Page 32 of A Perfect Disaster

We both ended up pressed against the deck railing, kissing with such a savage need that, for a few eternal minutes, I forgot absolutely everything: the ship’s security cameras, the code of conduct, the past that fractured us, and the consequences of any sleepless passenger seeing us. Only she existed. Her mouth—hot, demanding—her fingers digging into my waist, the way my own body responded as if it had been waiting for years of drought for exactly that damn contact.

Waiting for Maika Aranda, of all people.

And then… then I regained a shred of sanity. When I realized I was a second away from dragging her down the hallway to the first empty cabin and completely losing my mind, I backed away like a coward and ran off. A flawless tactical maneuver, I must say. Since then, I’ve avoided her with a mastery worthy of a medal.

And now Gonzalo goes and decides we should spend my only free afternoon at the beach with the whole damn entertainment crew. Wonderful.

Clearly, I need to reevaluate my social circle.

“Want me to put some sunscreen on your back?” he asks suddenly, waving the bottle in front of my eyes with an expression that’s way too cheerful.

“What you should do is swallow it, see if it makes you dumb enough to stop setting up ambushes,” I reply dryly, fixing my gaze on the horizon.

Gonzalo widens his eyes, feigning dramatic offense, though amusement shines brightly in his gaze.

“Well, well, Miss Protocol has left her good humor on the bridge. What an unexpected turn of events.” He bursts out laughing, making me hate him just a little more. Just a little. “What you really should do,” he adds, adjusting his sunglasses with a carefree gesture, “is enjoy the scenery. There are certain views out on the water that deserve your full attention.”

I don’t need to ask what views he’s referring to. My pulse quickens even before my brain processes the command. I turn my head toward the shore almost magnetically, unable to contain myself.

“Shit.”

Maika is coming out of the sea, water dripping down her tanned skin and the Marseille sun reflecting off the droplets, creating flashes that seem to shatter my nerves. She’s wearing a simple bikini that highlights every curve of her body with an insulting naturalness. Her hair, completely soaked, falls back, and she walks with that overflowing confidence of someone who knows exactly the effect she has on those around her. Or, rather, the devastating effect she has on me specifically.

To really heat things up—and make my gut protest—she runs both hands through her hair to push it back, and the water begins to slide down her neck, along the line of her collarbones, until it cascades down the curve of her waist in an anatomical path that I find geometrically impossible to ignore.

“Look away, Helen. That’s an order. Turn your head now.”

But I can’t. And that lack of self-discipline is humiliating to me. Because I’m not just looking at her. I’m devouring her with my eyes with the same brazenness I so often criticize in first-class passengers.

“You’re going to drool all over the sunscreen…” Gonzalo teases in a whisper.

“Shut up if you value your life, Gonzalo.”

Maika looks up at that very moment, as if she had a radar for my nervous breakdowns. Our eyes meet across the distance of the beach, and I feel the heat rising up my neck with ridiculous, telltale intensity. She pauses for just a second, breaking the wave with her ankles, just long enough for the memory of her wet mouth to hit me again without mercy.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I sit up from the towel so abruptly that I nearly trip over the edge of the beach bag.

“I’m going for a walk along the shore,” I announce, brushing the sand off my thighs.

Gonzalo makes no attempt whatsoever to hide the mocking smile that twists his face.

“Enjoy your coastal inspection, officer.”

I throw the towel right in his face before striding away. I can still hear his laughter behind me as I start walking along the line where the waves break. The hot sand sinks beneath my feet, and the rhythmic sound of the sea accompanies my breathing, which remains dangerously ragged. All around me, French tourists are enjoying the day: children building crooked sandcastles, couples lying in the sun without the slightest concern for ranks, regulations, or uniforms. How I envy their lives.

I, on the other hand, have spent hours feeling as if the ship’s electrical system were running beneath my skin: a constant, relentless tingling I can’t seem to numb, not even with cold water. I try to focus on my duties, on the safety meeting I have scheduled with the operations department. But my mental defenses are down. Completely shut down. Every time I blink, Maika appears, kissing me; and not in that subtle way they show in girl-girl romance novels, no.

I clench my jaw tightly and quicken my pace. I’m not going to repeat that mistake. I can’t afford to. I already know how things end when it comes to Maika and me in the same space. I know it all too well, and the scars took far too long to heal.

I walk on until the voices of the entertainment group and the music are behind me. The cove becomes steeper in this area, surrounded by rocks, with fewer swimmers and a more open sea. I stop right where the foam laps at my ankles. The Mediterranean water is cool, and I need it like a real fire extinguisher for my head. Without a second thought, I step into the sea. The water envelops me with a comforting chill that should, by pure logic, bring my common sense back.

Clearly, logic doesn’t apply today.

Because even here, floating in the water, I still feel the ghost of Maika’s hands on my back.

I submerge myself completely, searching for the bottom, and for a few wonderful seconds, only the liquid silence of the ocean exists. When I surface, I brush my wet hair from my face and take a deep breath, filling my lungs. I force myself to organize my thoughts, as if that could help me. “You can’t fall again, Helen. One slip-up is an accident; two is negligence,” I repeat to myself as if it were an emergency manual.