Shipped(56)

Before the end of this cruise, I think you’ll kiss me again. Because you want to.

Fire scorches my neck and my cheeks warm. Of course, he has to make it a challenge. Because he knows a challenge is exactly my sort of catnip. Well, too bad I never back down once a gauntlet is thrown.

There will be no kissing for the remainder of the cruise.

But after?

Maybe I’ll finally give Graeme a chance.

Clicking open my pen, I scribble a note on the postcard along with my name and address. Before I can think twice, I stuff it into the barrel, inside the plastic bag filled with cards.

Maybe the postcard will take a week to find its way back to me. Or a month. Or a year.

And whenever it does, maybe Graeme will be in my life. Maybe not. Only time will tell. In the meantime?

I will not think about his lips. Or how his voice caresses my name. Or the way his forearm muscles ripple when he lifts his camera.

With only four days left on the cruise, how hard can it be?





19




The next two days pass in a blur of hiking, snorkeling, and pure, simmering agony. I spend every excursion with Graeme, every meal. He’s polite and professional—the perfect platonic colleague. He doesn’t encroach on my space and he doesn’t mention our kiss.

On the surface, it seems that everything between us is back to normal.

Except it’s not. It’s so not.

His deep, rich laughter after spotting a sea turtle while we snorkeled along Isabela Island made my stomach somersault. Then yesterday, on Santa Fe Island, his hand brushed mine as we hiked beneath prickly pears down a dusty path, and it was like a burst of oxygen to a smoldering flame. I nearly combusted.

Nights aren’t any better. I lay in bed, laptop open to a planning doc full of notes from my brainstorming sessions with Walsh, imagining him in his cabin on the other side of the wall… and how easy it would be to knock on his door.

I’m well on my way to losing the bet, and at this point, I’m not even sure I care.

When the sixth day of the cruise arrives, my jaw is stiff from clenching. It’s been three days since our kiss and I’m twitchier than a thief in church. Walsh and I opt to eat breakfast outside on the covered deck. Graeme wasn’t in the dining room and he’s not out here either; I don’t know whether to smash my plate against the wall or melt into a puddle of relief.

We spend the first fifteen minutes debriefing from the previous day. I methodically record Walsh’s impressions of the cruise—what she likes, what she wishes were different, what would make her want to travel with us again.

When we’re done, I pull out my notebook. The pages have filled since talking to Captain Garcia on the bridge. After picking Xiavera’s brain about invasive species on the islands, I’ve circled words like “unique wildlife,” “connecting with nature,” and “wonder,” but I’m still not sure how they might all fit together for a digital marketing proposal.

Walsh’s phone dings. It’s become so constant I barely notice it anymore. Conversations drone around us along with the hum of the ship’s engine. I polish off my croissant and wash it down with a gulp of orange juice before returning to my notebook. A stiff breeze lifts the corner of the top page and I smooth it down.

Walsh nudges my forearm. “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about work. Maybe we should add more interactive content to the website? Or maybe we could find a way to tap into influencer networks better…”

Walsh tips her chin and folds her arms across her chest.

I close my notebook and brace my elbows on the table. “Go on. You have my full attention.”

“What are you going to do when we get back to Seattle?” she asks.

That’s a weird question. “Same old. Work. Classes. What about you? Have you heard any more about those jobs you applied for before we left?”

“Nothing promising.” Pursing her lips, she peers over the ship’s railing to Santa Cruz in the distance. Several dozen boats bob in the bay between us and the shore, clogging access to Puerto Ayora, the largest town in the Galápagos. She taps her cell phone against one open palm.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Walsh, what is going on with you? You’ve been acting weird this whole trip. You’re constantly on your phone and you’re more scattered than usual. Talk to me.”

She sets down her coffee. “Okay, fine. I—I’m not sure I want to be a massage therapist full time.”

“What else would you do?”

“I was thinking of doing something that combines yoga and massage. Like a wellness coach.” She frowns. “You’re making a face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Wellness coach is a thing, you know.”

“So is balloon artist.”

Walsh pushes her chair away from the table. Its heavy wood legs screech across the deck. “Forget it.”

I reach out and grasp her wrist. She jerks, and I quickly let go. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m just not in your world of massages and wellness coaches and stuff. But if that’s what you want to do, then we’ll figure something out. I’m sure there are plenty of resources online. When we get back to Seattle, I’ll help you. We’ll come up with a plan, you’ll see.”