Shipped(17)

Daisy, I feel you, girl. Because right now, I am totally you postdoughnuts. And the way the floor won’t stay still is not helping.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll find us a seat.” I should have taken some Dramamine as a precaution, and maybe some Pepto, but it’s too late now. My meds are packed away in my checked luggage and our suitcases haven’t been transferred to the ship yet.

Walsh bounds across the room to the bar where half a dozen guests are seated on stools, sipping fresh cocktails. My sea legs are still on backorder, so I stumble through the curved navy sofas and swivel chairs. Every piece of furniture is bolted down and forms a ring around a small, central raised platform. I sink onto an unoccupied sofa near the back and pull a small field notebook and pen from my pocket. Time to distract myself with work.

What do I observe about the guests? About the ship so far? I tap my pen against my lips.

Most of the people in the room are probably my parents’ age or slightly younger. There are a few twenty-and thirtysomethings and a solid number of retirees. No kids. I know from dipping into our booking system that the ship is only two-thirds full, so roughly sixty passengers on board. There’s a buzz of collective anticipation that has my nerves jittering. I begin jotting down notes.

A roll of laughter makes me pause, pen gripped in my fist. A familiar masculine voice reaches my ears. I twist, slowly, but I already know who it is. My spine tingles.

Graeme is in the lounge.

“Thanks for your time, Gustavo. This was a real pleasure,” he says. I can only see the top of his head. Another man is blocking my view.

The other man claps Graeme on the shoulder. “The pleasure was all mine.” I vaguely recognize him from the staff bios in my pretravel documents as Gustavo Santos, our cruise leader, aka the person responsible for planning each day’s activities and making sure the entire voyage goes off without a hitch. Next to the captain, he’s in charge.

“And thanks for accommodating my request. I appreciate it,” Graeme adds in a conspiratorial tone. The fine hairs on the back of my neck raise in alarm. I don’t like that tone at all. Like Graeme is keeping secrets with the cruise leader. Secrets that will give him an edge in our competition? I lean over the arm of the sofa, straining to hear more…

“Of course, of course,” says Gustavo, sticking out a hand for Graeme to shake. “We will connect after the safety briefing, before this evening’s shore excursion.” Just as I’m about to catch my first unobstructed real-life glimpse of Graeme, a Technicolor torso sidles into view.

“We meet again, Ms. Shirt.”

I jolt and drop my pen. “Oh, um, hi.” I attempt to peer around Nikolai. He steps closer until he fills my entire field of vision. I nearly growl in frustration. In one smooth move, he slides next to me on the couch, body angled toward mine, thoroughly boxing me in. His cologne hits me like a sledgehammer. On a different day I might have said it was nice, if a bit strong, but today the scent drills into my nose and pummels my gag reflex like a punching bag. My throat constricts.

Under the guise of picking up my pen, I wiggle out of his orbit and quickly stand.

“You never answered my question earlier,” he says, crossing his legs, seemingly unbothered by my rapid escape. Lips squeezing together in a puckered smile, he smooths the imaginary wrinkles from his Ed Hardy T-shirt. “You, me, dinner?”

I open my mouth to decline, but—

“There you are,” a deep voice purrs behind me. I whip around to find myself staring into a face I’ve only ever seen on a screen—Graeme’s.

Sunlight frames him, highlighting the subtle dimple in his chin. My heartbeat stutters. He’s shaved at some point in the last two weeks. His stubble is shorter than it was before, maybe a week’s worth of growth. And I notice for the first time that his nose isn’t completely straight; the bridge is slightly crooked, but it doesn’t detract from his looks in the least.

It’s official: FaceTime Graeme has nothing on live-and-in-person Graeme. He’s tall, for one—a shade over six feet, I’d guess, based on how his chin is at my eye level. And with his strong jaw, patrician nose, and sweep of wavy, deep brown hair that’s longer on top, he cuts a striking figure. So much for my imaginings of a squat, bulbous troll-demon. This Graeme is freaking… majestic. Majestic edged with down-home, aww-shucks, Midwestern charm—snake charm, that is.

Sweat threatens between my shoulder blades. Did someone crank the heat in here or what? Squaring my shoulders, I flash Graeme a tight-lipped smile. “Here I am.”

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.

Nikolai scrambles to his feet. “Dr. Nikolai Kozlov.” He extends his hand, and when Graeme steps up to take it, I catch a whiff of something delicious: an enticingly light scent of cedar, leather, and something crisp—citrusy, even. I resist the overwhelming urge to grab him by the collar, shove my nose in the crook of his neck, and snort like a politician doing a line of coke off a prostitute’s cleavage.

I swallow the sudden excess of saliva that’s flooded my mouth—along with a jolt of anger. This is the competition. We’re not on the Love Boat. We’re on assignment for work. And the one who uses this experience to craft the best proposal wins.

And I’m going to win. I will. I’ll make sure of it.

The two men shake hands.

“Nice to meet you. Graeme Crawford-Collins.” Graeme’s expression is tight and unreadable.