Shipped(55)

Xiavera turns around to address Walsh, but then spots us. “Oh, there you two are. We’ve sorted through the existing postcards in the barrel and now it is time to make your delivery. You have a postcard, yes?”

“Right… yes,” I stammer. “We were just… admiring the view.”

Graeme already has his phone out and is taking a picture of the sunset. Quick thinking. Except it’ll probably mean more great photos and even more Instagram likes.

“Okay. Don’t take too long. We’re winding down.”

“Thanks, we’ll be right there,” he rumbles.

Xiavera lifts a nylon backpack from the pile next to the life jackets and strides back toward the path. Walsh waits for her, bouncing on her toes. “Can you tell me more about the history of this post office barrel thing? What year did it start again?”

“We don’t know for sure, but possibly as early as 1813…” Xiavera trails off as they disappear back down the path, Walsh beaming at me over her shoulder.

“We should go,” I say, but Graeme catches my arm in a gentle grip.

“Are you okay?”

I shake my head, mouth suddenly dry. “That was too close. Xiavera almost caught us. What if she told Gustavo, and he told James…”

“It’s okay. She didn’t see anything.”

“This time.” I step away from him, breaking contact. “Look, I still don’t know if this is a good idea. There’s a lot at stake—for both of us. And once one of us gets the promotion it will be even harder. Someone will be more senior than the other and… I just don’t know.”

“You kiss me like that, then you say you might not want to kiss me again? You’re killing me, Henley Rose.” My heart sinks, but then I spot his wry smile. Sauntering closer, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I get it. You have history with this sort of thing, and you’re worried. If you want, we can keep things professional until the promotion is decided.”

“Yes, good.” My muscles sag in relief, even though a coal of disappointment smolders in my gut. “We’ll put a pin in it for now. It’s only for a few weeks.”

“Except… I bet you can’t stay away. I’ll give you all the space you need—platonic colleagues only, Scout’s honor. But before the end of this cruise, I think you’ll kiss me again. Because you want to.”

The arrogant set of his jaw competes with the sensual curl of his lips. He squares his wide shoulders and brings his face closer to mine. My brain turns foggy. Abruptly, he pulls back, and I only realize I’ve been caught in the magnetic power of his lips when I stumble forward.

He smirks. “See you around, Henley Rose.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he strolls down the path. There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before.

I don’t know whether to scream in frustration or run after him and climb him like a flagpole.

I settle for kicking a mound of sand. The wind catches it, and the scattered sand pelts me in the face. “Ack,” I splutter.

After taking a minute to compose myself—and shake sand out of my hair—I amble down the path to where the other passengers are congregated in a tree-ringed clearing. The “post office” is actually a whitewashed barrel with a hole cut in the middle. It’s lodged in the sand next to a ruined heap of splintered wood—the remains of a much older barrel claimed by the elements.

Walsh is standing at the back of the crowd, and I make a beeline for her on trembling legs. She’s staring off into the middle distance, expression clouded, but it smooths once she spots me.

“What happened?” she demands as soon as I reach her. She tucks the stack of three postcards she’s been flipping through into her bag. The top one has a Seattle address; it looks like Walsh found some mail to deliver.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She pulls me to the very edge of the group. On the other side, Graeme is chatting with an elderly couple. He flashes me a knowing grin.

“You kissed him, didn’t you,” says Walsh.

“Shhh,” I admonish, but no one’s listening.

“How was it?”

How was it? Earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. Supernova central. “Fine.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Walsh, I can’t do this with him. The timing—”

She claps her hands on either side of my cheeks and squeezes until my lips pucker. “Stop overthinking it. He likes you. You like him. Boom goes the dynamite.” She releases me with a flourish.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I reeeally don’t. Nice, gainfully employed, crazy-hot guys like that are hard to find. Believe me, I know”.

“Last call for postcards, last call for postcards.” Gustavo’s voice rumbles through the murmuring crowd.

“Be right back,” I say, scuttling toward the barrel. I don’t care about sending a postcard at this point, but I don’t feel like subjecting myself to Walsh’s inquisition either.

I pause at the rough-hewn boards serving as a writing surface next to the barrel. Rummaging through the bag at my hip, I pull out a pen and the blank postcard. I clamp my jaw and sneak a glance over my shoulder at Graeme. He’s watching me. My heart flutters when our gazes connect.