Chapter Fourteen
James
Next to the white marble fireplace in Titanic’s First-Class Smoking Room, James was standing idly, patiently waiting for one of the passengers to request his service.
His thoughts were scattered and hazy, memories from the previous night on the promenade constantly flitting into his consciousness and making it impossible to focus.
When his eyes found one of the muses in the room’s stained glass windows, his stomach tightened as the image of Cassian flinging his notebook overboard burst into his mind with painful clarity.
It had been over twenty hours since the incident had occurred, and James still hadn’t mustered the strength to confront him.
Instead, he had somehow managed to avoid Cassian completely, first by chance, seemingly, since Cassian hadn’t come to the saloon for breakfast, and then, purposefully, when James had offered to switch with a café steward for a while (the fellow had been positively thrilled with the offer, thankfully).
Now, though, James was back to working in the Smoking Room.
And he knew that he’d have to face Cassian soon.
Over the next hour, James fetched pipes, cigars, and liquor for a few clusters of men around the Smoking Room but was surprised to see that Cassian was nowhere to be found.
The minutes began to crawl as though James’s worsening unease was warping the passage of time.
If only James was able to sense where the two of them stood with regard to the status of their perverse friendship.
Logically, James knew that he ought to have been irate with Cassian now, but he couldn’t manage to be.
Despite the venomous insults that Cassian had spat at him out on the promenade, James still found himself hoping that Cassian continued to want him, either as a friend or, as wicked though such a hope was, as a lover.
And it wasn’t that James wasn’t feeling hurt by Cassian’s behavior.
He was. But James felt somewhat responsible for the whole thing, too.
After all, Cassian had a fiancée. He was engaged to a perfectly lovely woman, and yet here James was, a man and a saloon steward, mucking around with Cassian’s emotions by waxing poetic about romance while planting the most erotic, sinful, illegal fantasies in the man’s mind.
Quite honestly, James couldn’t blame Cassian for reacting so poorly to having such lurid fantasies shoved into his face.
James knew better than most people the power that words could have.
He’d been perfectly aware of the potential impact that painting the picture of two men in the throes of passion might have had on someone like Cassian, too—someone who was so clearly on the precipice of surrendering to the lust he felt toward another man—and yet James had still shared everything with him.
Hell, James had shared it with him in part because he’d known the potential impact that it would have.
Cassian may have been the one to have thrown the notebook overboard, but in James’s mind, he himself was equally as culpable in causing his unfinished story to become lost to the unforgiving sea.
Stuffing tobacco into the bowl of a pipe, James heaved a sigh.
Dammit, he couldn’t stand the uncertainty anymore.
He wanted Cassian to confront him. He wanted Cassian to march into the Smoking Room and order James to his knees, to force James to ask for forgiveness for having selfishly nudged him closer and closer to the brink of betraying his fiancée.
And James wanted Cassian to say that he himself was sorry, too.
Oh, how perfectly wonderful it would be for Cassian to take his face in his hands and caress his cheeks.
He longed to hear Cassian say that he still wanted James in his life and that he hadn’t meant to hurt him.
Or even that he had meant to hurt him, but that he was prepared to make it better, to nurse James’s emotional wounds.
And James wanted so fervently to forgive him.
Despondent, James stayed lost in these pathetic thoughts as he brought the pipe over to the man who had requested it.
Afterward, James began to head back over to the fireplace when he saw Cassian come into the room.
His heart knocked into his rib cage, and he froze, his foot hovering a half meter off the floor for a fraction of a second before the two of them locked eyes.
James’s breath shook on his next exhale, and Cassian’s expression remained unreadable as he walked past. Soon, Cassian looked away, and then he and his friend Jacob Calbot found two free low-backed lounge chairs and sat.
Swallowing thickly, James started over. His heart was beating so fiercely by the time he reached them that he thought he might collapse.
James stood there, unmoving, for what felt like forever as he waited for Cassian to acknowledge him somehow.
But Cassian kept his focus on his companion, letting out a light laugh at something the other man said.
James cleared his throat. Cocking an eyebrow, Cassian looked over. He married his hands together in front of his chest, his fingers forming a steeple, and pursed his lips ever so slightly, whether to contain a smile or a scowl, James couldn’t be sure. Most likely the latter.
It took James another three or four seconds to realize that he ought to say something.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” James managed. “What, uhm, what can I get for you tonight?”
“I’ll have a brandy,” Mr. Calbot said. “No mixers. Light ice.”
“Good choice,” James said.
He heard Cassian let out a fast breath through his nose, not exactly a scoff or a laugh, but close enough to both that James heard it for the subtle insult it was meant to be.
He tried not to be charmed by the other man’s pretension, but he couldn’t not like it for some reason.
James smiled in spite of himself, his cheeks warming in tandem.
God, he loved how conceited Cassian was.
“And for you, sir?” he asked Cassian, keeping his voice level, but barely.
“Brandy as well,” Cassian said. “Neat.”
James pressed his lips firmly together to keep himself from chortling.
He could have sworn that he saw Cassian’s mouth twitch in return, as though he was now suppressing a smile, too.
Hope fluttered in James’s stomach as he moved to leave, and he wondered whether or not reconciliation might be possible after all.
He only made it a couple of steps before Cassian’s voice stopped him.
“Mr. Morrow,” he said, causing James to whirl back around. He leaned forward, holding something out for James in his outstretched hand. “Here. I believe this fell out of your pocket.”
It was a piece of paper, folded to be no larger than the size of Cassian’s palm. James started to shake his head in bewilderment but then caught the look in Cassian’s eyes, one that suggested he should keep his mouth shut and take the paper.
So, that was what James did.
His and Cassian’s fingers brushed as Cassian handed it to him, and James’s stomach flip-flopped from the feel of Cassian’s smooth skin. Once he had the paper, he hurried off, walking over to the Smoking Room’s bar so that he could read it. Hands shaking, James unfolded the paper.
Meet me near the Reading and Writing Room at 11:30.
Quickly, James fumbled for his pocket watch. Only thirty more minutes. Blowing out a breath, James refolded the paper and began to prepare the orders.
***
It was 11:28 p.m., and James was looking for the entrance to Titanic’s Reading and Writing Room, his stomach in his throat.
Walking along the corridor, James searched the wood paneling to find the entrance.
He hadn’t seen the room before. Even though people were permitted to enjoy beverages there, no stewards had been specifically assigned to work in it.
Instead, whenever one of the passengers enjoying the space needed something, they had to beckon a steward over with the call bell.
James hadn’t been asked to respond to those sorts of calls yet, though he knew other stewards who had.
Once James found the door, he pushed it open, expecting to see people finishing up inside since it was nearly closing time, but instead, the room was empty.
Furrowing his brow, he leaned in to have a look around while he waited for Cassian.
It was strikingly bright, the luminescence from the room’s many light fixtures bouncing off of the white walls and rose-pink carpet, and James blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the change.
Even though the corridor itself was more well-lit than the Smoking Room (which possessed an intentionally cozy and maybe even somewhat somber ambiance), the lighting in the Reading and Writing Room was much more intense.
Not unpleasantly so, but it felt strange to see such a bright room so close to midnight.
“James.”
James startled from the sound of his name, though the smoothness of Cassian’s voice also made him weak in the knees. Holding his breath, he turned to face his friend.
“Right on time, as expected,” Cassian said.
James only barely managed a nod.
“I have something for you,” Cassian remarked.
He revealed a notebook he’d been holding behind his back—leather bound, burgundy color, much nicer than the one the man had thrown into the Atlantic.
James’s breath rushed out of him in one fast whoosh.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Still, he succeeded in reaching out a slightly shaky hand and taking it.
“It’s my own personal notebook,” Cassian explained. “As such, I expect you to return it to me once we reach New York.” His lips curled into a small smile. “But with the first part of your story written in it, of course.”
James’s cheeks burned hotter, and he huffed a light laugh.
“You want me to write my story in your notebook?” he asked.
Cassian shrugged. “Didn’t I say that I believed I would enjoy it?”