Shipped(51)

I offer a conciliatory smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “I’m not mad at you. It’s Graeme. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing for his proposal, it’s going to be good.”

“And I didn’t help things, did I?” she moans miserably.

“You were trying to help, and that’s all that matters.”

Walsh’s phone trills twice; I’m still holding it. I glance automatically at the two texts that pop up on the screen. They’re both from a contact labeled Bad News Bears.

Come on, don’t leave me hanging



I need an answer. Now.





Scrabbling, Walsh rips the phone away from me and stares at the screen. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the phone before clicking it off.

“Who are those from?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re talking to someone you’ve labeled Bad News Bears, shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, not texting them?”

The wall speakers crackle. “Good afternoon, good afternoon. Our final excursion to Post Office Bay will be departing in fifteen minutes. As a reminder, you have the option of participating in the oldest mail delivery system in this part of the world. Postcards are provided in your cabin, so be sure to write one—to a family member, a friend, or even yourself. Disembarkation begins in fifteen minutes.”

“Are we good? You’re not mad at me?” Walsh asks.

“No, I’m not mad.” Crossing the room, I give her a quick hug before stepping back and gripping her by the shoulders. “But you’re going to tell me what those texts were about.”

“Just some low-key drama. Super boring. Nothing to tell.”

“Walsh.”

“Oh, look at the time.” She taps her bare wrist. “Got to shower, best hurry.” Phone tucked in the waistband of her pants, she darts into the bathroom and closes the door.

“Brat,” I shout.

“Nosy,” she retorts.

I can’t help but grin as the bands around my heart loosen and a warm feeling spreads through my chest. I hate fighting with Walsh. And I hate it even more when I’m the one in the wrong.

The fact is, I acted like a lunatic today, and all because I couldn’t keep my mind on the job. Gnawing my lip, I brush the spot on my neck where Graeme’s fingers played against my skin. I can still feel his lingering touch, as hot as midday sand.

Next door, footsteps thump faintly. It sounds like Graeme is pacing in his cabin.

I stare at the wall separating us. I could walk two steps down the hall and slip into his cabin without anyone noticing. Then we could pick up where we left off…

But I’m smarter than that.

I don’t have the luxury of slacking off. I’ve already had one near miss on this cruise; I don’t need another. If I want a shot at snagging this promotion, I need to be in full-on work mode. Not cat-on-the-prowl mode. And besides, I know from experience what can happen when a work romance turns sour, and it’s not worth the risk. Better to keep Graeme squarely in the friend zone.

Marching to the closet, I fling it open and take out a fresh set of clothes. I pull on shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, comb out the lobster-sized knots in my hair, spritz it with salt spray, and scrunch until damp waves form—there’s no time to dry it. After swiping on some lip stain and a coat of mascara, I slip into the desk chair and pluck one of the postcards from the narrow shelf bolted to the wall. It features a giant tortoise on the front. Digging out a pen from the top drawer, I click it open and hold it poised over the card.

Who should I write to? Christina? She’s already been to the Galápagos. Mom and Dad?

I tap the pen against the desk and my cell phone steals my attention. I still have a few minutes…

I enter the Wi-Fi passcode and a cascade of notifications flickers across the screen. I have missed texts from Tory, Christina, and my parents. Some new Snapchat messages and Instagram likes. I ignore them all. But then I spot a new email in my personal account that I can’t ignore.

My chest tightens as I scan the official-looking notice about my student loans. My monthly payments are increasing next month.

“Fuuuuuck.”

As if I needed any more pressure to land this promotion.

My phone buzzes with a new text. It’s from Graeme.

Can we talk?





My heartbeat stutters and fuzzy warmth fills my veins. Not the reaction I need right now. I hesitate with my thumbs poised over the screen.

The wall speakers crackle with an impending announcement. “Good evening, good evening. If you would like to visit historic Post Office Bay, disembarkation begins in fifteen minutes. Post Office Bay, fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the mudroom, and don’t forget your postcard. Thank you.”

I lick my dry lips and type out a response.

Are you doing the post office excursion?



Yes



Let’s talk then



Sounds like a plan.





18




Walsh took her sweet time in the shower, so we ended up on the last Zodiac to shore. Graeme must have caught an earlier one because I didn’t see him in the mudroom. Our boat bounces along the surface of the water, engine chugging, and I clutch my hair over one shoulder to keep the wind from whipping it in my face.