Chapter Eight
James
Sitting on the edge of his bunk bed, James inhaled a series of fast breaths. One of his legs bounced erratically as his heart continued to hammer, the constant, frantic movement of his leg the only thing keeping him from collapsing in on himself.
Oh, God, he couldn’t even begin to make sense of the intense shame and remorse he felt over what he knew, logically, had only been a small mistake.
But that mistake—that foolish little error—felt enormous right now.
Because it wasn’t about the horseradish sauce, or even about the subsequent faux pas that had resulted in Cassian’s trousers becoming slathered in it, but about the horrible, heart-wrenching realization that he was failing to be whatever Cassian needed him to be.
And, worst of all, he couldn’t even figure out what that something exactly was.
Earlier, in the lounge, James had nearly ruined their friendship by blathering on about the concept of romantic love.
He’d only been trying to be helpful when he’d first brought it up, hoping that by encouraging Cassian to think about love, the man might have then been able to surmise whether the cause of his fiancée’s so-called melancholy was fixable.
But then Cassian had started looking at him in that .
. . that Cassian way again, and the intensity in his beautiful brown eyes had obliterated every barrier that James had erected to keep this thing between them relatively innocent.
Or as innocent some forbidden something that consisted of flirtatious banter and unspoken sordid fantasies could be.
And once James’s defenses had been removed, he had been powerless to keep himself from falling.
He had fallen in love with Cassian. Fast and hard and completely. Right there in Titanic’s First-Class Lounge.
And judging by the manner in which Cassian had then reacted to James looking at him so longingly, he must have realized the extent of James’s feelings, too.
Consequently, when James had then fled the lounge, as he’d been commanded to do, he’d been convinced that he had obliterated whatever had been blossoming between them, friendship included.
But then later, in the saloon, Cassian had attempted to continue on as though nothing had happened.
And now James had no idea what Cassian wanted. Or needed.
All James knew was what he himself wanted and needed, which was to be whatever first-class passenger Mr. Livingston needed him to be.
Friend. Lover. Steward. All or none. All James wanted was to please him.
At whatever cost to himself. He’d cast his morals aside, cast his lingering fears over inevitable heartbreak aside, if only to make Cassian smile.
Never had James felt like this before. Never had he fallen for someone so fast and yet so completely. Gracious God, it was wonderful and magical and terrifying and everything that James had ever wanted.
And now James couldn’t help but worry that he’d bungled the whole Goddamned thing.
James was still spiraling, still bouncing his leg while his thoughts and feelings swirled and raged inside him like the often-unforgiving sea, when there was a knock.
Exhaling, James looked over only to see Cassian standing in the entryway, his expression a confusing mix of hard and soft lines that momentarily made James’s heart stop.
“Cassian,” James rasped, his throat tight. “Oh, bloody hell, Cassian, I’m so sorry.”
Cassian simply held up his hand, wordlessly ordering him to stop speaking. James pressed his lips together, leaving his unsaid words to fester, and their bitter taste caused bile to creep up his throat. How fervently he wished that he could make things right between them.
For the next minute or two, James sat with his mouth firmly clamped shut as Cassian surveyed the room, slowly walking in between the bunks with his hands hooked behind his back.
“It’s more cramped in here than I’d imagined it would be,” Cassian finally said.
Heat bloomed on James’s cheeks. Something about the comment made his stomach roil.
Even while Cassian held firm to their relative roles, James had never once been made to feel small.
Even when Cassian had requested the perfect coffee or had practically forced him to put his feet in the pool, James had left those interactions feeling . . . cherished.
But he felt far from cherished now.
“It’s not too bad,” James said, fighting to find even a shred of self-respect here in the overfilled bedroom. “I had my choice of bunk.”
Cassian huffed a soft laugh, the sound imbued with a particular color of self-importance that James hadn’t heard from him before.
“Ah, well, that must make it more palatable, then,” he said. “Having been given the luxury of choosing which corner of the too-small room to sleep in, of choosing whether to sleep on the lower bunk or—”
“I prefer the bottom,” James countered. He cringed the moment the words escaped his mouth as the filthiest fantasy of Cassian pressing him into the mattress flitted through his mind with such clarity that he felt certain Cassian could see it, too.
“Bunk, I mean. Obviously. Not, ah, I mean, I’m not referring to other .
. . things that other people—men, specifically, maybe—might .
. . enjoy in the, uhm, the bedroom,” he tried to clarify before immediately burying his face in his hands as he realized his error. “Sweet Jesus.”
James was busy trying to poof himself out of existence when Cassian kicked his shoe. Cassian’s subsequent laugh—real and happy, without even a hint of contempt or haughtiness—reached James’s ears, and the sound was so wonderful it made James laugh a little too. He came out from behind his hands.
“Sorry for that bit of . . . strange humor,” James said as Cassian sat beside him.
“Don’t be,” Cassian said, chuckling some more as he knocked James’s knee with his. “I like the occasional crass joke as much as most other people.”
James smiled a little, some of his embarrassment melting away.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually, James began to relive their befuddling interaction in the lounge and his woeful mistake in the saloon.
“Cassian?” James said. “I’m . . . confused.”
Cassian crooked an eyebrow. “About what?”
“You.”
Humming, Cassian seemed to think this over. “About what happened in the lounge? Or in the saloon? Or—”
“All of it.”
Cassian pursed his lips, but he offered no explanation. Or comfort.
“Are you . . . cross with me?” James asked hesitantly.
Straightaway Cassian replied, very matter-of-factly, “Yes. I am.” James’s heart sank.
“I won’t lie to you, James. I am cross with you, as you Londoners seem to put it.
I’m cross because you clearly think so little of me.
I’m cross because you seemed to assume that I’d react poorly to the mistake you made with my meal.
And, even before that, it seemed as though you were certain that I’d somehow blame you for whatever that was that happened between us in the lounge, too.
So, yes, James, I am, in fact, cross with you right now. ”
James looked away.
“And I came here, intending to chastise you for it, and to perhaps comfort you a little, too, only to then see this pathetic room you’re staying in and”—he let out a huff—“and now I’m frustrated with the White Star Line as well.
” He shook his head. “I mean, look at this place. Someone as competent as you ought to be offered a space on B-Deck. Or at least your own room.”
Warmth unfurled in James’s chest, and he smiled as his cheeks began to flush. Cassian hadn’t been thinking less of him, only of the room.
“I’m happy enough here,” James said. “I promise.”
Cassian seemed to think this over for a second.
“Alright. Good,” he finally replied.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, during which James concentrated on mustering up the courage to explain to Cassian just how horrible he felt about everything. But before he could, two other stewards came into the room, chatting and laughing. Cassian and James looked at each other.
“Where can we go?” Cassian mouthed.
James chewed on his bottom lip as he considered the question. Finally, he thought of something and stood, motioning for Cassian to follow. Keeping his head high, James strode through the corridor toward the food storage area. Cassian followed.
Hopefully, as long as James looked confident, no one would question them about where they were going. James must have been convincing enough in his posture and his swagger because he and Cassian soon reached a room that James knew would most likely be empty without issue: the potato storage room.
Hurrying inside, James braced himself as the wave of cold air slammed into him, making him shudder. After Cassian came in, James shut the door, and then he smiled a bashful smile as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Cassian’s eyes scanned the shelves of burlap sacks.
“Are these—”
“Potatoes,” James confirmed.
After a pause, Cassian shook his head and chortled.
“James, is this meant to be an insult?”
“No, why?” James asked, his brow furrowing.
“Just a playful prank, then?” Cassian said, a lilt in his voice. But James could only stare. He had no idea what Cassian was trying to insinuate. Cassian sighed. “Because of the potatoes I ordered.”
“Oh!” James blurted out. “Oh, God, no, Cassian. I swear I was not trying to poke fun at you. I knew that this room was likely to be empty right now, is all.”
“Ah, well, that’s a shame.” Cassian smirked. “It would have been clever of you.”
Even though James knew that Cassian was only intending to banter, his chest still pinched from the comment. His eyes fell to his shoes.