“Why is it so wavy? It wasn’t wavy before. It was sunny and warm and—”
David makes a soft noise, rubbing his boss’s back like he’s trying to calm an angry child. It’s a weird thing to do. I don’t know much, but back rubs also didn’t seem like something in the bodyguard job description.
Mr. Morgan throws up for a third time, but at least nothing comes out but a thin trail of spittle that hangs in the wind for a second before he wipes it away.
One of the reels spins out, and I cut the line quickly, then bring in the others while David helps Mr. Morgan down from the bridge.
“I need to lie down,” Mr. Morgan is saying. His face is the color of drying putty, and the sight of him shivering against David makes me feel a little queasy too, because now I’ll have to explain to Harper how I took her VI-VIP out fishing and got so distracted by his friendly and attractive bodyguard that I didn’t even notice he was getting seasick.
“You should stay out here,” I say as they head for the cabin. “I’ll get you some water, but it’ll pass faster if you can see the horizon.”
He looks miserable, all his bravado wiped away, but he hunches down on a bench while I go to get him something to drink.
We don’t bother with sightseeing. David stays down on the main deck, and I drive from inside the cabin. Fortunately, the wind blows away the scent of puke, but I wince every time we hit a wave harder than I mean to. I radio the lodge letting them know our VIP is under the weather, and there’s a whole troop of them waiting on the dock for us when we pull in, with Harper at the head of the line.
“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” she says as David helps his employer off the boat. “I’m so sorry. Did everything not go well on your expedition?”
I bite back a snort because what we did was barely a morning out, much less an expedition, but I’m supposed to be playing the concerned guide here.
“It’s fine,” David says. He glances once at me. “Seasickness is no one’s fault.”
Harper is watching me with pursed lips that say she disagrees. Well, she can certainly do that, but how was I supposed to know? There’s probably a lecture coming my way about guest care standards, but for now, she follows David and Mr. Morgan up the dock still offering apologies, and I’m left to hose down the boat.
Unfortunately, even cleaning up puke doesn’t take as long as I want it to, and pretty soon it’s midafternoon, and I once again have nothing to do. This is both the easiest and most boring job I’ve ever had. I kind of want to wander to the resort and see if David’s looking for something to do. We were having a nice time up until the end.
Instead, I gather up the sandwiches and other food we never got around to eating and carry them inside to the staff dining room. It’s mostly empty when I walk in, but Marci is there as I set the tray down.
“Hey!” She hops up, putting down the book she’d been reading. “How did it go?”
I glance around, half expecting that she’s speaking to someone else, but the only other person in the room is a man whose name I don’t know but I think works in housekeeping. He’s got a pair of big headphones on and pretty obviously doesn’t want to be disturbed. I should get a pair of those.
“Uh, not bad,” I say.
“What’s he like?” She roots through the plate of food, grabbing a bunch of carrot sticks and a sandwich overflowing with soggy-looking vegetables like eggplant and zucchini.
“Who?” I ask.
“You know.” She drops her voice because she no doubt is also waiting for the ghost of Harper to appear and tell us to stop gossiping. “Him.”
“Mr. Morgan?” I say, and Marci nods eagerly. She sits down and bites into her sandwich like we’re settling in for a long chat, but I only shrug. “He’s okay. I dunno. I think people like that have forgotten how to interact with normal people, you know?”
She looks disappointed. “What did you talk about?”
“Not much. He spent most of the time on his phone.”
It’s funny. If we’d avoided the whole seasickness thing, I’d have told her what an utter asshole he is, but he looked so terrible by the end, it’s hard to be mean to him now.
“Oh.” Marci sets down her sandwich, picking at a slice of eggplant. “Well, that’s not nearly as much fun as I wanted it to be.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. He’s another rich guy who wants a swanky vacation without having to give up any conveniences.”
Okay. Maybe I don’t feel that bad about him after all. I grab a sandwich—it looks like roast beef, and I can deal with that—and head out of the staff room. I’m back to resenting being here, so my idea about keeping an eye out for David feels like a bad one. We both may be doing a job, but he’s still a guest, and I can’t expect him to spend time with me just because I’m looking for something to do.
