Nothing saysbon voyagequite like a bloodcurdling scream from a soap opera diva with flyaway hair.
Madison’s second shriek of the day echoes off the marble floors of the atrium, sending nearby passengers ducking for cover as if they’ve just spotted an iceberg. The crystal chandeliers overhead tremble with fear, although I can’t tell if it’s from the sheer force of her vocal cords or the ship’s engines powering up. At this point, it’s a toss-up.
Wes dashes toward Madison with the urgency of a captain responding to a five-alarm fire. “Mrs. Rothschild! Are you alright? Is there something I can help you with?”
The atrium fills with the combined scents of expensive perfumes colliding in mid-air—Madison’s floral notes, Val’s spicy undertones, and Beth’s subtle vanilla. My sinuses surrender immediately.
Marlie, however, smells like heaven. Neither she nor her perfume could do any wrong.
Madison thrusts her phone in Wes’s face, and from what I can see, it looks to be in selfie mode.
“Look at this catastrophe!” she rages. “My hair! This humidity is turning me into a cotton ball! How am I supposed to film the opening sequence looking like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket?”
Dirk Rothschild, standing a strategic three feet away from his wife’s meltdown, catches Lance Williams’s eye and mouths what appears to befourth time today. Some marriages are built on love and trust. Others, apparently, on hair product and mutual tolerance.
“I’m sure we can find a solution, Mrs. Rothschild,” Wes says with the calm of a captain who’s talked more people than he can count off of hairy ledges. “The ship’s salon is?—”
“Did someone say filming?” A voice cuts through the chaos, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as a man strides through the gangway. If Hollywood created a producer in a laboratory, he’d look exactly like this specimen—salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled, hazel eyes that could convince you to sign away your life savings, and cheekbones that reach for the sky. He’s wearing designer jeans and a black cashmere V-neck that looks pricey. One hand clutches the latest iPhone, and by the looks of it, he’s already recording everything.
“Boomer! Thank heavens!” Madison abandons Wes mid-sentence, floating toward the newcomer with remarkable speed for someone in five-inch heels. “My hair is sabotaging me!”
“Madison, honey,” Boomer is quick to soothe her, “that’s exactly the genuine moment we need! That’s what we call reality gold! The audience will love seeing that even Madison Rothschild battles frizz. It’s relatable!” He somehow makes this sound like he’s offering her an Emmy.
“Really?” Madison brightens instantly, patting her uncooperative locks with newfound affection. “I suppose it does make me more approachable.”
Ransom leans close to my ear. “About as approachable as a porcupine.”
“Be nice,” I whisper back, though I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
Boomer glides farther into the atrium, filming everything on his phone while simultaneously dispensing air kisses to the wives and congratulatory back-slaps to their husbands. He moves with confidence as if he knows exactly how many social media followers he has (I’m betting millions) and how many hearts he’s broken (also probably millions).
“Boom-boom!” Dirk Rothschild calls out, wrapping the producer in a bear hug that seems both genuine and carefully calibrated for the cameras. “Hey, hey, the gang’s all here!”
“Almost,” Boomer corrects, scanning the atrium with the precision of a predator. “Still waiting on—ah! There she is!”
A woman with jet-black hair and porcelain skin steps through the gangway, wearing a burgundy wrap dress that looks painted on. Her crimson lips curve into a smile that doesn’t quite register with the rest of her face.
“Harper Bailey,” Boomer announces. “Fashionably late as always.”
I’m not sure who the woman is, but she looks important, and oddly, not thrilled to be here.
“The traffic was horrific,” Harper says in a voice smooth as silk and twice as expensive. Her gaze sweeps over the assembled wives with cool assessment. “Madison, your hair looksinnovative.”
Before Madison can combust, Wes clears his throat and steps forward. “Mr. Beaumont, welcome aboard theEmerald Queen of the Seas. I’m Captain Weston Crawford.”
Boomer Beaumont. I rack my brain to see if it sounds familiar, but it doesn’t.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Captain Crawford!” Boomer cries out like he’s just met a celebrity himself. “Or should I sayinfamous? Your reputation precedes you. I’ve heard this is the tightest ship in the entire fleet.”
And the deadliest. I give Ransom’s hand a squeeze in lieu of saying it out loud. And he squeezes my hand right back because he was thinking it, too.
“I preferwell-run,” Wes replies with a modest smile. “Allow me to introduce some of my crew. This is Tinsley, our cruise director.”
Tinsley steps forward with a smile so brilliant it could guide any man on the ship straight to her cabin. “Such a pleasure to have you aboard, Mr. Beaumont. If there’s anything—and I meananything—I can do to make your production run more smoothly, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She manages to make this sound both professional and like she’s auditioning for her own reality show. And maybe like she’s trying to land him in her bed posthaste. Mostly that.
“And Elodie Abernathy here runs our Queen’s Mall,” Wes continues.
