Oh, and I can see ghosts. Not every ghost, not every time, but apparently enough to make me the universe’s unofficial supernatural crime solver. Which, let me tell you, was NOT in my life manual nor in the marriage handbook. Not that I have either but still, you get the point.
“Ten days of forced romance and chocolate-covered everything?” Bess rolls her eyes, before catching her checking her reflection in the polished brass railing and frowning. “Like I said, you’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
“Oh, come on, Bessie.” Nettie mock-slugs her bestie on the arm, and her bedazzled sunglasses nearly slide off her nose. “Ten days is like a romantic marathon. I bet I could charm at least three eligible bachelors before we hit international waters.”
“At your age, Nettie, you’d be lucky to charm the shuffleboard instructor,” Bess shoots back as she frowns at her reflection in a nearby window.
“Who says shuffleboard can’t be sexy?” Nettie protests, patting her rhinestone-encrusted sweater. “Age is just a number, and mine happens to be unlisted. Besides, older men appreciate experience.”
“Experience in what? Remembering where you left your teeth?” Bess smirks.
“Ladies,” comes that familiar, warm voice that still makes my stomach do little flips. Ransom approaches with that confident stride that makes my heart skip like a teenager’s, even after all these months of knowing him.
“Everything under control?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he takes in our little Valentine’s brigade, and he lands a quick kiss on my lips.
“Define control.” I laugh, but before Ransom can answer, a sharp voice cuts through the festive atmosphere like a knife through wedding cake.
“How DARE you show your face here afterwhat you’ve done!”
We all turn toward the gangway where two women are making quite the entrance—and not in a good way. They’re arguing as they board with their raised voices echoing off the elegant marble walls of the atrium, and they manage to turn every head within earshot.
The first is a striking platinum blonde in a designer cream suit that I could never pull off—I’d have it covered in coffee stains within five minutes—and judging by the way she’s wielding her designer handbag, she’s not afraid to use it as a weapon. Her sharp cheekbones are sharp enough to slice cheese, and her piercing blue eyes are currently shooting daggers that would make a medieval knight jealous.
The second woman is equally elegant but in that I-went-to-finishing-school-and-you-didn’t sort of way—a perfectly coiffed brunette in conservative navy who’s clutching a leather briefcase like it contains the nuclear launch codes. She’s got the kind of upright, uptight posture that screams old money and even older grudges.
“I have every right to be here, Claudette,” the blonde says with the kind of icy calm that usually precedes someone getting pushed overboard. “This is a public cruise, not your private sanctuary.”
“A sanctuary you’ve spent two years trying to demolish!” Claudette fires back, her voice climbing toward the crystal chandeliers. “You and your twisted philosophy have destroyed more marriages than a discount divorce lawyer!”
Other passengers streaming aboard start to pause and stare, some looking uncomfortable, while others are clearly enjoying the drama. I notice a distinguished man with silver hair and kind brown eyes standing nearby, watching the confrontation with what looks like genuine distress. He’s wearing a cozy sweater that makes him look like someone’s favorite professor, and there’s something almost protective in the way he’s watching the blonde woman—as if he wants to step in but can’t decide if intervention would help or just add gasoline to the fire. I’m guessing it’s the latter.
“Twisted philosophy?” The blonde laughs, and it sounds like broken champagne flutes hitting marble. “At least I’m honest about what marriage really is—a business transaction with occasional benefits. You’re still peddling fairy tales to desperate housewives who think love conquers credit card debt.”
“I’m helping people save their relationships, not destroy them!”
The tension escalates quickly, and I spot Wes making his way toward the feuding women with determined strides.
“Ladies,” he calls out, trying to get their attention over their heated exchange.
They completely ignore him, too busy perfecting their death glares.
“Ladies, please,” he says again, stepping into their midst, but they’re too caught up in their verbal warfare to notice.
Still nothing.
More angry words ensue.
They’re locked in combat like gladiators, except instead of swords, they’re wielding words sharp enough to draw blood.
Finally, Wes steps right between them and holds out both hands like a referee breaking up a boxing match—which, let’s be honest, this was a hair from becoming just that.
“Ladies,” he says one more time, his captain’s authority cutting through their argument sharp and swift like unexpected thunder.
Both women finally cease their bickering and turn his way, suddenly aware of the crowd of passengers and crew watching their very public display.
“Well,” I say to Bess and Nettie, “looks like this Valentine’s cruise is going to be anything but boring.”
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about cruises, it’s that when love is in the air, war is usually close behind.
