Page 7 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
We follow the guide through the open-air path that winds past the pool deck and down toward the pier. The ocean grows louder with every step, and the smell of salt and humidity is thick in the air.
The pier is crowded, groups already gathering, the salt air heavy with sunscreen and diesel from the boat. Divers on one side, snorkelers on the other. The instructor barks out instructions in English and Spanish, corralling everyone into pairs.
Naturally, I end up next to her.
There’s a young kid walking around handing out life vests to everyone on the dock, and assisting people as he moves alongside. Sol fastens her vest, pulling the strap tight, and glances at me. “Do you always follow strangers on vacation?”
“Only the ones who are a little mean to me.” I tug at the sleeve of my rash guard and slide a couple of fingers through my cheek, lifting the corner of my mouth ever so slightly as she studies me.
“You deserve it,” she says smoothly.
“Fair.” I pause, then add, “Although I was told this makes me look ‘sporty.’”
She snorts, adjusting her vest and setting her tote on the floor while we wait to board. “By who? Your dermatologist?”
“Close. My sister. She’s basically my stylist.”
That laugh—quick, low—slips out before she can stop it. She shakes her head like she regrets giving it to me and turns in the direction of the boat, effectively cutting me off after she gave me that.
We shuffle toward the boat together, caught in the current of the group. The deck is slick as we move, and there’s a joyful ambiance to the air, because everyone is here on vacation. Couples fuss with each other’s straps, kids squeal, someone already dropped something into the water.
And me? I keep sneaking glances at her.
She’s different from last night. Quieter. Not hiding, exactly, but… steadier. Focused on herself, instead of the spectacle. And in the middle of the chaos, it makes her stand out even more.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her this much. She’s not interested. She said she’s leaving. And even if she wasn’t, I know how this goes. I lean in too fast, too much, and eventually, people pull back. It’s the story of every almost-relationship I’ve had.
So no.
No way.
But when we finally arrive at our destination and we slip into the water, the group splits—divers head in first, snorkelers after. She adjusts her gear and checks in with her instructor, hair already plastered to her cheek from the spray. There’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes—something open and unguarded—and it hits me harder than it should.
I watch as she disappears beneath the surface in a clean, practiced motion, a trail of silver bubbles breaking behind her. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crystalline blue.
The rest of us drift nearby, faces down, scanning coral and schools of fish. It’s quiet, peaceful, the kind of silence that makes me too aware of my own breathing. And still, I keep glancing toward where she went under, waiting for that flash of her brown hair.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something else.
When she finally surfaces twenty minutes later, she pulls off her mask, cheeks flushed from the salt and sun, and laughs at something the instructor says. It’s an easy, genuine sound, and I catch myself smiling before I even realize it.
And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Which is exactly why I need to stay out of trouble.
CHAPTER 5
SOL
I’m smilinglike a fool when I step into the lobby. It’s a smile that’s been sneaking up on me without asking every time I remember that dive. My hair’s half-dry, my skin smells like salt, and my body feels loose in a way it hasn’t in months. Maybe years.
I can’t even remember the last time I felt this calm—maybe before the divorce, or even farther back, before I started measuring my life in deliverables and deadlines, and the days were just lists of to-dos that took over my every waking thought.
And all it took was sinking twenty meters under the ocean and not thinking about anything for a couple of hours. Well—almost anything. There had been a flash of a long-sleeved swim shirt at the surface, someone waving from the snorkel group, and the corner of a smile that stuck with me longer than it should have.
I drag my suitcase behind me into the packed lobby and hand my room key to the concierge once it’s my turn. “Hi, checking out. Sol Acosta.”
He smiles brightly. “Of course, Miss Acosta.” He clicks a couple of times on his computer, then types something without looking. “Did you enjoy your dive?”
