Bess waves her off with practiced denial. “He wanted no such thing. He was just being nice. Besides, I’m not interested even if he was, which he wasn’t, but if he had been, I still wouldn’t be interested.”
“That was the long way home,” I quip.
“Right,” Nettie snorts. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
“Your Majesty,” I say with a mock curtsy.
A shadow falls across our table like an eclipse of distinguishedmasculinity, and we all look up to find the silver fox himself, looking like he stepped out of a cologne advertisement for men who know their way around both adventure and hearts.
The mystery man has everything you’d expect from someone who’s aged like fine whiskey in a premium barrel—silver hair perfectly styled with the kind of precision that costs serious money, a perpetual tan that suggests regular encounters with tropical climates and possibly professional tanning services, and the kind of confident smile that’s probably charmed women out of their better judgment for decades.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says in a voice smoother than the ship’s premium bourbon. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Bess practically melts into her chair like ice cream in August. And if she were actually ice cream, we’d need a mop by now. Oh, who are we kidding? Nettie and I would have lapped her up. We’d never let some good frozen dairy go to waste. Speaking of which, we’ll have to hit the soft serve ice cream station on the promenade deck after this.
“You’re not interrupting at all,” Bess manages, her voice climbing an octave higher than usual and taking on a breathless quality that suggests she’s either smitten or suffering from altitude sickness. And considering she lives on a cruise ship, we all know which is which in this budding smitten saga.
“I’d love to formally introduce myself. I’m Rex Hartwell. Friends call me Rexy, enemies call me sir, and beautiful women can call me anytime.” He flashes that million-dollar smile that probably cost him just as much. “I work as an airline pilot out of Miami International, which means I’m very good with navigation and handling turbulence.”
The double entendre hangs in the air like expensive perfume, and I can practically see Bess’s brain short-circuiting.
“I’d love to see more of this ship.” His brows bounce as he continues to bore his way into you-know-whose soul.
“I’ll give you a tour!” Bess practically launches herself out of her chair with the enthusiasm of a woman half her age and twice as desperate. “I know every deck, every restaurant, every?—”
“That sounds wonderful,” Rex interrupts smoothly, offering herhis arm. “Shall we?”
And just like that, they’re gone with Bess practically floating alongside him as if she’s discovered the secret to levitation through sheer romantic possibility. So much for not believing in romance.
“Get a room!” Elodie shouts after them with far too much glee, causing several nearby teetotalers to nearly choke on their scones.
“Honestly,” Nettie shakes her head with exasperation, “that woman hasn’t been this excited since they invented compression socks. Get ’em, Red!”
Before I can throw my own commentary into the ring, Tinsley strides up looking as if she’s been personally appointed by the Valentine’s Day police to maintain romantic order on the high seas and possibly issue citations for excessive flirtation. Bess had better watch out, because the way she’s acting, Tinsley might want to lock her in the brig.
“Trixie,” she says with the kind of forced sweetness that could rot teeth and cause cavities in nearby innocent bystanders. “I need you to keep your deadly tricks to yourself. This cruise is about love, not caskets. Valentine’s Day is almost here, and I bid you to try not to use Cupid as an excuse to plunge an arrow into half the passengers.”
“For the record,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster while holding a cucumber sandwich, “I don’t plunge arrows into anyone. Bodies just seem to show up around me like uninvited party guests with terrible timing.”
“Same difference,” Tinsley sniffs, clearly unimpressed by my distinction. “Just try to keep your homicidal magnetic field to yourself.”
She storms off before I can point out that magnetic fields aren’t exactly something you can control, and that if I could turn off my apparent attraction to murder victims, I would have done it long ago and saved myself the potential therapy bills.
“That woman needs to get laid,” Elodie observes with her usual tact.
“She’ll have to stand in line behind half the ship,” Nettie adds. “Although judging by her personality, she might be waiting longer than the line for the chocolate fountain on formal night.”
“Maybe she just needs a good laugh,” I say, making a face.
“Or a good smack.” Elodie winks because apparently, it’s something she enjoys.
“Probably both,” I say.
I watch Tinsley disappear into the crowd, probably to terrorize some other innocent passengers about their potential for mayhem, then turn my attention back to the storm brewing outside the windows.
Dark clouds gather like nature’s own murder plot, and I can’t shake the feeling that someone on this ship is planning their own Valentine’s Day surprise that doesn’t involve flowers or candy.
The question is—will it be chocolates and roses, or something far more deadly?
