They beeline for the buffet with the kind of determination usually reserved for Black Friday shopping, leaving me to survey the growing crowd of love traditionalists and modern romantics who apparently have very different definitions of happily ever after.
Wes appears at my elbow, looking devastatingly handsome in his dress whites and sporting that captain’s confidence that could probably navigate ships through both storms and awkward social situations. And something tells me he’ll need everything he’s got to get us through the next ten days.
“Trixie, you look absolutely stunning tonight,” he says with the kind of smile that probably launched a thousand ships—or at least a thousand broken hearts—and that’s just among the female crew.
A waiter glides by and lands a flute of champagne in both of our hands.
My cheeks flush with heat, but before I can respond to Wes with something appropriately witty, Claudette Sterling materializes beside us with a man in tow, and both Wes and I nearly choke on our respective beverages.
Because there, emblazoned across the poor man’s forehead in block letters that could probably be seen from space, is what looks like a real deal tattoo that readsI’M MARRIED.
It’s the man I saw earlier while the passengers were boarding, but honestly, I thought I was hallucinating because a solid twenty minutes had passed since my last meal. Any hint of a hunger pang and I have a propensity to fall down a rabbit hole and start seeing all sorts of things I shouldn’t—like questionable tattoos and ghosts.
Okay, so the hunger pangs don’t actually cause me to see thedead, but they don’t stop it either. Not that I see the dead often, but when I do, well, it almost always means there’s a murder afoot. Okay, fine. It’s notalmostalways. It’salways.
Oh, good grief. The silence stretches for approximately three eternities while we all stare at what has to be the most unusual conversation starter in maritime history—or any history, for that matter.
Claudette gives a little laugh at our shocked expressions, clearly used to this reaction by now. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Mark Sterling,” she says with the kind of forced brightness that suggests she’s given this introduction approximately fourteen thousand times and still hasn’t figured out how to make it sound normal.
Mark gives a nervous laugh and runs a hand through his hair, which does absolutely nothing to hide his forehead billboard. Not that he’s trying.
“I know, I know,” he says with the kind of self-deprecating humor that comes from explaining the same embarrassing thing to every person you meet for the rest of your natural life. “My wife said it was the only way she’d trust me again after... well, let’s just say I earned it. And before you ask, yes, this is permanent.”
“It’s a testament to our commitment,” Claudette adds while taking a deep breath that suggests she’s giventhisspeech before, too. “Sometimes love requires dramatic gestures.”
“Sometimes love requires a good therapist,” comes a voice sharp enough to cut diamond and twice as cold.
Dr. Lavender Voss glides over like a platinum-haired shark in designer clothing, her piercing blue eyes taking in the tattoo situation with the kind of amusement that suggests she collects other people’s relationship disasters as a hobby. And I have a feeling she does just that.
I suck in a quick breath because I can practically feel the temperature drop, and my murder-magnet senses are starting to tingle. Here’s hoping I’m wrong.
“So, Lavender.” I press my lips tight while frantically searching my brain for anything to say that might defuse this social bomb before it explodes. “Your name—it’s so very beautiful.”And I mean it. “Lavender has always been one of my favorite flowers, and as an artist, it’s also one of my favorite hues.”
“Thank you,” she replies with a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth, like a shark who’s just spotted an injured seal. “My mother believed in naming children after things that appear peaceful on the surface but can be quite potent when properly concentrated. Lavender oil can be soothing... or toxic, depending on the dosage.”
Well, that’s not strange, ominous, or potentially prophetic at all.
Wes and I exchange a brief glance.
“And your organization?” I continue, because apparently, I enjoy walking into conversational minefields. “It sounds fascinating.”
Wes gives a hesitant nod but looks as if he’s not sure he agrees.
“Oh, we’re simply exploring the boundaries of traditional relationship structures,” she says with an evasion that feels far too practiced. “But rather than bore you with academic theory, I should mention I’ve written extensively on the subject. My book,Love Without Limits, has been quite revolutionary in certain circles.”
She leans in, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “In fact, I’m hosting a seminar series right here on the ship. You should attend. I think you’d find it... well, enlightening. We’re discussing how modern couples can expand their horizons beyond society’s rather narrow definitions of partnership.”
The way she saysexpand their horizonsmakes it sound like she’s talking about exotic travel instead of whatever relationship philosophy she’s peddling. Her eyes drift over to Mark and his unfortunate forehead decoration.
“What’s happening here?” she asks with barely concealed delight, like she’s discovered a particularly juicy piece of gossip.
Claudette rolls her eyes hard—better that than rolling out punches. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my husband wanted to make sure no one could ever question his marital status again—including airport security, customs officials, and apparently random idiots at parties.”
Both Wes and I suck in a breath in tandem.
Did she just call Dr. Voss an idiot?
“Talk about wear your heart on your sleeve and your marriage certificate on your forehead.” Lavender winces at the odd sight. “How delightfully insecure,” she continues with the kind of clinical detachment that makes an execution order sound like a casual observation. “Nothing says healthy relationship quite like branding your spouse like cattle. Although I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures when trust is just a four-letter word that’s been surgically removed from your vocabulary.”
