Chapter Seventeen
James
James was still finalizing his plan on how to spend some more time together with Cassian later that afternoon when Cassian and Mr. Calbot walked into the lounge, with Mr. Quinn following close behind.
James’s stomach somersaulted the moment that he and Cassian locked eyes, and he was helpless to fight the smile that stretched across his face, his cheeks warming as he started over to them.
Cassian, meanwhile, remained fairly stoic, only one corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly, even though James was beaming at him like a fool.
But even that little hint of a smile—oh, hell, it made James feel so Goddamned loved.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” James said as Cassian and Mr. Calbot sat down on one of the sofas. Mr. Quinn stayed standing with his hands hooked behind his back. “Are you interested in some wine or a cocktail?”
“Whiskey for me,” Cassian replied. “Neat, of course.”
Of course.
James wished he could repeat those words out loud in a slightly mocking tone. Still, James must have said it with his facial expression because Cassian’s smile broadened, and he quirked an eyebrow as he married his fingertips together.
“Is there a problem?” the man asked.
“None at all, sir,” James replied. “I was merely thinking to myself that while some might say that liquors are best enjoyed straight, without the addition of ice or bitters or syrups, others might have the opposite opinion.”
“Mmm, and those people would be wrong,” Cassian said.
“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Mr. Calbot interjected. “I, myself, find liquor best served chilled.” He looked up at James and smiled. “I’ll have a Manhattan, please. Leave the ice in it.”
“Excellent choice,” James said with a nod.
Before James turned to leave, he caught Cassian’s reaction. Narrowing his eyes, Cassian seemed to be metaphorically, if not literally, biting his tongue, though the corners of his mouth were slightly pinched, too, perhaps to suppress a smile from hearing James’s remark.
Oh, how James loved being playful with Cassian.
While he was pouring the whiskey in the lounge pantry area, another steward came up behind him.
“Are you Mr. Morrow?” the man asked.
Pausing, James looked over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s me.”
“One of the fellows who works in the bath complex said that he thought about your offer to switch later this afternoon. He asked me to tell you that he’d be happy to work here in the lounge while you work in the bath house for a couple of hours.
” Smiling a bemused-looking smile, the man tilted his head in confusion. “Unusual request.”
“Yes, well, I’m . . . easily bored,” James lied, heat creeping up the back of his neck.
“And the man with whom I’ll be switching .
. . well, I-I switched with him once before so that he could sleep in.
I liked working the bathing and swimming areas here on board, and he seemed to like the saloon well enough, too, so I’m confident that he’ll fit right in working here in the lounge.
It’s even simpler than working mealtimes, isn’t it?
Mostly, we only fetch the passengers their beverages of choice.
Speaking of which”—James forced a smile and picked up the glasses—“I should bring these over now.”
James circled past the other steward and headed back toward the area where Cassian and Mr. Calbot were waiting, engaged in what looked like a lively conversation.
After delivering both the Manhattan and the whiskey (which involved James intentionally brushing his fingers against Cassian’s when handing Cassian his snifter), James left the men to enjoy their beverages in peace while he waited on the other passengers and considered how to best relay the message to Cassian about the Turkish Bath Complex.
He needed to encourage Cassian to visit for a while and perhaps to ask for a massage or otherwise have a swim.
Unfortunately, the bath complex cost extra in the afternoon, and consequently, Cassian would have to purchase a ticket for it.
But hopefully the man would realize that there were few other options available for the two of them to spend time together outside of the saloon, the lounge, or the Smoking Room.
In truth, James thought his idea was rather creative.
He hoped that Cassian would think so too.
While pouring some wine for another passenger, James continued to consider how he could communicate with Cassian when they were in the lounge like this.
Writing him a note was likely the best choice.
James retrieved his mostly unused order pad from the inner pocket of his jacket, along with a pen. Hastily, he scrawled Cassian a note.
Turkish Bath Complex. One o’clock. Shampooing Room?
James swallowed thickly. Dear God, he hoped that no one else in the bath complex would request a massage from him. He’d rather not rub his hands on any of these other men. And, most likely, Cassian would rather that he not, either.
After removing the paper from the order pad and folding it into a little square, James shoved it into the front pocket of his trousers, returned the order pad and pen to their original place, and snatched the wine that he needed to serve from the cart.
Later, after he’d finished serving a few more passengers, he circled back to Cassian and Mr. Calbot, but the moment that Cassian’s voice reached his ears, he stopped in his tracks.
“Yes, exactly, the pirate forces him to be on his crew,” he heard Cassian say.
“Oh, my. That certainly does sound like an interesting story,” Mr. Calbot replied. “And you said the pirate’s name is Frederick?”
“Yes, it is. Actually, I chose that name for him myself. I thought it would be fun.”
Mr. Calbot laughed. “Indeed, it is.” He brought his tumbler to his lips and took a sip of his Manhattan.
“Well, I hope that you and Mr. Morrow can have it published somewhere. Ingrid and I both enjoy reading some of the short stories they have in a few of the magazines we purchase. It really would be something to see Mr. Morrow’s work in one someday and to be able to tell everyone that he was one of our stewards on the Titanic. ”
Cassian laughed lightly. “I’ll see if I can convince him, but I think Mr. Morrow might not be so eager to publish his work.”
“Why ever not? Everyone likes adventure stories.”
Cassian merely shrugged and brought his snifter to his lips.
Meanwhile, James stayed frozen. His knees began to wobble, and it felt as though every ounce of blood had left his face.
Had Cassian really told his friend about his story?
Surely he hadn’t mentioned the kinds of adventures that the sailor would be having on the ship?
Cassian mustn’t have been that intoxicated.
Still, regardless of whether or not it made logical sense to be worried, James stood there unmoving, lightheaded and confused.
It was then that Cassian spotted him. At once, Cassian’s smile faltered, and worry lines rippled across his forehead as his eyes widened with what was probably concern. He shifted forward as though moving to stand but then stilled like he thought better of it.
“Mr. Morrow,” he said, “I was just relaying the basics of your latest story to Mr. Calbot here. Somehow, we found ourselves on the subject of literature, and I couldn’t help but bring up your relevant talents.
Don’t worry, though, I haven’t spoiled the plot.
I only told him about the initial kidnapping of our poor unnamed sailor friend. ”
James let out a long breath. On his subsequent inhale, he started to feel a little less like passing out.
“Oh,” he said. “I, uhm, I hadn’t expected that you’d ever . . . I mean, I’m just a beginner. I’ve really only ever written for myself.” He winced. God only knew what someone like Cassian’s companion would think of that. “Sorry. I know how strange that must seem.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Morrow,” Mr. Calbot said with a cheery smile.
“It’s not all that strange to me. I admire your interest in writing, as a matter of fact, not to mention your dedication to pursuing something that you love.
Actually, I’m a little envious of it. If only the hobby I had as a boy had been suitable to carry with me into adulthood.
But, oh, my father, he forbade me to continue with my scrapbooking once I was teetering on the cusp of manhood. ”
“Scrapbooking?” Cassian asked with a confused, lopsided smile.
Mr. Calbot’s cheeks reddened, and he looked at his drink.
“Yes, scrapbooking. Initially, I was only imitating my mother since that was one of her favorite pastimes, but then I found little ways to make it mine.” He laughed to himself and shook his head before looking up from his glass.
“I liked to press flowers in them. I . . . well, I really like flowers.” He shrugged.
“Now, that’s a much stranger hobby than writing, isn’t it? ”
James smiled at him.
“I think that’s really sweet, actually. I like flowers, too. Not enough to have ever considered keeping them, but that really does sound like a lovely hobby to me.”
“Not to my father it wasn’t,” Mr. Calbot said with a small sigh, though he smiled through it, possibly because he’d sufficiently buried the pain of having to abandon his hobby by now.
“Alas, it’s not one I was able to continue.
” He pointed his finger at James and then at Cassian in a playful manner.
“I trust that neither of you will share this going forward. Ingrid knows, of course, but I haven’t talked about this with anyone else.
” He shook his glass back and forth and let out a laugh.
“On that note, did you add something funny to my cocktail, Mr. Morrow?”
James and Cassian laughed a little, too.
“Only the expected ingredients, I promise,” James said.
Cassian clapped Mr. Calbot on the shoulder.