“Shall we explore the champagne situation?” he suggests with the kind of charm that probably makes most women reconsider their life choices and geographical preferences. I’m just not thrilled that Bess is one of them.
“Lead the way.” Bess practically floats away on his arm, leaving Nettie and me standing there like a couple of abandoned wedding guests.
“There goes our third musketeer again,” I mutter, watching my friend disappear into the crowd of romantic warriors.
“She’ll be back,” Nettie says with enough confidence that lets me know she’s watched enough relationship disasters to predict their trajectories. “Men like Rex are like expensive desserts—delicious for a while, but eventually you need something more substantial.”
I hate to break it to Nettie, but he seems substantial in addition to being as delicious as an expensive dessert. Face it, Bess is a goner.
Tinsley storms over like a cruise director with serious anger management issues, her formal dress doing nothing to hide the fact that she’s still carrying grudges about morning art classes and French tourism. At least the mustache and beard have vanished.
“There better not be a Valentine’s Day massacre, Trixie,” she announces with authority as if she’s personally responsible for maintaining romantic order on the high seas. “This is supposed to be about love, not body counts.”
“I’ll do my best to keep the carnage to a minimum,” I say with feigned innocence. Heck, I’ve learned that sincerity only encourages Tinsley’s dramatic tendencies.
She turns to Ransom and growls at him as if he were a potentially dangerous accomplice. “Keep your killer wife in check tonight. Some of us have reputationsto maintain.”
“I will,” Ransom agrees with a wink that immediately gets him in trouble with approximately fifty percent of his marriage.
My mouth falls open and my eyes widen with mock outrage—okay, fine, not so mock—but my husband has just publicly agreed that I need adult supervision.
But before he can launch into damage control, Quinn Riddle materializes beside him like a security officer with serious timing issues and potentially case-breaking information.
“I’ve got a lead,” she announces with an urgency that suggests this could change everything. “We can’t discuss it here.”
She shoots me a look that suggests whatever she’s discovered doesn’t belong in civilian ears, even those civilian ears that happen to be married to the head of vessel security.
“I’m sorry.” Ransom sighs my way as if negotiating a cease-fire with an armed and beautiful adversary. “I’ll be back soon. Stay out of trouble?”
He kisses me with enough conviction to make the Valentine’s decorations blush, then disappears into the crowd like a tuxedoed ninja with important detective work and a wife who specializes in finding trouble whether she’s looking for it or not.
“Famous last words,” I call after him, but he’s already gone, leaving me alone in a ballroom full of potential killers, relationship evangelists, and champagne that’s making everyone overshare about their romantic philosophies.
I’m about to say something else when a spray of miniature red stars appears beside us like supernatural confetti, revealing Richard in all his dapper yet ghostly glory. He materializes wearing what appears to be a glowing white dinner jacket, looking distinguished and instantly smitten as his gaze settles on Nettie.
I quickly grab her hand. “Your supernatural plus-one just showed up.”
“It’s about time, Hot Stuff,” she says, pecking her gaze somewhere near my left. “Ready to rumble and tumble and have a totally out-of-body experience?”
Richard belts out a belly laugh. “My dear woman,” he says with just enough ghostly charm to make supernatural romance seemperfectly reasonable. “You’re absolutely radiant this evening. I’ll have any kind of experience you want.”
“Why, thank you, you old charmer,” Nettie replies, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as her rhinestone-encrusted dress. “I see death certainly hasn’t dimmed your appreciation for a well-dressed woman.”
“Would you care to join me at the buffet?” Richard asks with a suave formality that would make living men jealous. “I believe the champagne selection deserves proper appreciation, and I’d be honored to escort such a magnificent lady.”
“I’d be delighted.” Nettie practically glows with supernatural satisfaction, releasing my hand as she links her arm through Richard’s. “Trixie, honey, we’ll be at the buffet if you need us. Try not to track down any killers without proper backup!”
I make a face. Talk about your famous last words.
They head toward the elaborate food displays together, Nettie chatting animatedly with her invisible escort while other guests probably assume she’s having a very enthusiastic conversation with herself. And no one would fault her for it. The champs is flowing pretty freely tonight.
I’m about to hit the buffet myself and turn to find Elodie approaching in a silver gown that’s clearly been designed by people who understand how to weaponize fabric and have zero moral qualms about it.
“That old bat has finally lost it,” Elodie says, nodding to Nettie. Oddly enough, coming from Elodie, those words sounded more like terms of endearment.
“She’s just having a conversation,” I start with a grimace, “and the other participant is just difficult to see.”
“I get it. Honey, at our age, all the good men are either married, dead, or imaginary,” Elodie purrs with her special brand of wisdom as if she’s made peace with limited romantic options. And really, does Elodie have limited options? I think not. “At least the imaginary ones have excellent listening skills.”
