After who knows how many moments, he draws back, his eyes steady on me, checking my response.
I stare straight into his hypnotic eyes, immediately missing the contact, the validation of being kissed as if I were the center of one man’s universe.
Did I rock his world the way he just rocked mine?
Or is he pulling a prank on me?
Playing with my vulnerable feelings?
He blinks, looking as shocked as I feel, or so I wishfully think.
“Was that okay with you?” he asks.
I can only nod. It was more than okay, but why should I admit that I might have experienced something significant?
I could be overimagining it, given the many kissing scenes I portrayed in the hundreds of romance audiobooks I gave voice to.
“Good. Because this entire ship is covered with mistletoe.” His voice is deep, like dark chocolate and mellifluous enough to melt me faster than a witch and a bucket of water.
A giggle titters from my nervous self. “Then it’s lucky we’re so good at it.”
He cocks his bushy eyebrow, looking quite smug. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
“Cocky, much?”
“Cocked and loaded.”
I don’t know whether to slap him or myself or slap my two brain cells for letting me cave so easily. But then again, who cares?
There’s no scorecard.
Nobody watching over me.
No judge.
No jury.
No cell phone towers.
I lunge toward him, more aggressive than I’ve ever been, and claim his tasty lips. It doesn’t mean we like each other, and I still haven’t forgotten what he did to me in third grade.
But for now, he’s Adam and I’m Eve, and there’s no serpent on the S.S. Bird of Paradise.
* * *
Christmas music is piped into the atrium, and the ship’s crew wears Santa hats. Everything on board is festive, and we walk through a casino to a bar reminiscent of one from the mid-twentieth century. A live band plays big band and swing music, and the servers are dressed in the old-time white sailor suit with the square collar in back and a bandana tied around the neck.
Uncle Sam posters, along with Rosie the Riveter, and an entire side of a propeller airplane decorate the wall over the bar counter.
I need a stiff drink after all the kissing I indulged in. The entire path leading up to the bar and casino is lined with mistletoe as friendly reminders.
After freshening up in the restroom and reapplying lipstick, I glide into the bar and spot Jordan waiting for me underneath a jutting airplane wing.
I know I look like a million bucks because men, young and old, turn their heads and follow me.
Forgive me for needing the ego boost, but I went from bride of the year to discarded stripper with cake frosting on my face.
I don’t know why I thought it was a smart idea to take the place of the hired stripper, but Jade says it’s because I subconsciously did not want to be Mrs. Stephen Sommers the Third.
