“For once in her life, she’s making sense.” Bess nods sagely. “Though I seem to recall Nettie having some experience with making ex-husbands disappear. What was it, three of them met mysterious ends? And I’m betting there was a plank involved.”
“They weren’t mysterious,” Nettie protests. “Harold fell off that fishing boat fair and square. And Frank’s heart attack was completely natural. How was I supposed to know he’d have one when I told him about my credit card bills?”
“I’d love for my ex to walk the plank,” I admit wistfully. I take a moment to envision Stanton Troublefield pencil diving into the sea while a teeny smile plays on my lips.
Wes nods toward Ransom. “You’d better mind your p’s and q’s, buddy. Apparently, the women on this ship have a track record.”
“Noted,” Ransom says dryly. “But I figure as long as I keep bringing flowers and remembering anniversaries, I should be safe from any accidents at sea.” He gives a subtle wink my way, and I bite down a naughty smile. This gorgeous man is going to walk the plank right into my bed in a few short hours. His blue eyes darken to black as if he’s making his own naughty plans for the evening—and they most certainly involve me.
Lucky, lucky me.
“Speaking of exciting adventures,” Nettie continues with that wicked gleam that means someone is about to get roasted. “Bess here spent the afternoon giving the deluxe ship tour to a certain silver-haired gentleman who shall remain nameless but definitely rhymes with Sexy Rexy.”
Bess turns approximately the same color as the Valentine’s decorations scattered throughout the place. “Rex Hartwell was a perfect gentleman as I showed him the ship’s historical features and engineering marvels.”
“Did you sample the hooch? More to the point, did yousmooch?” Nettie presses her bestie with all the subtlety of a marching band at a funeral.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Bess replies with dignity, though she’s fighting a smile that suggests there might be some telling worth not doing.
Ransom and Wes exchange a loaded glance that probably involves years of security training and masculine telepathy.
“I’ll run a background check,” Ransom says in the tone that means Rex Hartwell is about to get investigated down to his dental records and elementary school report cards. If he was tagged without a hall pass, believe me, we’ll know about it.
We put in the orders for the rest of our meals, and I wait until the waitress leaves to lean in.
“While we’re investigating,” I jump in before anyone can change the subject, “I’d love to know more about those groups that boarded yesterday. The ones Lavender and Claudette belong to.”
Wes nods, his expression shifting into serious captain mode. “Lavender was part of the Red Key Society.”
“The Crimson Key Society,” Ransom corrects. “It’s a progressive relationship organization focused on alternative approaches to traditional partnership structures. They host seminars exploring expanded definitions of commitment.”
I file away his careful corporate-speak for later analysis. In my experience, when people start using phrases likealternative approachesandexpanded definitions, they’re usually talking about something that would make church ladies reach for the smelling salts.
“Claudette belongs to the Valentine Renewal Couples’ Retreat,” Ransom continues. “She and her husband are trying to save their ten-year marriage. And yes, the tattoo is real. It’s the second time around for both of them, and they’re determined to make it stick.”
“Good for them,” I say, and I mean it. Despite Claudette’s apparent desire to turn Lavender into chum, there’s something admirable about fighting for your relationship—even if it involves permanently inking marital status on your spouse’s forehead.
I glance at Ransom’s perfect forehead and shake my head. It would be a shame to ruin that. But then, if he dared to stray…
He lifts a brow my way, then inches back once he realizes where my mind just wandered. He shakes his head as if to assure me it would never be necessary before picking up my hand and kissingthe back of it.
Have I mentioned that I married a wise man this time around? A heck of a handsome one, too.
Stanton Troublefield can eat my dust—or waves, as it were.
Bess shakes her head with the kind of dismay usually reserved for natural root canals and jury duty. “That tattoo suggests they’re starting from a pretty deep hole.”
“I don’t know,” Nettie muses, twirling her fork as if she were determined to put out an eye. Hers. “There’s something refreshingly honest about advertising your unavailability in permanent ink. Saves everyone time and awkward conversations at singles bars.”
“It’s like truth in advertising,” Bess agrees. “Warning: contents include one dumb husband deep in the dog house. Handle with care and realistic expectations.”
“It’s like a reverse dating profile,” I point out. “Instead of listing his best qualities, he’s advertising his worst mistake in permanent marker.”
“From a security standpoint, I appreciate the transparency,” Ransom adds dryly. “It makes my job easier when the troublemakers come pre-labeled.”
Our entrées arrive with enough fanfare to announce visiting royalty. Ransom’s filet mignon and mini short rib Wellington looks like it should be in a museum, draped in bordelaise sauce and surrounded by vegetables arranged like tiny edible sculptures.
My slow-cooked halibut appears to have been arranged by someone with both culinary genius and an art degree from somewhere fancy, nestled on cracked wheat tabbouleh with pickled lemon that gleams like citrus jewelry.
