Shipped(41)

And what about Graeme? Gustavo just walked in on us… what? Gazing longingly into each other’s eyes? Flirting? I doubt he’ll report that to James, but if we go any further…

I’m kidding myself if I think the impact of a shipboard fling would be equally felt by both Graeme and myself if James found out. I can already picture James, watery eyes narrowing, forehead pinching, staring down his nose at me in disapproval. But Graeme? He’d probably invite him into his office for a high-five followed by a raise just for showing up.

“Are you going on the early hike tomorrow morning?” Gustavo asks.

“Yeah,” says Graeme, scratching his nose. “Are you?” he asks me.

“Uh-huh,” I mutter.

“Wonderful, wonderful! You should go with Xiavera’s group. She’s an expert biologist, and I’ve asked her to be your… what is the word… liaison while you’re on board. If you need anything at all, feel free to ask her. She’ll also be keeping me informed about whether you misbehave.” Hitching an exaggerated frown on his face, he wags his finger at me before his boyish features crack into a grin and he laughs genially. “I’m kidding!”

I force a weak chuckle.

“Or am I?” Serious again, he turns and strides for the door. His own booming laughter follows him out of the room.

My dinner sits like a boulder in my gut. Gustavo seems pleasant enough—certainly not malicious—but he’s been roped into being James’s eyes and ears on board. I can’t really blame him. When an executive of the company asks you to jump, you say “to which planet?” If I don’t watch myself on this cruise, the slightest misstep could spell my downfall. I curl my hands into fists and push my chair back from the table, away from Graeme. The air between us has thickened like sour milk.

“I need to go. I have to check on Walsh.”

Graeme leans back, white T-shirt stretching across his broad chest. Confusion clouds his features. “Okay.”

“Thanks for having dinner with me, I—” For the span of a breath, I stare into his vivid blue eyes. “Thanks.”

Graeme stands. “Henley—”

“Don’t. Just, don’t.” Turning on my heel, I quickly fill a plate for Walsh from the buffet and escape to my cabin.

I don’t look back.



* * *



Walsh is in the shower when I arrive with her dinner, so I put the plate on her nightstand. The cabin is oppressively warm and stuffy. I need fresh air. I need to think.

Shucking off my sweater, I grab my phone, laptop, and backpack and head for the bridge, the glass-enclosed room on the upper deck where the captain and officers manage the ship. I don’t want to accidentally run into Graeme, and while the bridge is usually open to passengers it isn’t exactly a hot spot of activity—not like the lounge. Threading through hallways and up three flights of stairs, I reach the door marked Bridge: Open and knock softly.

“Come in,” calls a deep voice.

I tentatively step inside. The room is narrow, with a massive control panel including the ship’s wheel lining one wall. Above the controls, a row of windows overlooks the bow. Full darkness has fallen, and I feel more than see the front of the ship dip and crest as we slice through the waves.

I grab the wall to steady myself. “Hi, I’m allowed in here, right?”

“Yes, of course. Welcome to the bridge,” says an older Ecuadoran gentleman with gray hair and a crisp white uniform. From his general air of command and the four gold stripes on his shoulder epaulets, I’m guessing he’s the captain. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, I don’t want to be a bother. I’m just looking for a quiet place to sit.”

He offers a kindly smile. “You’re no bother. Stay as long as you like.”

There are two other officers in the room, both younger than the captain. They give me nods of welcome. Soon the three men are deep in murmured conversation.

I shuffle over to a round table in the corner and sit on one of its four upholstered stools. Plunking my laptop and bag down, I open my phone. Time to figure out what I’m dealing with. I type Graeme’s name into the search bar of a Web browser. I googled him after our meeting with James two weeks ago, but I didn’t look beyond the first page of results. I’m sure there’s more out there.

To my surprise, a LinkedIn profile is one of the first results. Huh. This didn’t come up before. He must have either recently joined or changed the privacy settings on his account since the last time I checked. Gnawing on my lower lip, I tap on the link. Graeme’s profile pops up—it’s his all right, complete with the same photo he uses for his work email. Bingo. I scan his résumé.

He earned his bachelor’s in communications and marketing from the University of Michigan, but he attended Cornell for three years first. I frown. I’ve never heard of anyone transferring colleges their senior year. That’s just… weird. Did he fail out? Drop out?

I scroll down to the employment section. His job with Ford is listed near the top. My eyes nearly bug out of my head. He worked on their digital marketing team for four years after spending two years as a social media specialist. And before that, he was a marketing intern for a white-water rafting company in upstate New York.

I still don’t understand why he took a job with Seaquest—flexible, work-from-home hours or not. It was such a step back for him career-wise that it boggles my mind. I squint as I read the dates attached to his positions. He left Ford a full six months before he landed the Seaquest job. What was with the employment gap?