Shipped(26)

Xiavera picks one of the fins Donna dropped and squints at the number printed on the inside. “These are size eight, like you requested.”

The woman, who is wearing a long white bathing suit cover-up, puffs until she resembles an angry cotton ball.

I step forward with a friendly smile. “Hi there.” After working retail all through college, my customer service facade slips easily into place. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You know, I read somewhere that fins don’t necessarily go by the same sizing as regular shoes. So even though you normally wear an eight, you might be more comfortable sizing up to a nine.”

The woman lets out a frosty bark of laughter. “My feet are not a size nine. They have never been a nine, and they never will.” She looks me up and down. “You’re the one who works for Seaquest’s corporate office, right? What’s your name again—Hester? Tell me, Hester, why is it so difficult for your staff to give me what I’ve asked for? Or maybe I should find out who your manager is, and ask him instead.”

Graeme is beside me before I can work up an answer through my stuttering shock.

“Donna, nice to see you. Graeme. We met yesterday on the aft deck.” He takes her manicured hand in both of his and graces her with a smile that could melt even the strongest of chastity belts.

The change that overtakes Donna is stark and immediate. Her mouth loses its pinched look, her forehead unfurrows, and a glowing smile spreads across her face like an angel has graced her with its presence. “Graeme, yes. Good to see you. Maybe you can help me. These people are insisting that I don’t know my own shoe size.”

“How about this: I’ll get you a few different fins to try on and you can see what works. Some are probably more broken in than others and might fit differently. Size eight, right?”

“Yes. Finally, someone who understands what I need.”

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on that bench over there and I’ll bring them over.”

She pats his shoulder before walking away. As soon as she’s out of earshot, the smile fades from his lips and he leans across the table to Xiavera.

“Two sets of nines, please. And if you can find ones where the size is hard to see, all the better.”

Xiavera nods appreciatively. “Good idea.” After some digging through a bin behind her, she hands him the fins.

All I can do is blink. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like people, you sure are good with older women.”

He shrugs. “I have a lot of experience.”

What the heck does that mean?

With the extra fins tucked under one arm and his own equipment piled against his chest, Graeme heads over to the bench where Donna is perched, waiting in anticipation with her hands on her knees. Beside her, Charles is already wearing his wet suit and has his nose buried in what looks like a guidebook.

Gathering up my snorkeling equipment, I shuffle off to an empty spot across the deck from Graeme and Donna and drop everything onto a low bench.

I only just met Donna, but I know Donna. Because in any given group, there’s always a Donna—the one who is dead-set on complaining about everything. The thing is, Donnas also love to fill out comment cards. If you’re lucky enough to get on a Donna’s good side, she’ll sing your praises to the moon. And in this case that’s Graeme, who is well on his way to snagging a glowing report that will undoubtedly make its way to James.

My gut tightens. Our marketing proposals are the most important thing when it comes to this promotion, but making a positive impression on the guests can’t hurt. If this is how Graeme is going to play, I need to step up my game.

Reaching down, I thumb off my sandals, remove my sunglasses, and pull my shirt over my head. Shimmying out of my shorts, I pick up my wet suit and steal a glance at Graeme. He’s down on one knee in front of Donna, helping her slip her foot into a fin, Prince Charming style.

She beams down at him, entranced. Gripping his arm for balance, she stands and nods. Graeme stands as well. When he glances up our gazes connect. He looks away, but then pulls a double-take.

All I’m wearing is a bikini. And Graeme won’t stop staring. I swallow so hard my throat nearly closes.

Sweet baby Jesus, somebody save me.





9




Why, oh why did I bring a bikini instead of the matronly one-piece tucked in the back of my dresser at home? My bathing suit is teal with little red flowers and a ruffle that runs along the top’s deep V, highlighting my cleavage. Each ray of sun, each lick of breeze whispering across my skin, reminds me how much of it is on display.

I fight the urge to dive for cover under my wet suit. I look away, then back. Graeme stands slowly, still staring. His eyes traverse my body; they’re wide, almost unfocused.

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.