Chapter One
In a world of bouclé armchairs, I was a velvet settee, and nothing proved it more than the room I was standing in right now.
“Make a note that I want the welcome basket to be set on the table by the balcony doors on future sailings,” I said to my cousin, and last-minute assistant, Bailey. My mother had insisted I bring her when my aggressively capable assistant, Michael, had come down with a case of cat scratch fever and wasn’t able to work on the cruise because his armpits hurt so badly.
And I loved my twenty-three-year-old cousin to bits,truly, but she was no Michael—and also I was pretty sure she only agreed to come because it was a free cruise on a ship with eleven different bars.
“And going forward, the bouquets near the accent walls need to have more eucalyptus, I think. I want more pop against the yellow.” I squinted at the bouquet again, wondering if eucalyptus was the right vibe for July. Maybe I should save it for the winter sailings. “Or possibly bay leaves. Write down ‘bay leaves.’ Bailey?”
I turned to see my cousin patentlynotwriting anything down, as she was staring at the door—and fuck me in my nonswollen armpit. This was important! Details mattered! It was why I’d insisted on doing a walk-through when I’d embarked: because I wanted to make sure that every single element of a guest suite—the gold sconces, the artisanal toiletries, the vegan chocolates handmade by radical nuns—was ready for that crucial snap or reel or post. It wasn’t good enough for things to look good in real life. They had to look good online too. And actually it still wasn’t enough for things to look good online; the posts from our cruises needed to look good enough to convert the curious into thebelieving. Into guests who then became tripod-carrying missionaries and evangelized the good news of aesthetic ocean travel to the world.
I needed these believers because I needed Lemon Tree Cruises to work. If the cruise line didn’t work, that set me behind on expanding into hotels, and if I was behind on hotels, then I was behind on the Rest of the Plan.
Cruises! Hotels! Rest of Plan!
In that order!
Plans were what made the world turn; plans were how money was made. Plans were how you took uncertainty and loneliness (and the gnawing suspicion that maybe your life was a cold and empty crater) and shoved those feelings into little boxes so that they couldn’t bother you anymore. In the words of the Bible: Consider the lilies of the field, and look at how they always have kanban boards and planners with highlighters in muted pastels.
“Bailey,” I said patiently. “Are you—”
“Tall,” Bailey whispered, her brown eyes awestruck. “Hot.”
I saw symmetrically faced people all the time, so I wasn’t bracing myself when I followed my cousin’s gaze to the woman standing in the doorway. And then I wished Ihadbracedmyself, because holy Dyson Airwrap, Krysta Morton was a cold, cold mommy straight from my dirtiest daydreams.
The low ponytail she’d sported for her entire tenure guarding Isaac Kelly was gone and had been replaced by a sharp undercut, the white-blond hair on top just long enough to pull into a neat bun. Her skin was fair, her mouth was a full but stern line, and her eyebrows were so light that they were almost hard to see from across the room, although I could guess that they were pulled together in irritation.
Blue eyes, a black suit with a white button-down shirt, and sunglasses on top of her head completed the vibe. A vibe that was fullydon’t fuck with me, with just a dash ofbut if you behave, I might deign to sit on your face later.
God only knew why that was so hot to me. Probably trauma.
But she was here to do a job, and so was I, and I was already four minutes behind the schedule I’d made for myself this morning on the way to the Long Beach cruise terminal.
“Krysta,” I said, stepping forward and offering my hand and my biggest smile. “Thank you so much for taking this job. I know it was a little spontaneous, but I appreciate it.”
She strode into the suite to meet me and shook my hand with a very firm clasp. Once. And then she pulled her hand back like she’d reached her quota of human touch for the day.
“Your manager was very persistent, Ms. Hayes,” Krysta said. She was looking behind me—not at Bailey, but at the balcony doors and the steps leading to the second story of the suite. “I assume she sent over my rules.”
“Yes!” Which was the truth.
“And you read them?”
“Of course!”
Okay, that part was not... as truthy. I generally tried to be diligent about reviewing everything sent my way, becausedetails mattered, et cetera, et cetera, but just between you andme, these were the kinds of details that didn’t interest me as much as the TikTok-ability of a cruise ship’s outdoor pool. So as Krysta strode deeper into the suite and then took the stairs two at a time, I discreetly pulled out my phone and summoned up the email with her bodyguard-engagement agreement.
Ah, okay, here were the rules:
The Rules:
No sneaking off alone.
