Shipped(18)

“I’m sorry, you two are…” Nikolai trails off, pointing his finger back and forth between Graeme and me.

“Together,” says Graeme.

My eyes nearly bug out of my head and I scratch my nose to cover my reaction. Is Graeme pretending to be my… boyfriend? Why, to keep Nikolai from sniffing around? There must be some ulterior motive. I just don’t know what it is yet.

Catching sight of my face, Graeme shoves his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts and his bicep muscles flex beneath the sleeve of his white polo. “I believe you were extending a dinner invitation?”

“Yes. To her. And you. Both of you,” Nikolai hedges.

“We’d be delighted to—”

A gust of wind suddenly rattles the windows and the ship tilts sharply. Several guests gasp and grab furniture to steady themselves. Heat floods my cheeks. Bile rises. My head spins.

No. Not here. Not now.

I hunch, fist pressed against my lips as my stomach heaves. Graeme’s there, gripping my shoulder. Saying my name.

Need to get out of here.

I shove away, take two steps, and vomit. All over a brightly colored Ed Hardy T-shirt.





6




I blink in horror. Nikolai’s eyes widen and his lips curl in disgust. “I go change shirt,” he says stiffly, and marches to the stairs. Only one person, Nikolai’s friend Dwight, pulls a double-take at the trail of vomit oozing down his chest like pulverized egg yolks. Everyone else seems either too engaged in conversation or too transfixed by the view to notice.

With my fingers clamped against my closed mouth, I swivel slowly to face Graeme. His eyebrows are so far up his forehead that they threaten to disappear into his hairline.

I puked. In public. On a guest. In front of Graeme.

I want to curl up in a ball and die.

What are the odds he’ll tell James? I nearly choke. What are the odds he won’t? We haven’t even made it to our first stop of the cruise and I’ve already served up the perfect shot for Graeme to spike in my face.

Are people staring? Maybe no one else saw…

“Honey, are you okay?” a middle-aged woman asks, bustling over.

Graeme steps between us. “She’s fine. Just a little seasick.” He stares her down until she leaves. His hand closes around my elbow as he guides me to the far end of the sofa. My knees buckle and I collapse into a heap. “Do you need to go lie down?” he asks, voice low.

I consider it. But my stomach is dormant now, like a hyped-up toddler passed out after a sugar rush. I feel loads better, actually. I shake my head.

Without another word, Graeme turns and walks away.

Great, he’s so grossed out he can’t even look at me. Humiliation courses through my veins. At least I won’t have to worry about him getting in my way this week. He’ll probably stay far, far away for fear that Henley the Hurling Wonder might spew all over him.

I wet my lips. I need water. And a toothbrush. And to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Shoving to my feet, I pick up my notebook and pen from where I dropped them on the floor and stumble across the room. A crew member holding a spray bottle and a cleaning rag hustles to the spot where I was sick, probably to clean up the splatters. Ughhh so embarrassing. I wobble down the stairs, keeping my chin tucked in case anyone is looking, and escape to my cabin.

Our suitcases are here, finally, and I tip mine onto the carpeted floor and unzip it. Digging through the inside pocket, I fish out a container of Dramamine, my toothbrush, and toothpaste. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and tongue vigorously, almost gagging in the process, and slurp water from the tap to wash down the chalky white pill.

Bracing both palms along the narrow counter, I stare into the mirror. My cheeks are a brilliant pink and my eyes are glassy. I wet a washcloth and dab it against my face to cool down. Vomiting on someone, even someone as annoyingly persistent as Nikolai, ranks as one of my all-time worst waking nightmares. And Graeme had a front-row seat.

A voice sputters from a wall speaker between the two twin beds. “Good afternoon, good afternoon. A mandatory safety briefing will begin shortly. Please make your way to the lounge.”

“Shitsicles,” I mutter.

I have to attend the mandatory briefing, no matter how much I want to fade into the ether.

Shaking my hair out of my face, I square my shoulders and raise my chin. Okay. I puked on someone. So what? The quickest way to draw attention to myself will be if I slink around like a piddling puppy, and I refuse to give Graeme the upper hand here. If I pretend this episode never happened, then everyone else will too, Graeme included.

He’d better.

Taking a deep breath, I stride out of my cabin and return to the lounge. Mostly everyone is seated now. I intentionally don’t look for Graeme. If he’s planning on ignoring me the rest of the trip, I’ll let him.

I spot Nikolai, wearing a different, equally ugly shirt, sitting with Dwight near the central dais. He doesn’t see me—whew. And Walsh is still perched on a barstool, happily chatting away, oblivious to everything that just went down. I could join her, but the thought of making small talk with strangers right now has me feeling queasy all over again.

I skirt through the sea of sofas and find an empty spot in the opposite corner from where I was before.

“You’re back,” says Graeme at my elbow. My muscles jerk. He wasn’t here a second ago. Leaning over my shoulder, he places a glass of ice water, a packet of Dramamine, and a candy wrapped in blue foil on the cocktail table in front of me before sinking into the nearest teal swivel chair, unfolding like a king assuming his throne.