“See?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he demonstrates proper whisking technique. “It’s all in the wrist.”
The wine is making everyone progressively more relaxed and honest, which leads to confessions flowing as freely as the alcohol, while competitive edges soften into giggly cooperation.
“You two work together beautifully,” someone observes from another station.
“Like you’ve been cooking partners for years,” another voice adds.
“Maybe she should trade up,” comes a whispered comment that makes my cheeks burn.
That’s when multiple disasters strike simultaneously—fire alarms, sauce explosions, and what appears to be a complete dessert collapse at station two. The kitchen erupts into chaos that requires all hands on deck, and soon enough, the competition is forgotten in favor of preventing an actual catastrophe.
Wes immediately takes charge like he’s managing a major ship emergency instead of a kitchen disaster, directing traffic and coordinating damage control with the kind of natural leadership that makes everyone follow his orders without question. He is the captain, of course.
And now that we’re working together under pressure, it reveals something that terrifies me—we’re incredibly good at this. Not just the cooking, but the partnership, the teamwork, the way we anticipate each other’s needs and move around each other like we’ve been doing this for years.
“Time!” the head chef calls out, and the kitchen erupts in exhausted cheers and nervous laughter as couples step back from their creations with varying degrees of confidence.
“Boy, that was really something,” I say with an exhausted laugh.
“Something pretty great.” Wes winks my way, and I can already hear Ransom loading bullets in his chamber.
The judging happens quickly, with the head chef moving between stations to taste each couples’ interpretation of classic French cuisine. Some dishes are more successful than others. Nettie’s station still smolders slightly, while Elodie’s creation looks like abstract art that may or may not be edible.
“The winning couple,” the head chef announces with dramatic flair, “demonstrated exceptional teamwork, perfect seasoning, and a coq au vin that would make even Julia Child proud—Trixie and Captain Crawford!”
The kitchen erupts in applause and good-natured groans of defeat as Wes and I exchange a look of surprised triumph that feels more intimate than it should, given our audience.
“Your prize,” the chef continues with a knowing smile, “is a private romantic dinner for two in the captain’s exclusive dining quarters this evening. Wine pairings, personalized menu, and complete privacy to enjoy your culinary victory.”
The implications hang in the wine-scented air like expensive perfume mixed with potential scandal. A private dinner. Just the two of us. In the most romantic setting on the ship. I’m sure Ransom will be thrilled.
“How wonderful,” Tinsley says with the kind of forced enthusiasm that could make a game show host look sedated. “I’m sure you’ll both enjoy your... prize.”
Ransom appears in the kitchen doorway just as Wes and I are sharing a perfect moment of triumph over our successfully rescued coq au vin with high-fives and a quick embrace.
I pull back just in time to see the expression on my husband’s face, which suggests he’s processing information and perhaps reaching for his weapon, while the rest of the kitchen witnesses what might be the most dangerous love triangle on the high seas.
Because when your husband catches you playing house with another man, the only thing getting cooked is your marriage—and someone is about to get burned.
CHAPTER 22
“Well, this is awkward,” I announce as Ransom and I step into the captain’s exclusive private dining quarters, where the romantic ambiance hits us like a tidal wave of rose petals and champagne delusions.
To be fair, Wes and I were the winners, and we were both more than gracious to let Ransom tag along.
I jest, mostly.
The intimate lounge screams romance louder than a teenager at a boy band concert—plush burgundy velvet seating arranged around a table clearly designed for two people, not three, crystal chandeliers casting soft light that makes everyone look like they’re starring in their own romantic movie, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the dark Atlantic like nature’s own screensaver for lovers.
A private balcony extends beyond French doors, where a table set for two has been hastily adjusted to accommodate our unusual dinner party dynamics.
The scent of roses mingles with expensive wine and whatever culinary masterpiece is about to make this evening even more complicated, while soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers like the soundtrack to the world’s most uncomfortable romantic triangle. Candles flicker on every surface, Valentine’s touches drape the space, and everything about this room suggests intimate conversation andromantic confessions, not security briefings with competing love interests.
“This is what happens when you win romantic prizes,” Ransom growls as he surveys the candlelit paradise. “You get stuck in rooms designed for people who actually like each other.”
“The three of us like each other,” Wes points out with a curt nod, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests he’s enjoying this situation far more than he should. “We’re just navigating a few complex dynamics.”
“Complex dynamics,” I repeat, settling into the velvet seating while trying to pretend this isn’t the most romantically charged room on the ship. “That’s one way to describe whatever psychological warfare you two are about to conduct over dinner.”
