Page 17 of The Billionaire's Teacher

At least, that was why I assumed someone would take a tour like that. Maybe it was unfair. But the water here was so clear, people didn’t have to scuba to enjoy the underwater sights. And snorkeling was something even the youngest could master.

Even still, these types of excursions were popular. And this one, at least, had provided some new foundation for the reef to grow into and an interesting spot for divers.

I paused beside the boat and gestured for Wes to go ahead and look around. There was nowhere I couldn’t see him today. The water was clear and undisturbed by other divers.

I eased up a few feet so I could look down on the wreck. Wes was peering into the hull. I wrinkled my nose. I hadn’t explicitly said not to go in it, but I hoped he wouldn’t. For one, there was nothing all that exciting inside. And two? I hadn’t checked that he actually had a wreck diving cert. For something like this, it might not be technically necessary, but I didn’t like the idea of someone deciding to just go into closed-off spaces without knowing what they were about.

Thankfully, he backed away and continued circling the boat. After a moment, he glanced from side to side, then rolled over and faced up. I felt the sizzle of connection with him as our eyes met. He gestured for me to come closer, then pointed.

I swam down to where he was and followed his finger. A young sea turtle stared back at me. I wished for my underwater camera. I tilted my head. Was his fin caught in something?

I moved until I had a better view. The turtle’s back fin was caught in some netting. That netting hadn’t been here the last time I was at this site. Granted, that had been several months, but local dive operators were good about cleaning up trash they found when they were down with a group. And it was illegal to try to capture or kill while diving in these waters.

Maybe the netting had fallen overboard by accident. Or washed out here and snagged on the rocks, then trapped the turtle. I shouldn’t speculate. What I did need to do, though, was free the turtle’s fin.

If he’d let me.

I drew my dive knife and considered the problem. It would be best to get all the net off the fin, if possible, rather than simply freeing him but leaving the net attached.

I reached slowly toward the fin with my free hand and slid a finger under the net. Good. It was wrapped but not too tight.

Wes watched, concern evident in his eyes.

Using my fingers to protect the turtle’s fin, I sawed carefully at the netting. It gradually pulled apart.

Wes reached around and tugged away the rest.

Free, the turtle glanced back, then swam away.

I sheathed my knife and breathed a contented sigh.

Wes was pulling the net free from the rocks and boat and balling it up. I appreciated that he realized we couldn’t leave it to snag some other creature. I took the opportunity to give my gauges and dive computer a quick check. We’d been down for twenty minutes. We should probably make our way back to the boat and surface. My air was fine, but men tended to go through theirs faster.

I tapped Wes on the shoulder and held up my air gauge. He nodded and looked around. I let my gauge go and reached for the netting so his hands were free. He pulled the gear forward and checked his air, then flipped it so I could see. He did, in fact, need to start heading back.

I pointed back the way we came.

He mimed a deep sigh but shot me an OK with his fingers.

I fought a chuckle, adjusted the air in my BCD, and started back toward the NeverLand.

We took it slow. Neither of us was in a place where we’d be better off surfacing and swimming back on top of the water using our snorkels. So we might as well enjoy another trip along the reef.

When my compass indicated that we were where we should be, I stopped and gave Wes a thumbs-up, indicating that we should head toward the surface. He returned the gesture and we both began inflating our BCDs and kicking slowly toward the surface. I appreciated that he didn’t seem to be in a race to the top, either. It was easy for us to stay below our rising exhaled bubbles, a rule of thumb to help divers avoid serious injury, or even depth, from decompression sickness.

Wes and I broke the surface of the water in tandem. He pulled his regulator free and grinned at me. “That was awesome. I swear that turtle said thank you.”

I laughed, the action spitting out my mouthpiece. “I’m glad you spotted him. Or her.”

“Me, too.”

Something about the way he looked at me sent a shiver—the good kind—down my spine. I reached for my snorkel. “Don’t know about you, but I could go for a snack.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I just put my face in the water and swam the rest of the distance to the swim step of the boat.

Getting back on the boat after diving was the worst part. I always preferred when there was someone waiting on board to lend a hand, so I hauled myself out of the water and quickly unfastened my BCD and laid it down, then worked my feet free of their flippers. I was hopping to my feet when Wes’s hands curled around the edge of the step.

“Take off your BCD and I’ll grab it.” I reached down.

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