The deck had gotten markedly more populated during their brief conversation. Smiling couples snapped selfies with the ship’s huge menorah in the background. Small crowds congregated near multiple drink stations, where concoctions far more colorful than champagne were being poured. Better to stick with what she knew, she decided. Getting drunk during a cruise to nowhere would definitely be “off-brand” for Kara Koff.
The hum of the boat’s engines swelled steadily, vibrating up through the soles of Tzipi’s designer shoes. Here goes nothing.
“Gourmet gelt? Goes great with champagne.”
A server offered up a large glass bowl, filled with colorful foiled coins. They looked thicker than the average gelt. “Courtesy of Eli Gold, and made with the finest Belgian chocolate. The silver ones are filled with salted caramel. Blue, cardamom honey; and gold is spiced halva cream.” He held up a pair of tongs, waiting for her request.
“One of each?” Kara had said that Baller night was cheat day, after all.
“You got it.”
She studied the coins before dropping two into her purse to savor for later. They were embossed with a different mantra on one side, and the date and logo of the Matzo Baller on the other. She unwrapped one that read FIND YOUR FLAME and bit carefully. A taste of buttery tahini burst on her tongue, with just a hint of cinnamon and allspice. Perfect with the rich Dubai chocolate and, as promised, with the champagne.
As she tipped her head to savor the last of the bubbly in her glass and plotted her next move, she caught sight of the guy who’d waved to her from high above the pier.
There was really no missing him.
First of all, Max was massive. Like, clear-the-deck massive. Like he could grab a branch of that giant menorah next to him and do a pull-up on it.
He could’ve been a bodyguard right out of central casting: broad shoulders, neat beard, stoically intimidating. Ex-military? There was something vaguely…regimented about him. The sleeves of his tux jacket looked to be negotiating with his biceps as he crossed his arms over his chest. As he turned his head, she clocked the telltale glint of a coiled earpiece tucked behind his ear – the same kind Armando had worn at the spa the other day, and Ham in the limo, today. He subtly tilted his head, lips forming words, and Tzipi released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. This guy was eyes and ears on the boat like her sister had promised, wired into some Midtown command center with strict orders to keep her – well, Kara – safe.
Someone could’ve warned her that Max was smoking hot.
To say Tzipi had a type would be an understatement. All it had taken as a teen was a glimpse of a certain heartthrob actor rising from the sea as an aquatic superhero, full of muscles and myth, and her taste in men was forever ruined.
She wondered what the protocol was. Do they shake hands? Hug it out? Although intimidating, Max looked like the kind of guy who gave (as she and her friends liked to joke) great hug.
When he scanned the crowd, it wasn’t in that squinty, aloof security guard way of accessing. Everything about Max looked invested. Interested. And…amused?
He smiled at something, someone – and the whole tough-guy act crumpled like the gold foil from the gelt in her palm.
Her suddenly very sweaty, un-Kara-like palm.
She had never truly understood the line “his smile was disarming” until this moment. His stance was pure gatekeeper energy, but that grin? It was like he’d figured out the punchline to a joke ages ago and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Tzipi forced herself to look away. You’re here to pretend to be Kara, she reminded herself. Not to ogle some demi-god in formalwear. He’s just here to do his job.
He was hired to watch you.
Pretend he’s not even there.
She leaned against the railing. Glanced back. Just a flicker. Just to check. Had he moved? Maybe she just wanted to confirm that he was still standing there like a tuxedoed fortress. And that his Viking arms were, in fact, still absurdly crossed like a bouncer waiting to deny entry to bad decisions.
Yep. But this time, his eyes were already on her.
Not in a leering way, like half the other guys on the ship. Just open, steady…almost as if he had caught her mid-thought, and was waiting for her to reveal the rest of it.
Smoking. Hot.
Her stomach did a sizzling latke flip. And she did what any self-respecting decoy pretending to be her famous twin would do: slowly blinked, lifted one perfectly disinterested eyebrow, and tilted her head. It was the universal what are you looking at? expression perfected by starlets and socialites everywhere.
He gave a wink in return.
He winked!
Such chutzpah. Tzipi turned with a toss of her hair that she hoped looked casual and not like she was hiding the fact her ears had gone hot. Stupid heat. Stupid tux. Stupid wink. Stupid way he looked at her like she wasn’t entirely made of borrowed hair extensions and panic.
Tucking her evening bag under her arm, she forced herself to push away from the railing and strut in the direction of the ballroom. Kara’s voice gently guiding her.
