And since she and I are in charge of this parade, we meet at the door and lead the way.
We’re all in our swimsuits and coverups now, wearing our heart-shaped sunglasses, towels slung over our shoulders, drinks in hand.
Game on.
We cram into the elevator—shoulders pressed, glittering sashes askew—because our motto is clear: leave no woman behind.
It only takes a few seconds to reach the upper deck, but the anticipation buzzes like electricity.
When the doors glide open, we spill into a narrow corridor, push through the last set of glass doors and step into the chaos. Music pulses through hidden speakers, and colored lights ripple across the surface of the pool like stained glass. Loungers overflow with sun-kissed bodies, most holding some kind of drink in one hand. The air smells like coconut sunscreen, chlorine, and just a hint of rum punch. Elise immediately spots us from where she’s standing on the stage—sparkly sashes and party crowns will do that—and waves us over.
She’s in navy shorts and a crisp white polo, cordless mic in hand, and the devilish grin on her face tells me we’re in for something… memorable.
The woman’s practically the heartbeat of the ship. Cruise director isn’t just some glorified hostess gig—she’s part event producer, part entertainer, and part politician, somehow keeping thousands of people happy at sea.
And right now, she looks very pleased with herself.
“Alright, alright! Time for my favorite part of every cruise.” She paces with practiced flair. “Now, we’ve got an engaged couple on board this week—and tomorrow, while we’re docked in Ensenada, they’ll be tying the knot!” A cheer rises from the sunbathers and swimmers on the deck.
Elise continues. “And because no wedding cruise would be complete without a little light embarrassment and some shameless objectification… I need the bride, her bridesmaids, and the other fabulous bachelorettes celebrating today to make their way up to the front of the pool deck. Yep, right here! Don’t be shy.”
She winks at us. “Trust me. You’ll be indebted to me for life after this.”
Luna lets out a delighted squeal and grabs me and Tay without hesitation. “Let’s goooo!”
I laugh, stumbling forward in my sandals as we take our places near a roped-off area where a handful of deck chairs are already set up.
“Tell me something, Luna,” Elise says, adjusting the mic. “How would you rate your fiancé’s legs?”
Luna raises a brow. “His legs?”
“His legs,” Elise repeats solemnly.
Luna grins. “I mean… they’re awesome?”
Elise beams. “Excellent answer. Because you and your bridesmaids”—she points to us— “are going to be the judges of the Men’s Best Legs Contest!”
The crowd around us cheers. There are a few whistles.
Tay laughs. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be amazing.”
I blink. “Men’s Best Legs Contest? How is this a thing?”
“Oh, it’s a thing,” Elise answers.
And then the music starts.
Bass-heavy, a little too sexy for four in the afternoon. Eighties music that makes people scream-laugh, sing along, and raise their margaritas in approval.
And then…
The first contestant struts out from behind the stage.
Oh my God.
It’s Simon.
When he gets to center stage, he pulls the leg of his trunks high on one thigh, does a little twirl and… a kick? He pulls it off out of sheer cuteness.
