Page 63 of Death of a Grill Master

A chill unrelated to the ocean breeze ran down her spine.

The diver.

She wasn’t supposed to make it back.

“Come on, Hayley,” she whispered, gripping the paddle. “You can do this.”

But the current was shifting. The water churned beneath her with sudden force, dragging the kayak sideways. She adjusted quickly, digging in again—but she wasn’t making progress. In fact, she was being pulled out.

Panic flared.

She changed tactics, aiming for the nearest outcropping of rock, hoping to gain a temporary hold. But the surf was relentless. Her kayak slammed into a rising wave, lurched, then listed dangerously to one side. She overcorrected, heart pounding—

And flipped.

The ocean’s chill wrapped around her like a fist.

She hit the water with a gasp, the kayak rolling away like a capsized leaf. Her limbs flailed. Up. Kick up. She broke the surface sputtering, salt in her throat, eyes burning.

The tide shoved her again. She turned toward shore but saw only jagged rocks and dark water. She kicked, arms slicing the sea in frantic strokes, but her muscles were already exhausted. The weight of her soaked clothes dragged her down.

She wasn’t going to make it.

A lobster buoy bobbed nearby—red and white, thick rope dangling beneath it. Hayley lunged, fingers scrabbling until they caught hold. She wrapped both arms around the buoy, clinging as if it were the last thing tethering her to the living world.

Which, at that moment, it was.

She coughed, head pressed to the cracked paint, vision blurry. “Help,” she croaked, though she knew no one could hear her over the wind and waves.

And then, just as her strength began to fail, something moved beneath the surface.

A ripple.

Then a splash.

A figure broke through the water beside her, surfacing like some aquatic avenger—goggles, snorkel, and a head of damp, sandy-blond hair.

“Zane?”

He yanked off the mask and stared at her, breathless. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Trying not to die,” she managed.

Without another word, he grabbed her arm. “Come on. Kick with me.”

They swam in tandem. He steadied her when she slipped. She gasped and sputtered, but slowly, painfully, they inched toward the rocky shoreline. The jagged coast tore at her legs, but she didn’t care. Land meant survival.

Zane pulled her up onto a boulder, then collapsed beside her, chest heaving. “Jesus, Powell. Are you insane?”

She coughed again. “Only on weekends.”

They sat in silence, drenched and shivering, the sea crashing just beyond their feet.

After a moment, Hayley turned. “You were diving?”

He nodded. “Checking visibility. I didn’t expect a passenger in distress.”

Hayley stared at him, trying to gauge the truth. “There’s a cave.”