“This is the premium package,” Jayden murmured, taking in the teak accents and cushioned benches. “I’ve reviewed boats like this. They don’t come cheap.”
“Aussie Adventures isn’t messing around.”
“Apparently not.”
They found spots on the main deck as the boat pulled away from the marina. The harbor slid past—other vessels, the distant shoreline, the Cairns cityscape shrinking behind them. The water shifted color as they moved into open ocean, murky harbor green giving way to something clearer, brighter.
Vic had planted himself near the railing, face pale, gripping a bottle of water like a lifeline. The bird-watcher—Gerald, Dakota remembered—was already at the bow, binoculars raised, scanning for seabirds.
Mags was studying a dive-briefing sheet with an intensity that suggested she took this seriously. Her daughter, Lily, had retreated to a corner, phone pressed to her ear, voice too low to hear but body language screaming distress.
The Czech couple stood together at the stern, watching the wake foam behind them. The man’s hand rested at the small of his wife’s back—protective, possessive. Weirdly, he wanted to do the same to Jayden.
Focus.
A crew member with sun-bleached hair and a broad Australian accent gathered them near the dive platform. “All right, folks! I’m Jake, your dive master today. Before we get in the water, a quick rundown of the rules . . .”
He ran through safety protocols, reef etiquette, buddy assignments. Dakota listened with half an ear—he’d heard variations of this speech dozens of times—and watched Jayden listening as if . . .
“Wait. You’re diving?” The question came out before he could stop it. “Not snorkeling?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I gave them my certification info when I booked this morning. Why?”
“I just assumed?—”
“That the hotel inspector would paddle around on the surface while the real adventurers went deep?” Her smile had an edge to it. “I’ve got over a hundred logged dives. Advanced Open Water. Nitrox certified.”
Dakota blinked. “That’s . . . a lot of diving for someone who rates breakfast buffets.”
“The travel industry has perks.” She shrugged. “I’ve reviewed resorts in Thailand, Indonesia, the Maldives, the Caribbean. Turns out a lot of them have dive programs. And swimming is different than diving. With diving, all you have to do is know how to breathe and kick.”
True. And her explanation made sense. It even sounded plausible.
So why did something in his gut still twitch?
“Guess we’re dive buddies, then,” he said.
“Guess we are.”
The crew had already prepped their equipment—BCDs fitted to tanks, regulators checked, weights calculated. Professional. Efficient. The kind of service that came with premium pricing.
Dakota pulled on his wet suit and tried not to watch Jayden do the same.
Yeah, he failed.
He zipped her up, and she did the same for him, then he helped her on with her BCD, fitted with her tank already, and shrugged into his own.
The team lined up, and he scissored into the water from the boat, circling around to signal clear and watch her land.
She came up beside him, her BCD inflated. So maybe she was right. You didn’t have to be a fantastic swimmer to dive.
Still, he didn’t quite believe her.
“Ready?” she said.
“Let’s dive.” He put his hand up, depressed the air from his vest, and down he went, equalizing his ears as he descended.
And, as usual, the moment he dropped below the surface, the world went quiet.
