One Night with a Diver

“Hey, do you care if I take off early? It’s slowed down a bit, and if I hurry, I can still catch up to the crew heading out to dive the Skookumchuck Rapids.” My co-worker Shyla reached behind her back to untie her apron, already assuming I’d be fine with covering the rest of her shift.

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ve got this.” I used to be the one who’d bail on a shift in favor of a dive, but I hadn’t been in the water in the past two years. Even thinking about it sent a chill racing through me.

“Thanks, Mariella. I owe you one.” Shyla grinned as she grabbed her bag from under the counter. “Hey, looks like somebody just sat down at table four. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

I shook my head. “Don’t mind at all. Have fun and be safe.”

Her smile faded. “You know, if you ever want to get back out there, I’d be happy to dive with you.”

“My diving days are over.” I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the coffee carafe. “See you tomorrow.”

I snagged a warm mug fresh from a drying rack and made my way to table four. The breakfast crowd had died down, but since the restaurant was the only place at the small beachside campground that offered Wi-Fi, we always had a steady stream of customers.

The guy had his back to me and slid a laptop onto the table in front of him as I approached.

“Welcome to Kasperson’s. Would you like some coffee?” I asked.

Blondish brown hair hung down to graze his collar. He glanced up at me with pale green eyes, the same color as the moss-covered rocks I sit by on the beach when I need to feel close to the water.

“Coffee would be great, thanks.” His lips split into a wide smile. “Any chance I can still get breakfast, or are you done serving for the day?”

I set the mug down on the table and carefully filled it with the steaming brew. Kasperson’s Campground seemed to attract good-looking outdoorsy types, but this guy took Shyla’s favorite term, “lumberhottie” to a whole new level. She’d be devastated to learn she’d missed out on meeting him.

“You’re in luck. We serve breakfast all day. Do you want a menu?” I wondered what a man who looked like a young, blondish Paul Bunyan would eat for breakfast. Sometimes Shyla and I played a game where we’d try to guess what people would order based on our first impression. He looked like the type to go straight for steak and eggs, or better yet, the lumberjack omelet.

“What’s good here?” He wrapped thick, long fingers around the handle of the mug and lifted it to his mouth.

My gaze followed, transfixed by the size of his hands. Guys with giant hands usually had giant… ugh… I needed to get a grip. Heat marched up my cheeks and simmered in my belly.

“Oh, um, everything’s good. The omelets are delicious. If you’ve got more of a sweet tooth, you can’t go wrong with the cinnamon roll French toast.” He didn’t look like he indulged in sweets too often based on the way the tight t-shirt clung to his pecs.

“What do you like best?” His eyes sparkled over the rim of his mug.

My mouth went bone dry while my mind went blank. I couldn’t think of a single word. The only thought drifting through my head was whether his full beard would feel soft or coarse against my skin. Moments passed, and I stood there completely mute. Finally, I pulled myself together enough to croak out a few words. “Lumberjack omelet. My boss says it’ll put hair on your chest.”

His brow furrowed. “Are you trying to grow hair on your chest?”

My face burst into flames. I sounded like a complete and utter idiot. “Um, no, I didn’t mean it like that.”

His mouth ticked up on one side. “Sorry, I’m just giving you a hard time. The lumberjack omelet sounds great.”

“I’ll put that order in for you. My name’s Mariella if you need anything else.” Eager to retreat as quickly as possible, I turned around and almost ran back to the kitchen. I was used to waiting on hot as hell men. What was it about this one that had me stumbling over my words and making a total fool out of myself?

By the time the cook rang the bell to let me know the guy’s omelet was ready, my cheeks had cooled. Surely I’d be able to deliver the man’s meal without shoving my foot even further down my throat. I grabbed the coffee and the tray holding his breakfast, intending to limit my communication with him to a bare minimum.

As I approached his table, I caught a glimpse of his computer. Colorful underwater images filled the screen. I stopped and stared while he flipped from one picture to the next.

“Oh, hey, let me move my stuff.” He slid the laptop over to make room for his plate. “I was just trying to get some work done while I waited.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Seeing images of the creatures living under the sea filled me with a deep longing for the life I’d left behind.

He unwrapped his silverware from the paper napkin and cut into his omelet with the side of his fork. “I’m an underwater photographer.”

Kasperson’s sat at the end of the Sunshine Coast trail, and we hosted divers year round in our little section of British Columbia. But I’d never met someone who made a living photographing the scenery of the ocean. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”

He lifted his fork to his mouth while his gaze drifted up to meet mine. “Hopefully a little bit of both.