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Tomorrow.
But there was no way she’d make it back on board without an assist right now. She could lie here. Work on her siesta skills. Maybe, if she closed her eyes for a few minutes, she wouldn’t need a helping hand from the boat’s crew. And there were worse things than taking a short nap beneath a palm tree, right?
“Are you sure?”
“You bet.”
“You want me to take your things for you?” Bags rustled.
“That would be great,” she groaned. Anything you want. Just go.
Ten minutes and a quick siesta.
All she needed was time to settle her stomach, and then she’d be good as new.
* * *
THE THUNDERSTORM MOVING toward Discovery Island had painted the last visible portions of the sky an ominous purple. The Fiesta cruise ship was a tiny white blob on the horizon...taking Mia and any chance of a reunion hookup with it. Temptation removed.
Even though Discovery Island wasn’t really his kind of place, Tag had to admit the evening scene was a fun one. Tourists strolled down the boardwalk, debating dinner options and enjoying the sea breeze. None of them looked at the horizon and weighed the possibility of a rescue call against the height of the waves and the distance to the ocean’s surface. He loved his job, and the siren call of the storm building on the horizon promised action and a good fight. When the rain and the waves hit, wreaking their usual havoc, the island would need him. He’d have things to do.
Sitting still and watching wasn’t his thing, because he didn’t run with the vacation crowd anymore than he did with the casserole crowd. The avid interest of Discovery Island’s long-term residents in his dating life was off-putting. To say the least. The attention shouldn’t have bothered him since he was used to living life in a fishbowl. But Discovery Island was a small place, and some days it felt more like he was a tasty squid swimming in a shark tank at a very public aquarium. Even the rescue-ops part of the job had dating perils—his last rescue, the eighty-one year-old Ellie Damiano, was still trying to set him up with her granddaughter.
Somehow, the things he rescued always stuck to him. Sure, he might have wrapped an arm around Mrs. Damiano and talked with her. But what other choice did he have? She’d just driven her car off the road and into two feet of water. She’d needed an ear to bend, and he had two perfectly good ones. He’d listened. And listened. And then listened some more. He swore, Mrs. Damiano had more to say than anyone he’d ever met before. Now she was grateful, wanting to do something nice for him, and he didn’t have the heart to turn that down.
He just didn’t want to go out with her granddaughter.
As the last few sunbathers packed it in, vacating the creamy strip of sand between the boardwalk and the surf, he turned away from the radar showing only empty waters around Discovery Island—no enemy hostiles or floundering commercial liners or even a capsized fishing boat—and got down to business. The sooner he said the words, the sooner he could get on with what needed doing, so he turned back to face the two men in Deep Dive’s command center. He’d served with both Daeg and Cal for multiple tours of duty, but the bond between them was more than a shared set of missions. There was no one he’d trust more with his back, and each of them had stood by the others on rescues.
“I re-upped.” Short and sweet. A declarative sentence rather than a question, because his going back to San Diego wasn’t open for negotiation.
Cal looked up from the mountain of paper on his desk and cursed. “Don’t tell me. This is Mrs. Damiano’s fault. You could try going out with her granddaughter and see if a date stops her.”
The man had five-o’clock shadow at midafternoon and a pyramid of Red Bull cans teetering in front of him. He’d been the one to conceive of the dive business in the first place, convinced the small California island where he’d grown up was in desperate need of an adventure diving outfit. Plus, he’d taken on the task of setting up a search-and-rescue program for the area. The local Coast Guard was overwhelmed and focused more on running down drug traffickers than fishing distressed pleasure boaters out of the water. Cal, of course, was committed to keeping everyone safe. Juggling both meant less sleep for everyone, although his buddy had never complained.
Reaching over, Tag swiped a stack of papers from Mount Paperwork. Cal didn’t protest. The first one was an invoice for emergency supplies, but the second was for parts for the chopper. Lots and lots of parts. Lovely. They needed a mechanic. Or stock in an aviation company. Their used bird was a work in progress with more face-lifts than an aging beauty queen. The chopper was also an expensive work in progress, as Cal liked to point out with annoying frequency. Restoration had been Tag’s responsibility, in between running dives and setting up training exercises. Apparently, he should have made time for bookkeeping. Or kidnapping an accountant.
