Through the morning mist, I can see the famous Sognefjord stretching away like nature’s version of a red carpet—except this one is a stunning shade of blue-green and surrounded by mountains that make the Hollywood Hills look like speed bumps.
“Would you look at that view!” Bess exclaims as we line up at the gangway. “It’s gorgeous! I feel like I should apologize to my eyeballs for not seeing this sooner.”
“Forget the view,” Nettie replies, adjusting the Norwegian flag-patterned scarf that she definitely bought in the ship’s gift shop last night. “I’m more interested in sampling authentic Norwegian delicacies. Do you think they have pickled herring ice cream?”
“After last night’s food fight, I’m surprised they’re letting any of us near food at all,” I say, still finding bits of dried hollandaise sauce in my hair despite a thorough shower. “I think I saw Wes filling out paperwork for an international incident.”
Speaking of Wes, he and Ransom have already escorted the body off this morning. And I bet whoever sent Madison Rothschild to the morgue is thinking they’re one step closer to getting away with murder.
The gangway finally opens, and we join the parade of tourists descending upon the unsuspecting village of Flam, population three hundred and fifty—a number that has temporarily more than doubled with our arrival. The locals watch us with expressions that mix welcome, amusement, and mild terror, like they’re witnessing a friendly invasion—which they sort of are.
The village looks like it hired someone whose only job was to ensure maximum storybook appeal. Colorful wooden buildingsline the waterfront, their paint so bright it almost hurts your eyes in the morning sun. Mountains tower on all sides, and a small river cuts through the center of town, brimming with fresh salmon about to become someone’s next meal. And don’t get me started on the clothes—particularly the bevy of wool products.
“I think I’ve died and gone to sweater heaven,” Bess whispers, eyeing a local man in a traditional Norwegian knit pattern. “Do you think they sell those in the gift shop?”
“If they don’t, I’m prepared to negotiate directly with the gentleman wearing it,” Nettie declares with a gleam in her eye that suggests she’s not entirely joking. And she might want to toss in a date to sweeten the pot.
Our trophy wives have already fanned out across the village square, each one simultaneously complaining about the rural setting while posing strategically against it for maximum social media impact, regardless.
“The lighting here is impossible,” Val laments, holding her phone at various angles. “How am I supposed to get my golden hour glow at 9 A.M. in a fjord?”
“I spent an hour on this blow-out, and Norwegian humidity just murdered it in twenty minutes,” Harper says, pulling out her phone to check the forecast like she might file a formal complaint.
Beth seems to be the only one genuinely enjoying the scenery, though she keeps glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to be following her. And she might be right, considering Marlie’s ghost is hovering near her, examining Beth’s designer hiking boots with skepticism.
“Those have never seen a trail in their life,” Marlie snarls as she says it. “And neither has she. Something is very off about our resident Strawberry Shortcake. No one is that wholesome without hiding something criminally unwholesome.”
Maybe so, but I really do like Beth. So, I hope it’s not true.
Tinsley cuts through the crowd with a clipboard and the grimresolve required to keep chaos on a schedule. Her cruise director uniform is freshly pressed after last night’s food skirmish, though a faint, unidentified stain remains—proof that not all battles are won.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls out. “Please gather around for today’s excursion assignments!” she calls with forced cheerfulness.
Elodie sashays past her, already deep in conversation with a tall Norwegian tour guide whose traditional sweater seems to be straining against his Viking physique. “So, you’re saying the fjords were formed by glaciers? How fascinating! I’ve always been deeply interested in...glaciers.” She winks my way as she says it.
The man blushes to the roots of his blond hair as Elodie touches his arm for approximately the fifteenth time in thirty seconds. He is so getting lucky.
A ripple of excitement passes through the trophy wives, and I turn to see Ransom heading this way, in his civilian clothes, which is really just a slightly more relaxed version of his security outfit, but somehow manages to make him look so good it feels rude to stare and impossible not to.
Val wastes no time breaking away from her photoshoot to intercept him. “Handsome Ransom! I was just telling everyone how brave you were during last night’s...unpleasantness.” She touches his arm in a move that would make Elodie proud. “The way you shielded Trixie from that flying crème brûlée was positively heroic.”
I can’t help but frown at the woman for accosting him so brazenly. And Handsome Ransom? That happens to be the nickname that Nettie, Bess, and I came up with for him. Although when you get down to it, it’s more of an obvious assessment than anything too creative.
“It was a dinner roll,” Ransom corrects, politely extracting his arm.
“And the way you maintained your composure,” Beth adds,appearing at his other side with surprising speed for someone in impractical footwear. “Most men would have lost their temper, but you were so controlled.” She sayscontrolledthe way most people might saychocolate lava cake—with inappropriate levels of desire. And by most people, I mean me.
Harper materializes with her notebook, eyeing Ransom with clinical interest. “I noticed your reflexes last night. You moved faster than anyone else in that room. Former law enforcement? I wouldn’t mind seeing your muscles.”
“Back off, vultures!” Nettie shouts. “He’s already taken by someone who appreciates the full package, not just the wrapping paper!”
“Though the wrapping paper is quite nice,” Bess adds with an exaggerated wink.
I mouth a thank you her way. And I owe Nettie more than a few favors for that.
Ransom’s expression remains professional, but according to the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, he’s suppressing amusement.
“Ladies,” he acknowledges with a polite nod. “I’m glad to see everyone recovered from last night’s dining experience.”
