I disagree. For the last ten years I’ve lived by two rules: One, always have fun. Two, don’t rely on anyone but yourself. Impossible? No. Challenging? Sometimes. Not the first rule. How hard is it to have fun? I’ve broken the second rule only once and don’t plan on making the same mistake twice.
“Don’t encourage him,” I say. “He’s threatened to leave for Ireland if we’re not together by the end of the season. I don’t believe it for a second, but do you really want to be responsible for sending him away? Do you have any idea what he went through to be here in the first place?”
“For someone who doesn’t care about Ollie, you sure don’t want him to go anywhere,” Jo says.
“I’m going to punch you in the boob the next time I see you.”
“It won’t hurt if you’re a ghost,” Jo says. “Your arm will just... go right through me.”
“Oh, what do you know about ghosts anyway?”
The radio at my hip crackles to life when Xav calls for me, RJ, and Ollie to come up to the wheelhouse in fifteen minutes for a preference sheet meeting. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ve got to go. Preference sheet meeting, and I haven’t even started unpacking,” I tell Jo. “I can’t believe you aren’t here. You’re the worst. I love you,” I say, hanging up before she can respond.
Re: the bunk situation. My choices are limited, even as chief stew. I could try to get someone to swap with me, but my options aren’t great. Britt is a complete slob, and I would most definitely murder her if we roomed together. I don’t know Nekesa or Alyssa very well, but I can’t imagine either wanting to room with me, their boss, or with Ollie, a man they don’t know. That leaves RJ and the deckhands, and it’s best I don’t get involved in RJ’s domain when I can help it. Rooming with Ollie isn’t ideal, but it will only be for a few months. We’ll be sobusy we’ll hardly have any time to spend together anyway. It’s the best of all possible options.
“Welcome home, darling,” Ollie says when I return to our room.
“Absolutely not,” I say when I spot his suitcase beside him on the bottom bunk.
Ollie follows my gaze to the suitcase and gives it a pat. “Oh no you don’t, kitten. Bottom bunk’s mine. First come, first served. That’s your rule, I believe.”
He’s right, but still. “Don’t be ridiculous. Look at me.”
He smiles so wide his dimples appear. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says. I hate those dimples. They make me feel things in places where I am busy trying not to feel anything.
Ollie settles the suitcase at the head of the bed before stretching out and using it like a pillow.
“Excuseyou, that ismybunk.” I take hold of one of his ankles and try to pull him off the bed but can’t drag him an inch. He sits up on his elbows and takes off his shirt before stretching out again with a sigh. I try to resist running my eyes over his lean stomach and muscled chest, but it’s no use. Even though it’s been almost ten years since we met, he looks as good—no, better—than he did then.
“What are you doing?”
Ollie puts his hands behind his head. “Distracting you with temptation.”
“What makes you think anything about you is tempting to me?”
Ollie’s eyes shine in amusement. “You’re breathing awful fast. Some might say you’ve got a heaving bosom.”
I lean over and jab his bare chest with a finger. “You are a barnacle, Oliver Dunne.” I jab him again for emphasis. “A barnacle on my life.”
“But I’m a sexy barnacle, yeah?” He pulls my finger from his chest and kisses it. A little thrill zips through me. I’m disgusted with myself. Fingertip kissing is not sensual.
“That’s unsanitary.” I wrench my hand from his grasp and take a step back. Five seconds in this ridiculously small cabin, and we’ve already got our hands on each other. “And no, you are not a sexy barnacle. You’re the ordinary kind. The kind that gets stuck to the bottom of a cruise ship. Acruise ship, Oliver!”
Ollie laughs and sits up.
“Give me the bottom bunk,” I say. “I’m barely five-two. You’re five-eight.”
He shoots me a glare. “Nine,” he corrects.
I know exactly how tall he is, but I also know he hates it when I pretend I don’t. “The point is, it’ll be much easier for you to get on and off the top bunk.”
He picks up a fitted sheet from the foot of the bed. “You can do one of those pole-vaulting thingies and get up there.”
“Pole-vaulting is track and field, not gymnastics.”
“Same thing,” he says, though I know he knows the difference. He turns the fitted sheet over in his hands, trying to work out which way is which.
Ollie knows I like the bottom bunk, and not only because I’m short. I like having access to the porthole so I’m in charge of the amount of light that comes through. We’ve never bunked together during charter season, but I’ve heard enough from his former bunkmates to know Ollie likes to keep the cabin as dark as his soul, even during the day. No way I’m willing to give him that much control over my environment for the next four months. I’m like a plant. I need sunshine or I’ll wilt away. When I tell Ollie this, he rolls his eyes and says he believes I’m half plant because I’m as stubborn as a tree.
