Chapter 4
JORDAN
The book was a history of naval warfare in the Pacific. Not exactly light reading, but Jordan had always found comfort in strategy and logistics. Tonight, though, she'd read the same paragraph three times without taking in a word.
She was waiting. She didn't want to admit she was waiting, but the evidence was there: the way her eyes kept drifting toward the door, the way she'd checked the time four times in the past twenty minutes, the way her body refused to settle into a comfortable position.
It was nearly eleven. The charter dinner had finished an hour ago, but Dani was usually busy handling last-minute requests such as extra pillows, bedtime tea and other small tasks that kept her on her feet.
The door finally opened and Dani slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. She looked exhausted—shoulders slightly slumped, blonde wisps of hair escaping from her ponytail.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I'll try to be quiet."
"It's okay, I'm reading." Jordan held up the book. "How was your day?"
Dani let out a breath that was almost a laugh, leaning back against the closed door. "Do you want the diplomatic version or the honest version?"
"Honest. Always."
"Well, the children are feral. But the daughter, Sarah, is worse than the children.
At least they have the excuse of being young.
Sarah spent the entire afternoon on her phone while Grace wrangled her kids.
And then at dinner, she sent back the lamb because it was 'too lamby.
'" Dani's voice took on a slightly higher pitch.
"What does that even mean? Too lamby? It's lamb.
It tastes like lamb. What was she expecting, for it to taste like chicken? "
Jordan's mouth twitched. "What did Lindsay say?"
"I won't repeat what Lindsay said. Not in polite company." Dani kicked off her loafers. "But she made a second portion that was somehow less lamby—I don't know how, I don't ask questions—and Sarah pronounced it acceptable."
"And the grandparents?"
"Oh, they're delightful. Genuinely lovely." Dani sank onto the edge of the pull-out bed. "But it's fine. I've dealt with much worse."
"I don't think I could stay calm the way you do," Jordan said. "Smiling through all of that."
Dani looked up. "You? Please. You're the calmest person I've ever met. Nothing rattles you."
"That's what you think?"
"That's what everyone thinks. Jordan Hayes, unflappable captain.
Cool under pressure. Steady as a rock." Dani chuckled.
"I've seen you navigate through a storm without breaking a sweat.
I've seen you handle a medical emergency with the Coast Guard on the radio and six panicking guests behind you. You're always in control."
Jordan set her book down on the small shelf beside her berth.
"That's the bridge. That's the job I trained for.
Give me a crisis at sea and I know exactly what to do.
Every decision has a right answer, and if you've done the work, you know what it is.
" She paused. "But what you do—handling people, their emotions, their unreasonable demands—that's different. There's no manual for that."
"You're good with people."
Jordan actually laughed, and it surprised Dani. "I appear to be good with people. There's a difference." She gestured vaguely toward the bridge. "I'd rather hide up here. And between you and me? The Captain's dinners?"
"What about them?"
"I hate them."
Dani laughed as she stood, stretching her arms above her head. Her shirt rode up, revealing a strip of tanned skin above her waistband, and Jordan looked away quickly, fixing her gaze on the window.
"I should shower," Dani said. "I smell like children and anxiety."
"The towels are on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe."
Dani paused mid-stretch. "I know."
"Right. Of course you do."
"Captain..." Dani's voice was gently teasing now. "Who do you think puts them there? Who do you think makes your bed and cleans your cabin?" She was grinning widely now, enjoying Jordan's discomfort. "I probably know this room better than you do."
She grabbed a towel and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later Jordan heard the shower start and she lay still in her berth, staring at the closed bathroom door.
Four years. Four years of Dani moving through this space, touching her things, making her bed. Four years of Dani knowing the intimate details of how she lived, what she read, how she refolded her clothes after Dani had put them away.
The shower ran on, a steady white noise.
Jordan looked at the pull-out bed where Dani would sleep tonight. At her duffel bag underneath it and the book on her pillow.
The shower shut off and Jordan moved without thinking. She set her book on the shelf, switched off the reading lamp, and turned onto her side, away from the pull-out bed. Eyes closed. Pretending to sleep.
She knew it was cowardice but the alternative—being awake when Dani emerged, watching Dani dress for bed, making awkward conversation—felt like more than she could handle right now.
The bathroom door opened. Soft footsteps on the floor. A slight creak as Dani settled onto the pull-out bed.
Silence.
Then, very quietly: "Goodnight, Jordan."
Jordan didn't respond, and she heard Dani shift, getting comfortable. The whisper of sheets being pulled up. A soft sigh. And then nothing. Just the two of them, lying in the dark, three feet apart.
Jordan had shared berthing with dozens of women during her Navy years. She'd learned to sleep through snoring, through conversations, through the constant movements of people existing in close quarters. It had never been a problem.
So what was it about Dani that kept her wide awake?