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 keepsthe 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 sayssensible mom of fiverather 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.”
