.”

Braden drifted over, silent as a shadow, and stopped a few feet away. “I’d like to disagree. Where did you find this antique?”

You look like you’re about to throw your back out,” he said, low and amused.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, too quickly.

“Want a hand?” He didn’t wait for an answer—just reached out and took hold of the suit at my hips, steady but not pushy. His hands were warm, his grip strong, and when he pulled, the wetsuit slid into place like it was nothing.

I made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Those dark eyes of his sparkled, equal parts mischief and something gentler, something I didn’t have a name for. “Thanks,” I muttered, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

He let go, then made a little show of dusting his hands off on his shorts. “Anytime.”

Behind us, Karma let out a loud, theatrical cough. “Some of us are waiting to brief the dive,” she called. Her tone was light, but I heard the edge in it.