I relax slightly. "Fair enough."
Breakfast is a spread of tropical fruits, local pastries, and fresh juices.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks, the politeness forced.
"Fine, thank you," I lie. "And you?"
"Well enough."
The small talk is painful, so different from our easy conversation at dinner. I focus on my plate, trying to appreciate the delicious food despite the knot in my stomach.
"About last night," Michael begins.
"We don't need to discuss it," I interrupt quickly. "It was unprofessional of me to make personal assumptions about you. It won't happen again."
"Right. Good."
We finish breakfast in silence, and I'm relieved when the villa manager appears to inform us that the snorkeling equipment is ready whenever we are.
"I'll just go change," Michael says, standing.
"I'll meet you at the beach," I reply, not meeting his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, I'm waiting at the water's edge, trying not to think about how Michael will look in swim trunks. I've seen him in perfectly tailored suits for six months, each one probably costing more than my monthly rent. The thought of him in casual beachwear is strangely disconcerting.
When he appears, I'm simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see he's wearing a rash guard with his swim trunks. The disappointment is unprofessional and unwelcome. I push it away.
"Ready for your first snorkeling lesson?" he asks, his tone lighter than at breakfast.
I nod, gesturing to the equipment laid out by the villa staff. "As ready as I'll ever be. I'm trusting you not to let me drown."
"I would never." There's a seriousness in his voice that catches me off guard. "Your safety is... important."
He wanted to say something else there, I'm sure of it. But we're back in safe territory now—polite, distant, professional.
Michael explains the basics of the equipment, showing me how to use the mask and snorkel. His instructions are clear and precise, just like in the office when he's explaining a complex business strategy. This is familiar ground.
"The key is to relax," he says, demonstrating how to breathe through the snorkel. "If you panic, you'll tense up and have trouble staying afloat. Just trust the water to hold you."
"Trust isn't exactly my strong suit," I mutter.
"Mine either," he admits, "But the ocean doesn't care about our trust issues."
That surprises a laugh out of me. "Fair point."
We wade into the water together. It's warm and crystal clear, the sandy bottom visible beneath our feet. Small fish dart around our ankles, unconcerned by our intrusion into their world.
"We'll start in the shallows," Michael says. "Just get comfortable with the mask and breathing through the snorkel before we swim out to the reef."
I nod, fitting the mask over my face as he showed me. It feels strange and slightly claustrophobic at first, but after a few experimental breaths through the snorkel, I start to adjust.
"Good," Michael says, his voice slightly muffled through my own snorkel breathing. "Now just float on your stomach and look down."
I do as instructed, letting my body relax into the gentle lightness of the salt water. The underwater world comes into focus. Sand rippled by the current, tiny crabs scuttling across the bottom, colorful fish investigating my presence. It's beautiful and peaceful and completely absorbing.
I'm so entranced that I don't notice Michael floating beside me until his hand enters my field of vision, pointing toward a particularly vibrant blue fish. I turn my head slightly to look at him, and our eyes meet through our masks. Michael gestures toward deeper water, where a coral reef is visible. I nod, and we swim side by side toward it.
The reef is breathtaking. A riot of colors and shapes, teeming with fish of every description. I follow Michael along its edge, grateful for his guidance as he points out particularly interestingfeatures and creatures. Despite my initial nervousness, I find myself completely relaxed, breathing easily through the snorkel as we glide through the water.
