“Are you wearing a swimsuit?” he asks.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and his swim trunks cling to his thighs. I’d prefer if he covered up. It would allow me to think much more clearly if there were a layer of fabric between me and the subtle outline of muscle spanning his thighs.
I don’t have an answer for him yet—at least not one I’ve thought through. The reckless lobe of my mind, as small as she may be, wants to agree, but I can’t do that without at least writing out a pro/con list.
“Sofía.”
My head snaps up. “I’m wearing a swimsuit,” I confirm.
“Good. Come with me.” He guides us up to the vessel’s second level and onto the back deck where the wetsuit and snorkeling gear I reserved live in a plastic bin. “We’re going snorkeling,” he declares, slipping into his personal wetsuit with efficiency.
Jett digs my rent-a-wetsuit out of my designated bin, and I stare at him while he unzips the back and crouches, holding one leg open. “Step in, I’ll help you get it on.”
I am not wearing that. What if someone peed in it? I heard Oliver confess to Charlie and Mateo that he peed in his wetsuit earlier. Over my dead, cold body will I wear a pee wetsuit, no matter how cute the pink accents are on the side.
“Someone peed in that,” I blurt out. “Not happening.”
He blinks and then releases a roar of laughter, falling flat on his ass. With red cheeks, he points behind me to a rack of wetsuits, all black and in various degrees of disarray. I look back at the fancy wetsuit in his grip. It looks brand new.
“Like I would ever make you wear a rental wetsuit,” he says. “Bought this one for you yesterday. Now, let’s get you in this so we can get into the water.”
My heart flip-flops like a fish on land, and I ignore the pulse of electricity that appears when I hold on to Jett’s shoulders for stability. It’s harder to squeeze into the form-fitting neoprenethan I expect, and after some tugging and wiggling, he zips up the back.
With our masks, snorkels, and fins in his grip, he gives me a slow up-down. “Hot in a wetsuit,” he mutters. “Diabolical.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but my cheeks heat all the same at the whispered compliment, and my heart races as we head to the platform to jump into the water. Once we’re down the steps and the waves crash against our shins, my throat dries with fear.
I scramble back, ready to run away and hide in my room, but Jett stops me, a gentle hand on the small of my back. “You’re fine,” he says, low and confident. “I’ve got you.”
He helps secure the mask and snorkel over my head, his hand a comforting weight on my bicep, and steadies me while I clumsily slip the fins over my heels. I look like a goddamn emperor penguin as I waddle to the edge of the platform, terror shaking my hands.
Jett’s far quicker than I am, his snorkeling gear ready to go before I’ve reached the edge. I have a white-knuckle grip on the railing when Jett offers me a playful smile. “Want to jump together?”
He extends his palm, and after a moment’s hesitation—because is holding his hand right now smart?—I lace my fingers through his. At the edge of the platform, he squeezes my palm.
“On three,” he declares, counting down. “Remember to hold your mask to your face.”
When he hitsone, I step forward, crashing into the water beside him. I do not hold the mask to my face like he instructed, and the force of the impact pushes it up, water flooding into my lungs.
I hack, flailing to stay afloat and avoid an impending drowning. One strong hand grips my waist while the otherreadjusts my mask. The water recedes, and Jett wears an apologetic butI told you solook.
“You’re all right,” he says, the confident, soft declaration easing the panic.
He releases his hold on my waist and guides the snorkel to my mouth. I bite down on the rubber piece harder than what’s likely necessary, but I don’t want it to slip out.
“Take slow, deep breaths. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”
What’s scary—more so than the waves, sharks, or potential for the boat to forget us on the reef—is that I believe those words. Even though I’m terrified of this unfamiliar situation, part of my brain knows I’m safe with him.
There’s no greater, more intimidating realization than this, especially when I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt this way around someone, romantic partner or otherwise. I’ve always been the safety net for other people, learned to create what I’ve needed for myself, but there’s never been anyone else to build those safety walls for me.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” I demand.
His fingers slip through mine—a perfect fit. “Ready?”
I allow my legs to float upward, my head dipping below the surface. Air rushes through the snorkel, and after a few deep breaths, I offer Jett a tentative thumbs-up. He gives my hand a squeeze, and then we kick against the current.
The water is clear, and white sandy bottoms shift to massive, sprawling corals, connected and overlapping each other. It’s a masterpiece of color and movement, and Jett waves his hand in front of me, catching my attention. He points to the left, where our friends all hover deep below the surface.
