Bad Cruz(23)

Cruz didn’t seem to mind at all that he was the center of the wrong type of attention, the flint in his eyes telling me he’d never felt so comfortable.

“Well, for one thing, people are not all that insightful. Easy to blow smoke up their asses. For another, I save this part of my personality ’specially for you, Mrs. Weiner.”

“I should record you,” I muttered.

“I should sue you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I belched. “For what exactly?”

“Punching my throat, screwing up my one and only vacation this year. You name it.”

“You punched his throat?” A teenage girl with purple hair and a septum ring beside us turned to me, raising her fist for a bump. “Dude. Neat.”

I leaned toward her, angling my hand next to my mouth, as if telling a secret.

“He went down like a Jenga tower. It was beautiful.”

Everyone laughed.

The elevator slid open, and Cruz stepped outside. I followed him down a narrow hallway with navy carpet and gold imprints on it. The doors were made of heavy deep-mahogany wood, and the lingering scent of citrus and cleaning products wafted through the air.

Cruz slid the electronic card through the slot on the door and pushed it open. I noticed that, despite his intense dislike of me, he held the door open for me to get in first.

Forever the gentleman.

“Shotgun on the shower.” I traipsed in, throwing myself onto the one queen-size bed the room had to offer and inhaling the scent of the sheets, still fresh from a wash.

Cruz tossed the electronic card onto a nearby desk and leaned against the sliver of wall the cabin had to offer. It was about half the size of an average Holiday Inn hotel room, but impeccably furnished and extremely clean.

Still, I had no idea how I was going to survive ten days inside this place with Cruz Costello.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You seem to need it more than me.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“I’m saying I relish every minute spent away from you.”

“You should write love songs,” I beamed at him. “That’s real romantic.”

“You do know relish is more than a condiment, right?” He delivered a low blow, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Determined to salvage whatever it was that was left of this trip, I opted out of arguing with him, unzipping my suitcase and taking out my toiletries and some fresh clothes.

As soon as I walked into the tiny bathroom, I turned on both faucets and the shower to the max for privacy and went about my business. I reserved the right to let out a few dainty farts without being judged for it while I was in the comfort of my bathroom.

I took my time, showering, shampooing, brushing my teeth, applying all sorts of complimentary creams and slipping into fresh clothes I’d had the sense to carry up in my purse, knowing our luggage might not get delivered until after dinner. (Okay, Cruz had reminded me to snag the dress before we handed off our luggage with a snarky comment about dining room dress code.)

I even gave my hair a blow dry. I was tempted to pin it up and spray it to death like always, but then remembered I was not in Fairhope anymore. I could let myself be someone else, maybe the real me and not people’s expectations of me.

“All right, Perfect McPerfson, the shower is all yours.” I got out of the bathroom with a spring to my step.

Cruz was gone.





I found Cruz in the dining room thirty minutes later.

Walked in with my Anna Nicole Smith red lipstick and tight black mini dress that didn’t leave much room for imagination.

Our assigned table somehow boasted an ocean view (I did not believe luck had anything to do with it). Cruz shared his dinner with one of the cruise directors, whose sole job was to look sparkly and pretty while convincing guests they were having enough fun to book another cruise.

She was sitting in my assigned seat, giggling and tucking her hair behind her ears the entire time.

Disgusting.

Didn’t she know we were fake-married?

I squinted, trying to figure out if it looked like a date or not. She was the kind of attractive woman men like Cruz went for—brunette, petite, slender, confident, and dressed in a lazy yet expensive manner.

Ultimately, though, it was hard to figure out if a man had the intention of bedding a woman when all you could see was him asking her to pass the butter.

I also spotted Brendan McGinn. He was sitting by himself at a two-seater table, eating a burger they only offered on the kid’s menu. Brendan noticed both of us, too, and gave me a what-the-heck look when he saw Cruz with Cruise Director Lady Woman.

Marching over to Brendan, I took the empty seat, signaled his waiter, told him I’d have what Brendan was having, and struck up a conversation.

“Quite a husband you’ve got there.” Brendan snorted.

“He’s a doctor, you know,” I bragged.

I was pretty sure this would be my only chance to ever flaunt having a doctor as my husband.

Or any husband for that matter.

“Also your cousin.”

I waved my hand dismissively, unsure why I was entertaining Cruz’s madness.

“Cruz’s adopted. His mother was in the circus, and she did a lot of weird stuff with her body while pregnant. He came out with all sorts of problems. Haven’t you noticed his head is shaped a little like an eggplant?”