Chapter 10
“Let me guess,” Koa says, eyeing my hair. “The chocolate is evidence?”
I touch my head, and my fingers come away sticky with cocoa. “More like collateral damage from a very productive fact-finding mission.”
I glance around the lobby, where a gray tabby has positioned himself strategically near the front desk and what appears to be a small chicken convention is taking place just outside on the lanai.
“I should probably dunk my head in a vat of water first. I’m pretty sure I’m violating several health codes just standing here. ”
“I know just the body of water you should use,” Koa says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my pulse do interesting things that should probably require medical supervision. “Want to go for a swim?”
Before I can process the implications of being alone in water with Detective Hot Stuff, Lani materializes from whatever kitchen dimension she inhabits when she’s not actively managing our food operations.
“I’ll man the fort,” she announces with the efficiency of a friend who’s clearly been eavesdropping and approves of this development. “Don’t worry about the resort. Ruby and I can handle things here.”
Ruby appears from behind a potted palm where she’s been conducting her own surveillance operation.
“Go!” she says, making shooing motions with her hands.
“Scram! Beach time! Don’t come back until you’ve gotten all that chocolate out of your hair and maybe figured out how to solve this murder case while you’re at it. ”
In less than six seconds, I change into my bathing suit and hop into Hot Stuff’s truck.
The drive to Anini Beach takes us down a winding road lined with coconut palms that sway in the trade winds as if they’re waving us toward paradise. Koa’s truck handles the curves with ease while island music drifts from the speakers and the scent of salt air grows stronger with every mile.
“Have you ever snorkeled before?” he asks as we pull into a parking area that’s basically just sand and good intentions.
“Never,” I admit, climbing out of the truck and immediately sinking slightly into the soft sand.
“I’m from Ohio, where the most exotic marine life is whatever survived the industrial runoff in Lake Erie.
My ex-husband’s idea of aquatic adventure was going to the local aquarium and complaining about the price of parking. ”
Anini Beach stretches before us like something from a tourism commercial that’s trying too hard to be perfect.
The water is so clear I can see tropical fish darting around coral formations in knee-deep water, while the reef creates a natural lagoon that makes everything feel protected and magical.
Palm fronds whisper in the trade winds overhead, and the sand is so pale it makes you wonder if it’s been professionally bleached.
“This is the perfect spot for beginners,” Koa says, pulling snorkeling gear from the back of his truck. “The reef keeps the water calm, and it’s shallow enough that you can stand up anywhere if you panic.”
“Panic?” I repeat, eyeing the mask and fins like they’re torture devices. “Why would I panic?”
Koa pulls his shirt over his head as if he has no idea what that simple action does to the female nervous system.
Holy hotness. The man is built like a Greek statue that decided to moonlight as a lifeguard—broad shoulders that could probably bench press a small car, a chest that looks like it was carved by someone with a serious commitment to anatomical perfection, and abs that should probably come with their own warning label about causing spontaneous swooning in tropical locations.
I drop my coverup to reveal a red one-piece that says sensible mom of five rather than va-va-voom beach goddess, but then again, I wasn’t exactly expecting to spice things up with a hot homicide detective when I packed for this geographical disaster.
I thought my philandering ex-husband Erwin Tuggle Julep had inoculated me against men forever—like a bad vaccination that left me immune to charm, good looks, and functional adult behavior.
Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, all it took was one shirtless detective in paradise to prove that my immunity had some serious gaps in coverage.
We wade into water that’s perfectly warm and crystal clear, with tiny fish immediately appearing to investigate our ankles.
The bottom is sandy with patches of coral that look like underwater gardens, and I have to admit the view is pretty spectacular even without sticking my face below the surface.
We pause once the water hits our waists.
“Here,” Koa says, handing me the mask. “Just put this on and adjust the strap so it’s snug but not tight.”
I struggle with the equipment while trying to maintain some dignity and not trip over the fins that make me walk like a drunk penguin. “This feels like a lot of safety gear for just looking at fish.”
“It’s not safety gear, it’s enhancement equipment. It makes everything clearer underwater.” He demonstrates putting on his own mask in a way that says he’s been doing this since before he could walk. “Then you just breathe normally through the snorkel.”
“Through the what?”
He points to the plastic tube attached to the mask. “The snorkel. It lets you breathe while your face is underwater.”
I stare at him like he’s just suggested I grow gills and join the local dolphin population. “UNDER WATER? That’s not natural! Humans aren’t designed to breathe underwater! Fish breathe underwater! I’m not a fish.”
“You’re not actually breathing underwater,” he explains with the patience of a kindergarten teacher dealing with a particularly stubborn student—me. “The snorkel stays above the surface. You’re breathing regular air, just through a tube.”
“A tube that goes underwater where I could drown!”
“The tube doesn’t go underwater. Your face goes underwater, the tube stays above the surface.”
“But what if a wave comes? What if the tube gets water in it? What if I forget how to breathe and just die right here in this tropical paradise?”
Koa moves closer to adjust my mask, but really creates a proximity that makes rational thought impossible.
His hands are warm and sure as he checks the fit, and suddenly I’m very aware that we’re standing in warm water wearing minimal clothing, and he smells like ocean air and something indefinably masculine that makes my brain forget basic survival instincts.
“Trust me,” he says, and his voice is low enough to make me consider trusting him with significantly more than just a breathing apparatus. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Easy for you to say. You probably came out of the womb wearing flippers and a dive mask.”
He demonstrates the proper technique, putting his face in the water and breathing calmly through the snorkel while colorful fish swim around him like he’s some kind of aquatic Snow White. It looks effortless and natural and completely impossible.
“See?” he says, surfacing with water streaming from his hair in a way that should be illegal in seventeen states. “It’s just like breathing air, except you can see fish while you do it.”
“Just like breathing air, except I’m convinced I’m going to drown in three feet of water while wearing what amounts to a plastic drinking straw taped to my face.”
“Try it for just a second. One second.” He offers a pained smile. “I’ll be right here.”
I lower my face toward the water with all the enthusiasm of approaching a hungry shark. The moment the water touches the mask, I shoot upright as if I’ve been electrocuted.
“Nope! Not happening! This is how people die in vacation accidents!”
“Jinx, you can literally stand up at any time. The water is four feet deep.”
“Four feet of water is still enough to drown in! I’ve seen the documentaries!”
A small school of yellow cuties swims past us, unbothered by my crisis of aquatic confidence. They’re followed by what appears to be a parrotfish that’s bigger than my head and considerably more comfortable with the whole breathing-underwater situation.
“Look,” Koa says, pointing at the fish. “You’re missing all of this because you’re afraid of a plastic tube.”
“I’m missing all of this because I have a healthy respect for the laws of physics and human respiratory systems.”
He tries a different approach, standing behind me and placing his hands on my waist to steady me.
This creates an entirely different problem, because now I’m focused on the way his touch sends electricity through the warm water and how his chest feels against my back when he leans in to adjust the snorkel.
“Just put your face in for one Mississippi,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
He would pick a state with the most letters in its name.
His hands settle on my waist with a gentle confidence that makes my knees forget their primary function, which is problematic when you’re standing in three feet of water wearing flippers.
He guides me slowly toward the surface, and I’m suddenly very aware that his chest is pressed against my back and his arms are creating a human safety net that feels significantly more dangerous than drowning.
He is holding me. This is not a drill. Would it be too much to ask to have this moment stretch out forever?
“Easy,” he murmurs, and the vibration of his voice travels through the water and directly into parts of my anatomy that have no business responding to snorkeling instruction. “I’m not going anywhere.”
This is both reassuring and terrifying, because the way his hands span my waist assures he could probably hold me up indefinitely, which creates all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about endurance and stamina that have absolutely nothing to do with aquatic sports.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod because speech has become impossible when you’re essentially being embraced by a wet, shirtless detective who holds the scent of the ocean and looks like he was personally designed to make women forget basic safety protocols.