When you’re dealing with swingers, murderers, and chocolate truffles that crack open to reveal liquid centers, someone is definitely about to get more than they bargained for—and I have a sinking suspicion it’s going to be me, along with my blood sugar levels and my faith in traditional relationship structures.
CHAPTER 14
“Well, would you look at this sugar rush stampede,” Nettie declares as we wade into the dessert frenzy right here in the Mermaid Lounge just as Dr. Jazz Stone announced it was time for an intermission to her steam session. “It’s like Black Friday, but with better shoes and more estrogen.”
“And the casualties will be purely diabetic,” Candy adds with a giggle that sounds like champagne bubbles having their own private New Year’s Eve celebration.
I nod. “Give it five minutes, and someone’s going to start throwing apple fritters. I can see the pastry aggression building in their eyes.”
The sound of designer heels clicking against marble mingles with the gentle clink of sterling silver against fine china as a hundred women descend upon the dessert buffet with the coordination of a SWAT team and the desperation of people who’ve just discovered chocolate is about to be outlawed. We’re talking serious tactical dessert warfare here—elbows flying, plates stacking, and some serious strategic maneuvering.
The scent of vanilla bean and dark chocolate wages chemical warfare against expensive perfume and whatever eau de desperation is wafting from the woman next to me, who’s loading her plate as if she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse, and dessert is the only currency that matters in the afterlife. And it just might be.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Atlantic stretches like liquid pewter under a sky that can’t decide if it wants to be romantic or ominous—much like this entire seminar, now that I think about it. Mother Nature apparently has commitment issues, too.
“Ladies, please!” Nettie waves her arms as if she’s directing traffic at a four-way intersection during rush hour. “There’s enough chocolate here to supply a small European nation. No need to hoard like we’re facing the great cocoa shortage of the decade.”
“Says the woman who just loaded her plate with enough truffles to open her own boutique candy store,” I point out, watching her balance what appears to be approximately seventeen underwater treasure truffles with the skill of a professional Jenga player.
“That’s not hoarding,” Nettie protests. “That’s strategic dessert allocation. There’s a scientific difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Candy asks, balancing a precarious tower of macarons on her plate as if she’s building edible architecture herself.
“Strategic dessert allocation involves careful planning and mathematical precision,” Nettie explains soberly as if defending a doctoral thesis. “Hoarding is just greedy grabbing.”
“And which category does taking a dozen underwater treasure truffles fall under?” I ask.
“Quality control,” Nettie shoots back without missing a beat. “Someone has to make sure they’re all equally delicious. It’s a public service, really.”
Candy bursts into a laugh that could power the ship’s navigation lights and probably several small coastal towns. “Oh my gosh, you two are freaking hilarious! I feel like I should be buying tickets to this comedy show and selling popcorn in the aisles.”
“Trust me,” I tell her, “the entertainment value never wears off. Though it occasionally results in emergency meetings with ship security.” And how I look forward to it.
“Only occasionally?” Nettie chuckles. “I’m losing my touch. I used to cause a good crisis on a weekly basis.”
“Try daily,” I mutter.
“Actually, speaking of entertainment,” Candy says, her bubbly demeanor shifting slightly. “I’ve been people-watching since we boarded, and let me tell you, this ship has more drama than a reality TV show.”
Something in her voice makes my sleuthing radar ping, but before I can probe deeper, she’s already bouncing toward a group of women near the champagne fountain.
“I should mingle!” she calls over her shoulder. “This is supposed to be about expanding our social circles, right? Not just our waistlines!”
She drifts away through the crowd like a pink-clad social butterfly, leaving Nettie and me standing there with our plates and the distinct impression that our new friend is hiding something under all that cotton candy sweetness.
“Did she just—” I start.
“Disappear like a magician in a sundress?” Nettie finishes. “Yep. That girl’s got more layers than one of those fancy French pastries.”
We load up our plates with enough sugar to require a medical intervention while the conversations around us create a cacophony of female bonding that’s equal parts therapeutic and terrifying. Two women near the siren’s kiss macarons are discussing theirlifestyle experienceswith the kind of clinical detachment most people reserve for reading dishwasher manuals.
“And that’s when Danny and I realized we needed to explore our boundaries?—”
“—the communication aspect is really the key to making it work?—”
“—Lavender was so good at recruiting new members for the Crimson Key Society?—”
My ears perk up like a bloodhound catching the scent of something that’s either evidence or really good bacon. I edge closer to the conversation while pretending to be absolutely fascinated by the underwater treasure truffles because nothing says I’m not eavesdropping like intense dessert examination.
