Page 77 of A Perfect Disaster

“Well, your whole face is smeared with sugar; you look like a cupcake.”

I try to wipe it off with my hand and end up making a bigger mess. Helen lets out a frustrated sound, half laughter, half despair, grabs a paper napkin, and takes a step forward, closing the entire distance between us.

“Hold still for a second, you little whirlwind.”

I watch her in silence, holding my breath, as she carefully wipes me down. She’s too close; her fingers brush my skin through the paper, and the whole world—the shouts from the pool, the Caribbean music, the passengers—seems to turn down the volume all at once. Everything becomes blurry, a faded background.

Helen barely looks up; our eyes meet just inches apart, and for an eternal moment it seems as though she’s going to break all the rules and kiss me right here. I see it in her eyes. I feel it in her breath. She’s so close that my heart completely forgets how to beat normally.

Then someone lets out a cheeky whistle from the lounge chairs, and we pull apart suddenly, as if the captain himself had caught us.

“We have to finish the dessert for the judges,” Helen says, composing herself as best she can.

As I’m plating the sorbet into the glass cups, I decide it’s missing the finishing touch of flair. I grab the bottle of limoncello from the kitchen stash and pour a generous splash into it while Helen decorates the rim with zest.

“What the hell have you done?” she asks, catching the scent.

“Italian magic and ingenuity. Trust my business acumen.”

The executive chef goes from table to table tasting the desserts, while the audience watches expectantly and in silence. Helen stands with her arms crossed, rigid, the tension visible in her posture. I try to look like the very picture of calm, though inside I’m praying to every hospitality saint available.

The ship’s captain tastes our sorbet with deliberation. Julianne Ferguson does the same and smiles faintly, looking at Helen. Arturo Valdés raises an eyebrow with obvious interest after the first bite. Finally, the executive chef sets the silver spoon down on the judges’ table.

“Excellent texture, despite the… technical incident with the blender,” the chef says, glancing at Helen’s uniform. “The acidity is very well balanced… and that final touch of liqueur is surprisingly elegant and daring.”

I smile, savoring the triumph. You can just picture me with my fist clenched, jumping around.

· · ·

“And the undisputed winners of the charity contest are… security officer Helen Müller and our entertainment coordinator, Maika Aranda, with their torpedo sorbet!”

The pool deck erupts in applause, whistles, and cheers. I jump up and shout with excitement, forgetting my manners. Helen needs a few seconds. Then she turns to me and starts laughing. A genuine, free, bright, and unrestrained laugh that hits me right in the chest—making me fall a little more in love. God. I think I’d be capable of sabotaging every blender on the ship just to hear her laugh like that again.

They hand us a small wooden plaque with the shipping company’s logo and a bottle of champagne from the ship’s reserve while the passengers applaud delightedly from the upper decks.

“The chemistry and the flavor have been excellent,” the executive chef tells us, winking at us before stepping away.

Chemistry. How funny. Very, very funny. Oh dear Neptune, if only he knew.

As the crowd of passengers begins to disperse toward the hot tubs and the rest of the activities, Helen and I are left alone by our workstation, which has turned into a veritable battlefield. We have sorbet stains on our clothes, sticky hands, and the scent of lemon even in our souls. Helen watches me closely for a few seconds and then shakes her head.

“You’re a genuine public hazard to the ship’s safety, Maika Aranda.”

“Damn, I’m dying to taste those lemon-flavored lips,” I think. But instead, I say:

“And yet… we’ve won.”

Helen looks down at my mouth for a long moment, devouring it with her gaze. Then she returns her eyes to mine. And the air on the deck fills with an electricity impossible to ignore.

25

Helen

The night wind lashes the bow of the Marine IV as if to remind me that I’ve just told every single one of the shipping company’s protocols to go to hell. My uniform is ruined, stained with lemon and sugar. I feel the sticky residue of the mixture clinging to my skin, irrefutable proof that, no matter how hard I try to maintain control of my life, when Maika is near, my defenses short-circuit.

The cool Mediterranean air clashes violently with the heat radiating from my body. Just below the bridge, in this crew-only area, the small hot tub bubbles, giving off a thick steam that clouds my ability to think straight. The lights on the upper decks are dim, almost conspiratorial. All around us is nothing but steel, coiled ropes, and the imposing darkness of the sea. No one can see us here. No one should.

Maika is standing beside me, still wearing her contest apron and a mischievous spark in her eyes that immediately quickens my pulse.