Second Epilogue
ELI
The morning dive charter had just left. From where I stood behind the counter of Sunset Siesta’s dive shop, Sunset Diver motored away from the pier, its wake a temporary scar on the placid turquoise water.
Andrea was leading the group, her curly brown ponytail whipping in the breeze, her confidence obvious even from here.
The shop was quiet now, filled only with the hum of spinning fans and the sharp, clean scent of neoprene I’d come to associate with home.
Leaning back, I scanned my domain. The aquamarine walls were covered in a collection of underwater photos I’d taken over the years, vibrant fish staring out like curious neighbors.
Racks of wetsuits and BCDs stood like a silent, loyal army, ready for the next adventure.
This was my sanctuary, my kingdom. I liked to think I was pretty good at teaching scuba diving safely while making the whole damn thing fun too.
Then I barked a laugh. Yeah, out loud. I was going to need some mental bleach strong enough to scrub away the image of Dean Mercer and Brynn Vance being so disgustingly cute at my brother’s brewpub last night.
Seriously, the two of them were a hazard.
All those soft, secret smiles and the way he looked at her like she was the only person on the planet.
I was happy for them, though. Brynn had been coming here since she was a teenager.
Back then, she was a quiet, watchful kid with a lost look in her eyes.
It had been cool to see the island work its magic on her over the years, to watch her come back and finally claim her place here.
She was one of us now.
And Dean… Hell, the guy had turned out to be surprisingly decent once you got past the city-boy armor.
Seeing them together was enough to make a commitment-phobe like me break out in a cold sweat.
Their brand of happy-ever-after was a foreign language to me.
My relationships were simple, easy, and came with a clear expiration date.
My gaze drifted back to the dive boat, now a white speck on the horizon.
Andrea was a rock. She’d been with us for two years, never missing a beat, her passion for the ocean almost rivaling my own.
She showed up early, stayed late, and handled nervous divers with calm patience.
She’d more than earned a little something extra.
The impulsive idea flashed. I was going to give her a raise. Maybe not a huge one, but something to show her she was doing good work. The thought sent a surge of satisfaction through me. Hell, it felt good to be the fun boss who could make things happen.
Then reality, as it so often did, crashed the party. My good mood deflated like a cheap pool float. Any decision that involved money—even a single, unauthorized roll of duct tape—had to get past the financial fortress of Sunset Siesta.
It had to go through her.
My nemesis. The Evil Queen of Accounting. Julianne Verne.
I could picture her now, sitting in her sterile, silent office, her almost-black hair pulled back in a bun so tight it probably gave her a headache.
She likely had line items in the resort’s budget specifically for Crushing Dreams and Denying Reasonable Requests.
The woman could suck the fun out of a free-for-all at a beach party.
A sigh escaped me, then turned into a groan.
This was going to be a battle. She’d pull out spreadsheets, cite quarterly projections, and hit me with a barrage of soul-crushing buzzwords like fiscal responsibility and budgetary constraints.
I dreaded the confrontation, the inevitable clash of my carefree philosophy against her cold, hard logic.
But another part, a smaller, more stubborn part I didn't like to acknowledge, experienced a familiar thrill—a flash of anticipation. Asking for a raise was a long shot, and asking for an off-cycle raise was like asking a shark to go vegan. But hey, I was never one to back away from a challenge.
“Right,” I drawled, pushing off the counter. Time to slay the dragon. Or at least try not to get incinerated.
The resort's main lobby building was always blissfully cooler than the rest of the world, the air-conditioned hush a contrast to the lively, sun-drenched noise outside.
I walked down the hall, my flip-flops making a happy slapping sound against the polished tile.
I passed Harper's office before stopping at the last door on the right.
Her door.
Julianne's office was exactly what you’d expect.
A shrine to order. The scent of coconut air freshener fought a losing battle against the sterile smell of printer ink and overwhelming responsibility.
Her desk was a vast, empty landscape of polished wood, with a keyboard, an ancient monitor, and a single, sad-looking cactus as its only inhabitants.
Even the books on her shelf looked like they were standing at attention, arranged with military precision.
It was the complete opposite of my comfortable, cluttered dive shop.
I put on my game face, the one that had charmed tourists out of their diving nerves and talked customs agents out of searching my boat.
I sauntered in, not waiting for an invitation, and perched on the corner of her imposing desk.
Yep, I was right. Her bun looked tight enough to bounce quarters off. Too bad I didn't have any with me.
She didn't look up. Her focus was absolute on the glowing spreadsheet on her screen. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with a speed that was both impressive and a little terrifying.
“Morning, Julianne,” I said, my voice dripping with the easy charm I was laying on thick. “Don’t let me interrupt your very important counting.”
That got her. Her fingers stilled, and she slowly lifted her head. Her green eyes, sharp as sea glass, pinned me with a look that could freeze saltwater. She wore her work uniform of a crisp, white button-down shirt and a severe navy-blue skirt.
“Coleridge,” she said, her voice as starched as her collar. “To what do I owe this intrusion? Did you get lost on your way to the beach?”
“Funny. No, I’m here on official business.
” I leaned forward, giving her my most earnest look.
“I wanted to talk to you about Andrea. She’s a rock star divemaster, going above and beyond.
I’ve decided she’s earned an extra raise, and I’m here to make it happen.
” I leaned back, crossing my arms with a magnanimous air.
I was the good guy, the benevolent boss. How could she say no?
“That’s very thoughtful, Eli,” she said, swiveling her chair to face me fully, her expression unchanging. “However, annual performance reviews and raises were completed two months ago. There is no room in the current quarter’s budget for an ad-hoc salary increase.”
Her response was so immediate and perfectly recited that I had to wonder if she had a pre-recorded message for this exact scenario.
“Come on, Julianne,” I pressed, hopping off the desk to pace in front of it. It was time for Plan B: Appeal to Her Humanity (Good Luck). “We’re not talking about numbers on a page. We’re talking about morale. Happy staff, happy guests. It’s a win-win.”
“My job is to ensure the resort remains solvent, Coleridge, not to play fairy godmother with payroll.” She tapped a manicured finger on a stack of reports. “And according to these numbers, our solvency is… tenuous. A discretionary raise is simply not a responsible use of our limited resources.”
I stopped pacing and leaned my hands on the back of the visitor’s chair, fixing her with a look I hoped conveyed passionate reason.
“You’re all about the long game, right? Investing?
This is an investment in our most valuable asset: our people.
Andrea is a key part of the dive operation’s success. We need to show her she’s valued.”
“I know her very well, and I like her too. But she’s valued every two weeks when her direct deposit hits her bank account,” she retorted, her voice dry as sand.
“An out-of-cycle raise sets a dangerous precedent, Eli. If we do it for Andrea, what’s to stop every other employee from lining up outside my door demanding the same? ”
This woman was an impenetrable fortress of logic.
“Because what Andrea does is a hell of a lot harder—and more dangerous—than pouring drinks or staring at a screen in a nice, air-conditioned office. And because they’d have to get through you, and let’s be honest, your glare is more effective than a moat full of sharks. ”
For the first time, a flicker of something other than icy professionalism crossed her face. Was that amusement? It was gone before I could be sure. “While I appreciate the backhanded compliment, my glare isn’t a recognized line item in our budget. The answer is no.”
The energy in the room was almost physical, a current of antagonism that, if I was being honest, was more invigorating than a shot of espresso.
I loved rattling her cage, loved seeing the cracks appear in her polished armor.
I was losing, badly, but I’d be damned if I was going down without a fight.
“You’re a boat anchor, Julianne. You just drag everything right down to the bottom.
” I took a breath. She was starting to get to me, dammit.
“I’m fiscally responsible,” she countered, her voice infuriatingly calm. “Perhaps if you spent more time working on your payroll and less time working on your tan, you’d understand the position we’re in.”
“Ouch,” I said, pressing a hand to my heart. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
“Oh, no. Never.”
Julianne swiveled in her ergonomic chair. She turned to a low, battleship-gray filing cabinet behind her, the very picture of efficient dismissal. The movement was crisp and meant to signal that our conversation was over.
It also made her skirt ride up.
Just a few inches. But it was enough. My eyes dropped, a purely instinctual reaction I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.
A long, graceful line of creamy skin was revealed from her knee up her thigh.
It was a perfect leg—toned, elegant, ending in a curve that my brain registered with the force of a lightning strike.
Then she shifted again, and the hem of her skirt fell back into place, hiding the evidence.
Whoa.
My mouth went dry. Okay. Did not see that coming.
Since when did the Evil Queen have legs like that? A jolt of pure, inconvenient heat shot through me, and it pissed me off. I snapped my gaze back up to her face, a flush creeping up my neck. She was pulling a file from the drawer, completely oblivious. Thank God.
Realizing I had lost this round, my charm and arguments useless against her castle of fiscal prudence, my good humor evaporated. I threw my hands up in a gesture of defeat. She turned back around, the file in her hand, her expression once again cool and impassive.
“Was there anything else?” she asked, her tone polished and utterly final.
I glared at her, at the neat bun, the sensible blouse, the stupidly sexy leg.
“Not today, Julianne,” I snarled. “But this isn’t over.”
I stalked out of her office, the scent of her coconut air freshener and my own frustration mocking me. Fine. I didn’t care if she had the legs of a supermodel or the mind of a damn calculator. If she wanted a war over a damn budget, I’d bring the heat.
Continue your visit to Sunset Siesta by diving into Book 1 of the series,
BETTER THAN NEVER: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance
Sunset Siesta Series
She’s my workplace enemy—now my student, and way too tempting. The ocean’s deep, but this forbidden trouble runs deeper.
Eli:
In our small town of Dove Key, Julianne Verne and I are known for one thing.
We clash spectacularly over every aspect of my family's resort where we both work.
She's the meticulously organized accountant thriving on order, while I'm the laid-back dive instructor thriving on anything but.
We're fire and ice in the Florida Keys, enemies and opposites in every way.
But now, I'm her unwilling scuba instructor for a wild wedding stunt.
The close proximity is doing dangerous things to our long-standing animosity.
Suddenly, her knife-sharp wit sounds more like playful banter.
Our intense glares are looking a lot like smoldering glances. Then we combust in a beach shack.
This attraction is a forbidden complication I don't need. Especially with Mom's no-workplace-romances rule threatening to capsize everything. But I'm starting to think this captivating, infuriating woman might be the one adventure I can't resist.