Ransom nods. “As chief of security, I feel obligated to keep an eye on things.” He turns to me with that smile that still makes my knees melt. “Will you be my date?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him before wrinkling my nose. “I’m already imagining the fireworks when those two feuding relationship experts end up in the same room with cocktails and unresolved professional grudges.”
“As am I,” he says with a tick of his head.
I turn back toward the atrium, and a strange movement catches my eye. It’s Cozy Sweater Guy again, lurking near whereour dueling therapists just had their showdown like a lost professor looking for his classroom. The poor man still looks as if he’s watching that train wreck in slow motion and can’t decide whether to call for help or sell tickets.
Our eyes meet across the marble expanse, and he flashes me a smile that could break hearts and probably has—and then he explodes into a constellation of miniature red stars that twinkle out like dying Christmas lights, leaving me with nothing but empty air and the distinct feeling that what was supposed to be a peaceful Valentine’s cruise just got a whole lot more complicated.
I gasp as my hand flies to my throat, because apparently, my supernatural abilities have the worst timing in the history of inconvenient superpowers.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Valentine’s Day, it’s this—when Cupid’s arrows start flying, someone usually ends up with more than a broken heart.
With a ghost haunting this cruise ship, love isn’t the only thing in the air, so is murder, and someone’s heart is about to stop beating for all the wrong reasons.
CHAPTER 3
The soft clink of champagne glasses mingles with laughter echoing through the corridors of theEmerald Queen of the Seas, while the faint scent of expensive perfume and fresh roses drifts through the air like an olfactory love letter written by someone with unlimited access to a credit card.
After completing our muster drill—thank goodness for technology that lets you do safety training on your phone while your stomach growls impatiently for cocktail hour—Bess, Nettie, and I then make our way toward what promises to be the social event of the evening. No standing around in life jackets looking like confused tourists, just a quick video about not jumping overboard and remembering which whistle means abandon ship. It’s a low bar, but apparently one that some people still struggle to clear.
TheEmerald Queentruly is a floating city that makes even the biggest cruise ship out there look like a modest yacht. Everywhere you look, there’s something designed to separate you from both your money and your common sense—waterslides that spiral into the stratosphere, rock climbing walls for people who find regular exercise too boring, zip lines for those with death wishes and excellent life insurance policies, theaters showing Broadway productions, and approximately seventeen different pools because apparently one body of water isn’t enough when you’re surrounded by an entire ocean.
And don’t get me started on the restaurants. Twenty-six dining venues are scattered across nineteen decks like edible treasure chests waiting to be plundered. My relationship with food has become borderline obsessive since moving aboard this floating paradise, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. When your biggest life decision is whether to have the lobster thermidor or the wagyu beef for dinner, you know you’ve found your calling.
Ransom is currently locked in a pre-departure security briefing with his team, no doubt going over protocols for handling passengers who think international waters mean international immunity from consequences and basic human decency. The man takes his job seriously, which is both admirable and occasionally inconvenient when I’m trying to drag him away for mandatory buffet reconnaissance like now.
“Well, would you look at this,” Bess announces as we make our way to the entrance to the Commodore’s Circle, one of the ship’s most exclusive lounges. “It’s like Valentine’s Day had a baby with a luxury hotel and then fed it nothing but champagne and caviar.”
“And diamonds,” Nettie adds as she takes a gander at the glorious space before us.
Neither of them is wrong. Tinsley and her decorating team have outdone themselves, transforming the elegant space into what can only be described as Cupid’s fever dream. Red roses cascade from crystal vases like botanical waterfalls, heart-shaped balloons bob against the coffered ceiling like romantic landmines, and the lighting has been dimmed to that special shade of amber that makes everyone look like they’ve been dipped in liquid gold and naughty intentions.
“It looks like Valentine’s Day founded a romance cult, and this is where they worship,” Bess observes with the kind of brutal honesty that makes me love her.
“I love when romance throws subtlety out the window and runs it over with a truck full of glitter,” Nettie counters, adjusting her heart-shaped earrings that flash in rhythm with her steps like tiny romantic emergency beacons. “Makes me feel tingly in places I forgot existed.”
“Some things are better left forgotten,” Bess mutters, but I catch her checking her reflection in a nearby mirror and adjusting herlipstick as if she’s preparing for a photo shoot. Bess doth protest too much, methinks.
The centerpiece of this romantic assault is a buffet that could make anyone present explode into tiny confetti hearts and send all dietary restrictions fleeing in terror. We’re talking serious culinary artillery here. Towers of lobster tails arranged like edible skyscrapers, prime rib being carved to order by a chef who clearly takes his knife work personally, and a caviar service that probably costs enough to fund every retirement plan in this room—and that’s just the appetizer section.
The chocolate fountain dominates one corner like a sweet, flowing monument to cocoa excess and poor impulse control—that would be from me—surrounded by strawberries, exotic fruits, and what appears to be every dessert known to mankind, arranged like sugary soldiers preparing for battle. Artisanal cheeses from countries I can’t pronounce sit alongside imported charcuterie that looks like edible art, while champagne flows like water—expensive, bubbly water that makes everything seem like a better idea than it actually is. I know this firsthand.
But the centerpiece ice sculpture is what steals the show. Two intertwined swans form a perfect heart, so detailed you can see individual feathers carved into the frozen surface. It’s the kind of artistic achievement that makes you feel guilty about eating in its presence, which is exactly why I plan to load up on lobster tails before my conscience kicks in. The lighting is dim, the chatter from the crowd is ceaseless, and the sound of easy listening rock music filters through unseen speakers.
“Wow, look at all this,” I muse. “I’ve never seen such decadence, and we see decadence every single day. I think I gained twenty pounds just inhaling the air. This buffet has some serious write-your-will-first energy, and could make grown men weep with envy,” I say, already mentally calculating the optimal approach for maximum consumption efficiency.
“It’s making me weep just thinking about my dress size tomorrow,” Bess admits, even though she’s eyeing the dessert section as if she’s already strategizing her attack plan.
Word to the dress-wearing wise: gauzy stretchyfabric is a must for cruise ship fashion. A dress like that can handle any buffet you throw its way.
“Life’s too short for dress sizes,” Nettie declares, already heading toward the food like a woman on the runway to her culinary destiny. “Besides, calories don’t count on cruise ships. It’s a maritime law.”
“I don’t think that’s actually a law,” Bess points out.
“It should be,” Nettie shoots back with absolute conviction. “I’m writing my congressman as soon as we dock. This is a matter of national importance.”
I’ve heard all that before. And well, it never gets old.
