Shipped(27)

Yeah, I caught you checking me out. Bracing a hand on my hip, I mouth the words “human resources.”

His lips quirk and his eyebrows bounce upward. In one smooth move he stands, grips the back of his T-shirt, and yanks it over his head. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t look away. I can’t. His bare chest is strong with a smattering of dark brown hair and the perfect amount of muscle, the kind of chest that would make a nice pillow. His waist is narrow and his abs are flat and subtly defined without being so ripped that I’m self-conscious about my own lack of definition. I swallow hard.

Catching my gaze, he extends his arms. “Human resources,” he mouths.

My lips threaten to smile, so I shake my head and look away. When I look back, he’s stepping into his wet suit. I do the same. I don’t miss his shadow of a grin.

Warmth bubbles through my chest and my breath quickens like I’ve run a sprint. I’m not sure what happened there, but it was unprofessional, unprovoked, and I liked it. Way. Too. Much.

But this is Graham Cracker-Collins, not some random piece of eye candy. Enough window shopping Time to focus.

After adjusting the neoprene fabric where it ends around my knees and elbows and confirming that everything fits, I peel it off and put my shorts and shirt back on. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud, so I stick my sunglasses on top of my head. Gathering up both sets of snorkeling equipment, I shuffle over to the stairs.

Graeme is already standing there. When he spots me, he shifts so he’s blocking the top step. I try to edge around him, but he leans so close his breath fans against my neck and I stop. He nods toward Donna, who’s currently supervising her husband packing away their snorkeling gear with a scowl on her face.

“There’s always one, isn’t there?”

“Always.”

The oddness of the moment strikes me and my stomach squirms like a trapped mouse. Here I am, having a companionable exchange with Graeme where we actually agree on something—not five minutes after we ogled each other practically naked. Something tugs at me, like a fishhook lodged in my heart, and I don’t like it.

I clear my throat and take half a step back. “You don’t need to wait for me, you know. It’s not like we’re on this trip together. You go your way, I’ll go mine.”

His jaw tightens and he doesn’t speak for several heartbeats. “That’s what you want?”

“It’s for the best.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Great.”

“Fine.” He steps toward the stairs at the same time I do. We bump hips, and it’s like bouncing off a wall. I press my lips into a thin line.

“After you.” He motions politely.

There’s so much Midwestern nice going on I want to scream. “Have fun on your hike,” I toss over my shoulder as I pass him.

“Have fun working.”

I nod briskly and hustle down three flights of stairs. Graeme follows. I make a left at the dining room. He’s still behind me. When he turns down the carpeted hallway leading to my cabin, I shoot him a glare. “Are you following me?”

“Why would I follow you?”

“As part of a devious plot, no doubt.”

“Why do you always assume I’m plotting?”

“Experience.” I walk faster. He speeds up. When I reach my cabin, I whirl. “Seriously, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting my life jacket,” he says slowly, pivoting to point over his shoulder to cabin 209—the cabin right next door. “See, no plots.” Lifting an eyebrow, he disappears inside.

The booking department put us in adjacent cabins? Oh, someone has a sense of humor.

I let out a long breath once the door is closed. I can’t let Graeme distract me. I have to direct 100 percent of my focus toward nailing my proposal, and that starts now.

Walsh is still asleep, so as quietly as I can, I store our snorkeling gear in the closet and change out of my bathing suit. When I unplug my laptop from where it’s been charging on the desk, the innocent beige wall that I’d barely registered before captures my attention.

Because Graeme is directly on the other side.

Having adjacent cabins feels… illicit. Like I’m a kid at sleep-away camp who found a secret way to sneak into the boys’ bunkhouse without getting caught by the counselors. I could slip next door anytime I want… or vice versa…

I shake my head hard. Right, the only way I’m sneaking into Graeme’s cabin is to boobytrap it in his sleep.

Stuffing my laptop into my bag, which is already packed from last night’s shore excursion, I head for the lounge. I check my phone for new messages on the way.

I have a voice mail from my parents (“Henley, it’s Mom. Are you and Walsh alive? Call me.”), a Snapchat from Christina at her latest rec league soccer game (“Guess who scored the game-winning goal, bitches?”), and two texts from Tory, one of which is a grainy ultrasound photo.

Gender is a social construct, but biologically, it’s a girl!





“Awwww!” I squeal.

Congrats!!!



How’s Michelle feeling? Any names picked out yet? Miss you!





I fire off a quick text to my mom assuring her that, yes, we are alive, and will do our best to FaceTime with her and Dad later, then respond to Christina’s Snap with a flame, heart, and high-five emoji. A last call for the long hike rings through the ship’s speakers, but I ignore it. Once I reach the lounge, it’s empty except for an elderly couple sipping tea and reading matching Kindles. I pick a cushy corner couch to set up shop for the morning.