Page 6 of The Perfect Wrong

Is he high?

This stretch of shore isn’t the smoothest at the bottom, especially by the cliffs. If he’s not careful, he could get cut to pieces.

I swallow dryly, summoning the courage to rush over and find out if I’m going to see a man who’s been knocked comatose or worse—lifeless.

Only, before I take a single step, I see something bobbing on the water, this dark round shape.

He’s emerging from the water, dragging himself onto the beach with heavy, halting steps.

Apparently alive and still in one piece.

His arms rise above the waves like black flames in the darkness, huge and powerful, as if he’s parting the ocean like Moses all for himself.

“Whoa,” I whisper.

At least he can’t be hurt. The dude wouldn’t be swimming like a total pro if he had a busted leg.

He must be one of those hardcore wave chasers, the kind who know these beaches like the back of their hand. Have I seen him before?

When I get a better look, though, I realize he’s not just another surfer clown asking for a mile-long hospital bill.

The guy meansbusiness.

And he moves like he’s just come up from dealing with Poseidon himself.

He’s wearing a full wet suit, complete with a snorkel mask and oxygen tank. Definitely no ordinary sight on this remote, fairly exclusive beach.

At first, I’m weirdly fascinated, wondering if he’s just a die-hard swim fanatic, or maybe a hobbyist diver who stayed out too late and strayed off course.

His feet kick up sand as he fights ashore, heading for a rocky spot farther down the beach, where I see another light.

It’s a little camp of sorts. I notice more gear, a few black crates stacked up with a jacket slung over everything.

I frown.

I’m not crazy overprotective of Dad’s property, but this guy shouldn’t be messing around out here, especially after sunset. He could easily get hurt.

Also, I’m guessing he missed the bright-red PRIVATE PROPERTY signs lining the cliffs every twenty or thirty feet at the edge of our property.

Finishing my drink with a huff, I set my glass down on a rock and start to approach him.

I still can’t make out much in the dull light. He’s too far from the party’s bright lights to be more than a massive shadow.

And his back is turned, his head bowed and focused on his diving gear like it’s the most important thing in the world. His mask and oxygen tank are off by the time I’m standing a few feet away, and he’s working on that wet suit.

He sheds it quickly like a second skin, revealing a statue cut from pure granite underneath.

Oh my hotness.

...is he completely naked under there?

I suck in a breath so sharply I’m surprised it doesn’t startle him.

I’m a little relieved when I see navy-blue trunks as he kicks off the rest of the suit—but only alittle.

This man is a sea god heaved up by the deep.

His back alone looks powerful, refined, like a rock-hard swimmer who’s been mastering his craft for years.