The restaurant hums with quiet conversation and the delicate clink of fine china. A pianist in the corner plays something classical that I can’t identify but sounds ritzy. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingles with hints of garlic, butter, and the unmistakable briny scent of premium seafood—a culinary preview of the delicious things to come.
Bess and Nettie declined my dinner invitation, claiming they had important business at the Champagne Bar. By which they meant entertaining the soap opera hunks with Nettie’s famousNorwegian handshake that she invented this morning after reading a pamphlet about Viking greetings. Last I heard, she was teaching Santino DiAngelo how to properly pronouncefjordwhile Bess kept score using an elaborate point system that somehow involved shots of aquavit. I’m only mildly concerned.
“This is quite the upgrade from the Blue Water Café,” Ransom says, as we settle into the plush chairs at our corner table—the one with the best view, naturally.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, nodding to Wes. “And thank you for the seating upgrade.” The captain has his privileges, and apparently, they extend to premium restaurant reservations.
Wes nods my way. “I figured we all deserved something special after that spectacle on the promenade deck,” he replies before looking at Ransom. “Good effort, Baxter.” He gives a grin that says he doesn’t mind pushing my husband’s buttons when given the chance. “Better luck next time.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of all the ladies,” Ransom says with a wink. “However, I could have done without Val’s running commentary on my core strength.”
I laugh at the thought. “I think she was angling for a private demonstration.”
“Not happening. I have standards and a wife who’s on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper.” Ransom blinks a smile my way, making me choke on my water.
Our server arrives with a bottle of wine that Wes insisted on ordering, something French with a label I can’t pronounce and a price tag I don’t want to contemplate. After the ceremonial tasting and pouring, we place our dinner orders—butter-poached Maine lobster with fresh herbs for me, a perfectly seared filet mignon for Ransom, and Norwegian salmon with dill sauce for Wes.
“To surviving reality television,” Wes proposes as he raises his glass.
“And to three ties in a row,” I add with a laugh, clinking my glass against both of theirs.
“Speaking of which,” Wes says, leaning back in his chair, “I think we all know who would have won if Boomer hadn’t called time on that plank competition.”
Ransom’s brows lift slightly. “I believe the record clearly shows I was just getting started.”
“Is that what that tremor in your left arm was?” Wes laughs. “Getting started?”
Ransom growls. “That wasn’t a tremor. That was me considering whether to do one-armed push-ups just to keep things interesting.”
“My arms were shaking like I was operating a jackhammer,” Wes shoots back.
I lift my drink their way. “Nothing says masculinity quite like two grown men comparing whose muscles betrayed them first.”
“You know,” Wes swirls his wine while frowning at Ransom, “I’ve been doing ship fitness challenges since you were still filling out FBI paperwork in triplicate.”
“Fascinating.” Ransom’s voice is dry as sandpaper. “I’ve been taking down international crime syndicates since you were learning port from starboard. Clearly, the more dangerous profession. Though I’m sure steering is very challenging.”
“You two are a riot,” I say without a hint of a smile.
The server arrives with fresh bread and herb butter, momentarily pausing the verbal sparring.
“So, Trixie.” Wes looks my way after buttering a slice. “I heard from Boomer that your train ride with Harper yesterday was quite the dramatic episode. His words, not mine.”
I nod, thankful for the change of subject. “I think Harper is definitely hiding something.”
“She claimed a USB drive was missing,” Ransom adds. “Something about audio interviews conducted by Madison, and photosfrom a charity gala that she wanted to show the production team.”
“I filled Ransom in last night,” I explain to Wes. “Suffice it to say, we have interesting pillow talk.”
Ransom’s mouth rises at the corners with a beginning of a devilish grin, but he doesn’t dare give it. He’s deliciously stubborn that way. He still makes my pulse skip after all this time.
“And she thinks someone on the ship took it?” Wes asks, his captain’s concern evident.
“Someone on the train,” I reply. “Worse yet, me.”
Our appetizers arrive on cue—seared scallops for me and beef carpaccio for Ransom and Wes. The presentation is so artistic, I almost feel guilty eating it. Almost.
Between bites of perfectly cooked scallop, I decide to broach the subject that’s been weighing on me. “So... has there been any update on my reinstatement with the cruise line?” I’m hopeful, if only for a moment.
