EMERGENCY! I accidentally joined what I thought was a wine appreciation group on my Valentine’s cruise, but it turns out to be a bunch of middle-aged women who’ve formed a floating book club for romance novels—and they are INTENSE. They’ve already assigned me three steamy pirate books to read before our next meeting tomorrow, they’re rating every man on the ship based on hero potential, and one woman named Brenda keeps taking notes on passenger interactions for her research. They’ve also decided I’m their scout for eligible bachelors since I’m the youngest at 45. I’m afraid to leave my cabin because they hunt in packs! How do I escape the romance novel mafia without hurting anyone’s feelings?
Held Hostage by Bodice Rippers
Dear Held Hostageby Bodice Rippers,
Oh my stars, you’ve stumbled into the most dangerous predator group on any cruise ship—organized romance readers with a mission! These women could probably coordinate a military operation using nothing but color-coded bookmarks and ship schedules.
Here’s your escape plan.
EMBRACE THE CHAOS. Seriously, lean into it! These ladies have more insider cruise ship knowledge than the crew; they’ll protect you from genuinely creepy guys, and they probably know where the best chocolate is hidden. Plus, think of the entertainment value—they’re basically providing you with live dinner theater!
SURVIVAL STRATEGY: Give them one research report per day (that guy by the pool reads historical fiction—total hero material!), attend one book discussion (wine is usually involved), then claim you need alone time to process the emotional intensity of Chapter 12.
Trust me, by day four, you’ll either be running for your life or signing up to be their cruise director for next year’s trip.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Ask Brenda for her notes. That woman probably has dirt on everyone aboard!
Day 9: At Sea (Valentine’s Day)
As if lastnight wasn’t extraordinary enough, Ransom and I eat breakfast in bed—a feast of fresh fruit, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and chocolate croissants. Have I mentioned the champagne? And the chocolate? And the far too handsome bedmate?Ooh la la,indeed.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to the love of my life,” Ransom says between kisses as he works his way up my neck, his voice still rough with sleep and satisfaction.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to the most handsome husband and quite possibly the most romantic in all the world,” I say as my words get lost somewhere between giggles and the kind of morning kisses that make you forget your own name.
We kiss and get tangled in the sheets again, the Parisian morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows while the Eiffel Tower stands guard over our romantic chaos. The scent of buttery croissants mingles with champagne bubbles and whatever expensive cologne Ransom apparently applies even in his sleep, creating an olfactory song that screamsEuropean honeymoon fantasy come to life.
An hour later, we’re standing beneath the ironlattice one more time, soaking in final glimpses of the tower that’s become our personal romantic monument. The nearby café provides perfect café au lait and pastries that taste like liquid French culture, while tourists bustle around us speaking in twelve different languages and wielding cameras like weapons of mass documentation.
“I can’t believe we have to leave this,” I sigh, attacking a pain au chocolat as if I’ve just discovered the meaning of life in pastry form.
“We’re not leaving it,” Ransom replies with that mysterious smile that usually precedes either excellent surprises or international security. “We’re taking it with us.”
Before I can ask what that means, he’s summoning a helicopter with the casual air of an ex-FBI agent who apparently keeps aviation on speed dial. Soon we’re at the airport, boarding a whirling bird that lifts us above Paris, above France, and straight out to the briny blue ocean where theEmerald Queen of the Seasfloats like a romantic city someone forgot to anchor properly.
The helicopter ride provides views that belong in fairy tales—Paris shrinking below us like a living postcard, French countryside rolling past in emerald waves, then nothing but Atlantic Ocean stretching toward the horizon like liquid silver under gray February skies.
“There she is,” Ransom points toward a speck on the horizon that gradually resolves into our floating home, every last gleaming white deck against the dark water.
Soon we’re landing on the heliport with enough dramatic fervor to make action movies jealous, and no sooner are we back inside the ship than Wes and Tinsley greet us in the corridor like a reception committee with wildly different agendas.
The ship hits me with its familiarity—sea salt mingling with Valentine’s decorations and whatever industrial-strength romance is pumping through the ventilation system. The gentle hum of engines mingles with distant laughter and the soft jazz that apparently plays on a continuous loop during romantic holidays.
Tinsley looks like she’s been wrestling with art supplies and losing spectacularly. Charcoal decorates her face in a mustache-and-beard combination that would make pirates jealous, while herfingernails resemble someone who gave herself a gardener’s manicure using potting soil and regret.
“Well, well, look who decided to rejoin civilization!” she announces, bitter about being victimized by my art responsibilities. “I had to fill in for your charcoal class this morning, Trixie. Do you see what happens when you abandon your artistic duties for French pastries and romantic tourism?” She gestures to her coal-dusted face. “Twenty-seven passengers asking me about shading techniques, and I look like I’ve been lost in a coal mine!”
“Sorry about that,” I reply with just enough sincerity to avoid outright insubordination. “But alas, emergency romantic situations took precedence over artistic instruction.” I bite down a laugh as I give Ransom’s ear a quick tug.
“Emergency romantic situations?” Tinsley’s voice climbs approximately three octaves. “And you, Mr. Security, left a killer roaming free while you were off noshing on crepes and gawking at that giant French toothpick!”
Ransom’s mouth twitches with amusement. “The giant French toothpick has a name, Tinsley. It’s called cultural appreciation.”
“Cultural appreciation doesn’t solve murder cases,” she fires back while sporting facial hair made of art supplies. Honestly, it suits her a little.
“A class on charcoal instruction doesn’t solve them either,” I point out.
