The Vacation Mix-Up (The Mix-Ups #1)

chapter one

You only live once. Apparently. Unless you’re a cat… or Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, because without divine intervention or a feline righting reflex, one lifetime is all we have.

Until recently, I thought “only living once” was exactly what I was doing—following my dreams of becoming a publisher in New York—by working my ass off from morning ’til night six days a week.

I live in my mother’s apartment, own a somewhat desirous closet, and my bank balance is… healthy. Not Jeff Bezos healthy. More like sweetened oatmeal healthy, but healthy nonetheless. It gets me by, considering I have no children, husband, or hobbies.

And speaking of health, I’m the picture of it.

I don’t smoke, drink, or party on weekdays…

nor weekends. I commute to work by train and foot, eat at least one substantial meal a day, and I exercise my brain with a balanced mix of words and caffeine.

My life rides a sturdy track to success, but apparently, that’s not what “only living once” is all about.

According to my mom, it’s just a fraction—a small slice of the life pie—and her dying wish was for me to have the whole thing with cream, sprinkles, and even a cherry on top.

So that’s what I’m trying to do—live a fuller, less career-driven, and sturdier life for her.

“Big boat!” my Uber driver exclaims as he pulls into the drop-off point on the dock at Cape Liberty.

I glance out the window and correct him. “It’s a ship.”

“Same thing.”

Technically, he’s right, but I don’t have time to discuss his inept choice of adjective and noun. If I get into a grammatical debate with him, I’ll be late for my allocated boarding time, and that’s not an option. I’m never late for anything. Not my train, not my job, not even my period.

“I’ll help you with your luggage,” he says, opening his door and exiting the car.

Staring at the ship, I marvel at what will be my floating home for the next few weeks. “I’m really doing this, Mom,” I whisper, hugging my bag to my chest, unable to suppress a small, anxious smile.

Embarking on a European adventure is far outside my well-constructed comfort zone. I’ve never left the country, let alone sailed to another continent, so while I’m excited, I’m also nervous. I’ll be alone—but then, that isn’t unusual, given my career-driven existence.

“Seven countries in sixteen days,” Mom said excitedly when her frail hand placed the ticket into my palm.

I remember fumbling with it as if it would burn my skin, as if taking it would seal my acceptance of her unfair and undeserving fate.

I also knew I couldn’t abandon my job for that long just to take a vacation.

My boss, Georgia Peters—head of publishing at Duxley—would never allow it.

I’m her right and left hand, her twenty-four-seven go-to, her eager and opportunistic slave.

Uncharacteristically, as it turns out, Georgia has a compassionate bone in her body and was surprisingly supportive of my trip—provided I worked on a couple of manuscripts in my downtime.

Stepping out of the Uber, I double-check that I’ve left nothing on the back seat before collecting my luggage from the driver.

“Bon voyage,” he says, saluting like a sailor.

I smile politely but have zero time to waste.

My appointed check-in is only minutes away, and I need to ring the agency temp who’ll be filling my role while I’m abroad.

Every T must be crossed, every I dotted.

Quite literally. No stone—and I mean absolutely no stone—can be left unturned, because being the personal assistant of one of the country’s most sought-after publishers isn’t an easy feat, and it’s certainly not for the faint of heart.

Georgia Peters is meticulous and indomitable, and yet I somehow manage to endure her Miranda Priestly tendencies.

If that devil wore Prada, then Georgia wears Hermès.

Nudging my large suitcase with my knee, I awkwardly sling my bag over my shoulder and dial the office on my cell, counting how many times it rings before the temp answers.

“Georgia Peters’s office, you’re speaking with Freya. How can I assist you?”

I draw in a frustrated breath. “Freya, it’s Riley. You need to answer quicker than that.”

“I picked up as soon as I could.” She sighs as if my request is impossible. It’s not; I do it day in and day out.

“We’ve been over this,” I say sympathetically. “Two rings. No more. Trust me, it’s for your own good.”

“Yes, Riley, I understand.”

“Did you collect her coffee?”

“Yes. Double espresso, turmeric, ginger, and honey.”

I wait for her to continue, and when she doesn’t, I come to a complete halt. “Please tell me you also asked for steamed milk.”

“Shit!”

“Freya!” I shriek, exasperated.

“I’m so sorry, Riley. I forgot that part.”

“I wrote it down in the Memorize-This-If-You-Want-to-Live bible I left you.”

“I know!” she whines. “But I was in a panic this morning, and the milk bit slipped my mind.”

Knowing my absence from Georgia’s life will spell trouble for everyone at the office, I glance at my watch, wincing at the time. “Has she arrived yet?”

“No.”

“Then go.”

“Huh?”

“Go! Go and get her the coffee she requires. It’s life or death, Freya. Her Golden Latte is the catalyst for the day to come.”

I shut my eyes—because headache—debating whether boarding the white monstrosity before me is a wise move or not. But then I remember my mother’s pleading, heavy gaze as she handed me the ticket, and I know I have to set sail. For her.

“Go. I’ll call ahead. It should be ready by the time you get there.”

Ending the call, I immediately dial the coffee shop to order Georgia’s liquid lifeline, informing Casey, the barista, who it’s for.

No more needs to be said.

My stomach twists with unease, but I pocket my cell and continue walking as a family of four, all wearing I Love to Cruise printed T-shirts, marches past me.

As I shuffle out of their way, a train of suitcases in their wake, the older son knocking his sister’s hat off her head and laughing as she falls behind to pick it up.

“Loser!” she calls after him.

“No fighting!” their mother barks before visibly forcing herself to take a deep breath. “Smell that fresh sea air. Isn’t it wonderful?”

I take a whiff, wishing I hadn’t. All I can smell is apprehension and fish.

The mother bends down, picks up her daughter’s hat, and then cups the little girl’s cheek, their loving exchange thickening my throat as I swallow.

Momma often cupped my cheek too, her fingers warm and nurturing.

No matter the day I had or what lay ahead, that subtle gesture always brought me peace, even if only momentarily.

Blinking back tears, I nudge my suitcase once again, following the family to where cruise staff wait to take our luggage. They check for ID tags and cabin numbers, which were printed and attached at home, and then heave my case onto a large metal cart.

I hug my tote bag to my chest again, relieved I kept my most valuable items with me.

“What’s your check-in time, ma’am?” one of them asks me.

I glance at my watch as the alarm I set starts to vibrate my wrist. “Uh… now.”

“Please proceed to the elevator and then head to the counter.”

“Thank you.” I sigh, relieved he doesn’t berate me for being late. It’s nice, considering I’m accustomed to being criticized for the smallest of things.

Noticing the doors to the elevator closing, I call out, “Hold the door!” while scurrying forward, almost tripping in my heels as a muscular arm scrawled in ink slides across the steel, preventing it from shutting.

“Thank you,” I huff out, slightly breathless as I wiggle into the cramped elevator car, my ass brushing the man’s thigh as I squish in tighter to allow the doors to close.

“Sorry.” I glance over my shoulder at him, once again hugging my bag to my chest as I smile apologetically.

“I probably should’ve gotten the next one. ”

He nods but doesn’t quite smile back, so I look forward, no stranger to cramped elevators, except they normally comprise like-minded, professionally attired people, ready to start or leave work. Not large-brimmed hats, carry-on suitcases, or flustered mothers cradling babies.

Please, God, I don’t want a cabin next to a crying baby. I’ll never get any work done.

Staring at the polished steel doors, my reflection a blur of color, I silently pray my cabin neighbors are over the age of sixty. The elderly are quiet, mostly. At least my mother was. Mostly.

My cell rings from within my pocket, so I slide it out, my stomach lurching at the office’s number on my screen.

Damn it!

I thumb the Accept button and press my phone to my ear. “Yes, Freya?”

“I have her coffee, but she’s already in her office.”

“Shit!” I blurt, once again glancing over my shoulder, this time mouthing, “Sorry,” to the other occupants.

“What do I do, Riley?” Freya asks, voice drenched with fear.

“You need to take it to her… now!”

“Okay, but what do I say?”

“Nothing. It’s too late for that.” I close my eyes. “Open my bottom drawer. You’ll see a container with cookies. Take two out.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Did you make these?”

“Yes. I baked them this morning and dropped them off on my way to the dock. They’re organic and contain chamomile tea, berries, and dark chocolate. Great for stress relief. Georgia thinks I buy them at the health food store on the corner. The recipe is in the bible.”

“You want me to make these?”

I massage my temple. “Yes.”

“But I can’t bake.”

“Well, you have two days to learn.”

“Two days?”

“Uh-huh, they stay fresh until then.”

“But I—”

“Was there anything else? I’m about to board my ship.”

She stutters, “Um… no.”

“Excellent! You’ll be fine. Just read the bible. It’s all in there.”

“Uh… Riley?”

“Yes?”

“When are you getting bac—”

I end the call, slip my cell back into my pocket, and accidentally elbow the tattooed man in the rib. “I’m so sorr—”

“It’s fine,” he coughs out, shuffling to my side and once again sliding his arm across the doors as they open, gesturing I exit before him.