I lean my forehead to the wood and listen to the retreating steps of a man who waits.
3
WILLOW
Cheyenne spotsthem first this time, her sigh already winding up. “Oh no. Not again.”
I follow her gaze before she can physically turn my head away. Three men, three drinks, three variations of ruin lined up at the ship’s lounge table like they’re in a magazine spread titledBad Decisions, Deluxe Edition.
Sean’s in the middle, catching my eye first because he always does, that grin turned up to eleven. Declan’s on one end, relaxed, watchful, giving me a nod that feels like a pressure point. And then there’s the third.
I’ve seen him before, I realize—in the background, leaning back in a chair, legs stretched out like the world can work around him. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Eyes the color of wet coffee grounds. Features cut fine enough to look almost delicate until you notice the sharpness in them. Lean frame, long fingers curled around a glass like it’s a prop he doesn’t quite believe in.
He doesn’t look up when I look at him. Which is…annoying. And maybe exactly the sort of problem I’m in the mood to solve.
Dylan leans back in his chair, smirking. “Third time’s the charm, huh?”
Cheyenne elbows him. “Donotencourage her.”
“Oh, I amabsolutelyencouraging her,” Dylan says, eyes sparkling. “You’ve got two thirds of the set already.”
Cheyenne turns to me. “Don’t listen to him, Willow. These arepeople, not playing cards. You do not need afull set.You’re not acollector.”
I grin, lifting my drink. “Gotta catch ’em all.”
Cheyenne groans, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile in it. “If you get your heart stomped, don’t come crying to me.”
“Noted,” I say, standing, while behind me, Dylan sings the theme song of Pokémon:I wanna be the very best…
I get lucky when the men leave my target alone, with a book in one hand and a drink in another—a classic loner move. I approach with slow steps, trying to look casual, like this is my natural path. I glance back at Dylan and Cheyenne. They’re already turned to each other, engrossed in their own love story, done with my antics.
I slide into the empty chair next to the man, crossing my legs and sipping my drink. I look over my shoulder, pretend to be interested in something behind me. The man’s eyes flick over me once before returning to his book, but I feel something like disdain in them.
“Evening,” I say, a little too loudly, and then, “Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Of course.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. His mouth is flat, emotionless, dropping words without feeling them. It should be discouraging. Instead, it’s…kind of thrilling.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
Exaggeratedly, sarcastically, the man looks at the cover and then at me, smirks, and says, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. By James Joyce.”
“Ah,” I say, embarrassed by his tone, by his obvious disdain, and then I say softly, “That’s a good one.”
“You’ve read it?” he asks, surprise laced in every word.
“No,” I admit. He stares at me for a beat before returning to it. I watch his eyes settle back onto the sentence he was on before I start grasping at straws, saying, “But isn’t it more fun to talk about a book to someone who’s never read it?”
His eyes flick up, the whites of his eyes showing under his heavy lashes. “It’s even more fun to read it.”
It’s a pointed comment, a hint I’m not taking. “I thought people brought books on cruises to read when therewasn’ta pretty woman hitting on them.”
He smiles thinly. “Just because you want me doesn’t mean that I want you.”
“You don’t want me?” I ask, staring him down. He’s silent, and when our staring contest ends with him clearing his throat, I add, “I usually get what I want.”
“I can tell. You’re insufferable for it,” he says, not even looking up this time.
Ouch.I’m losing him, and it stings, but it only makes me want him more. I don’t quite believe that he isn’t intrigued by me, but I also don’t understand the reason for his reservation.
