chapter seventeen
RILES
When I wake up the following morning, I’m a bowl of emotional cereal: some flakes of humiliation, a sprinkle here and there of rapture and delight, and a rather large splash of disconsolate milk.
One minute, I’m coping, then the next I’m somewhat thriving, and after that I’m completely overcome with sadness.
Not to mention Riley is burrowing underneath my skin, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
I don’t normally allow burrowers, especially those who burrow for a short-term residency.
Nor do I allow myself to be a rebound, one-night stand.
He says he isn’t about that either, but I’m not convinced. It hasn’t been long since his marriage of fifteen years crumbled to pieces, and he’s probably as emotionally confused as I am but for different reasons. How could he not be?
But my God, his burrowing is hard to obstruct. Not only is he sweetly and annoyingly persistent, but having someone show concern, humility, and interest while I’m at my lowest point is irrefutably comforting. A comfort I can’t help but selfishly cling to.
A comfort that could do more harm than good.
“It’s soggy,” he says, snapping me from my thoughts.
I look up at him. “What?”
He gestures to my bowl. “Your cereal. It’s soggy. Please tell me you’re not a weirdo who prefers their cereal swampy.”
I push my bowl aside. “No, not particularly.”
“Well, you might want to get some more and eat it without stirring a hundred times over.”
“I’m not hungry anyway.”
“Riles,” he says, his piece of bacon midway to his mouth. “You need to eat something.”
I lift my mug of caffeinated bliss. “I am.”
“Something solid. Something substantial. We’ll be up and down corridors and stairs today during the ship tour. Coffee ain’t gonna cut it.”
Rolling my eyes, I brush him off. “I’ll be fine.”
“Here,” he says, offering me what’s left of his bagel. “Have this.”
“No. It’s yours.”
“If you’re worried about boy germs, then sorry, sweetheart, you’ve already got mine.”
I narrow my gaze on him, snatch the bagel, and shove it into my mouth, mumbling, “Happy?”
“For now.” He licks his knife, his stupid, crinkly eyes sparkling with amusement, and if I didn’t like them as much as I do, I’d look away, ignoring their existence. But I do like them, a lot. They’re like a shining light on a foggy night.
“You want to kiss me again, don’t you?”
Blinking, I divert my gaze from his stupid eyes and arrogant smirk, then launch my napkin at him before standing and pushing my chair back. “In your dreams.”
“That’s funny,” he says, following after me. “Because last night, in my dream, your lips were—”
“Riley! Stop joking around.”
“Okay, okay.” He falls into step beside me. “No more kiss jokes.”
“Good. Because you’re already at three, and it’s not even midday.”
“Only three?” He huffs. “I thought I racked up more.”
Sighing my frustration, I dodge other passengers juggling bowls and plates of food from the buffet, one child in particular not watching where he’s walking, instead licking the maple syrup off his waffle.
“Whoa, little man,” Riley says as he swoops in front of me and reaches out to balance the boy’s plate before it topples onto my dress. “You nearly dropped your waffles.” He blows out an exaggerated breath and wipes his brow. “They’re safe. Crisis averted.”
The little guy looks at him and then at his plate before he ducks his head and continues licking the syrup.
I laugh; I’d probably do the same if I were his age.
Chuckling, Riley helps him to his table, scruffs the little boy’s hair, then pushes his chair in for him. My heart melts into a pool of hormonal lava, my ovaries crying out like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy doused her with water. “I’m melting. I’m meltiiing!”
I tell my ovaries to shut up.
So what if he’d make a great father and is no doubt an incredible uncle? Why’s that any of my reproductive organs’ concern?
Ugh! He’s like a groundhog. Stop burrowing, damn it.
Striding toward me, his navy T-shirt snug against his chest, his caramel-colored jacket the perfect accompaniment, I give him points for his sense of style. Burly but smart. Understated but eye-catching.
“I’m melting. I’m meltiiing!”
Allowing myself to dissolve just a little, I chew the inside of my cheek, smooth down my dress, and try to remain unfazed, undazed… and uncrazed.
He stops before me and smirks again. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”
My melting solidifies. “Oh my God! Will you quit it?”
“I’m only at four. My goal is to reach ten by day’s end.”
Groaning, I turn away and head toward Guest Services, our meeting point for the ship tour.
“Ease up, Riles.”
“You ease up.”
“I would if it wasn’t working.”
“Trust me, it’s not.”
He coughs out, “Bullshit,” and I’m tempted to take the elevator to piss him off.
But I’m a kinder person than I perhaps should be right now, so I take the stairs instead. “You can cough bullshit all you like. It’s not working, so you’re wasting your time.”
He scoots down a few steps and stops in front of me, his head level with mine. I gasp at his close proximity to my face, my eyes locked with his before they dip to my lips.
“Are you sure?” he says, voice low and sexy as hell.
No, not really.
He smells delicious, like minty flowers: fresh, clean, and…
Recognizing the scent, I lean forward as if to give him the kiss he wants, instead brushing the tip of my nose against his cheek and sniffing his hair. “Have you been using my shampoo?”
He rears back, eyes wide as he swallows. “No.”
I cough out, “Bullshit.”
Stepping back, he turns and continues down the stairs, so I chase after him.
“You have, haven’t you?”
He speeds away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Irritated, but also delightfully triumphant, because I can play and beat him at his own game, I slow down, pleased I just won that round.
Do I want to kiss him again? Yes. But it’s not a good idea.
We still have to share a room, and if things turn bad, it’ll ruin our cruise. I simply can’t risk that.
Taking the last step to Deck Four, I round the corner to where Riley is chatting with Manny and Hugo.
“There she is,” Hugo says, waving animatedly.
I wave back and smile—the shampoo conversation will be revisited later.
“Hi, guys,” I say. “Are you doing the ship tour as well?”
“We are. Manny’s been looking forward to it ever since we boarded. He likes engines and grease, and all that dirty stuff. Me, on the other hand? I just want to see how the galley works… and I don’t mind a man or two in uniform.” He winks.
I nudge his shoulder. “Me too.”
Riley cocks a brow, then says to Manny, “Engines, huh? So what is it you do for a living?”
“I’m a dentist.” He flashes his pearly whites and taps one of them.
“A dentist? That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”
Hugging his husband to his side, Manny elaborates, “My love of engines comes from my grandfather. He was a mechanic, so I spent many days in his garage, watching him work.”
Riley nods with interest, slides his hands into his pockets, and rocks back on his heels, which I’ve noticed he does here and there. Not that I’m complaining; I like when he does it. It’s suave and—
“Earth to Riley.”
Blinking, I turn to Hugo. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“I said your dress is lovely.”
“Oh.” I twist my hips, letting the floral material swish. “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.”
“A versatile number indeed.”
“Yes, very much so.” I kick my legs out. “Boots and tights for now, sandals for when we get to London. I only packed one suitcase, so I had to be smart.”
“One suitcase?” Hugo touches his chest dramatically. “Are you crazy?”
I giggle. “Yes, sometimes.”
Raising his hand to the side of his mouth like a shield, Manny whispers, “Hugo packed two… for himself.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t use yours as well.”
“You did.”
Hugo dismisses his husband. “Only a small section.”
Snickering, my heart warms as Hugo links his arm with mine and leads me toward our guide, who is issuing colored wristbands.
“Why must they be a godawful neon tangerine?” He wrinkles his nose. “They could’ve at least gone with vermillion or coral. Tangerine looks dreadful with magenta.” He glances down at his shirt, then at my dress. “At least you won’t clash. That cobalt-blue is divine.”
Impressed with his colorful knowledge, I ask, “Do you work in fashion?”
“No, dear. Interior design.”
“Really? You and Riley would get along well. He’s a carpenter. He has his own business, designing and building signature furniture.”
“He does, does he?” Hugo pokes his arm out for his wristband, so I do the same, waiting while our guide secures them.
“I haven’t seen any of his pieces,” I add, “but he’s very passionate about it, so I can only imagine they’re brilliant.”
“What are you two gossiping about?” Riley asks, separating us with his body.
Hugo points at him. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Riley tells me you build and design furniture.”
“I do,” he says, his expression appreciative. “Been doing it since I was a kid.”
“What’s your business called?”
“Wilson and Son.”
Hugo grabs Riley’s arm. “In Buxtonville?”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“I’ve bought a few of your pieces for my clients. They’re delightful.”
Eagerly ditching me for Riley, Hugo commandeers him as our guide instructs us to follow her to the service elevator.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost him for the duration of the tour,” Manny says, chuckling. “My husband can talk all day and night about furniture and decor.”
I happily shrug off the abandonment. “I bet Riley could too. He must feel so proud right now, knowing an interior decorator sources his art.”
Manny presses his lips together in agreement, then clasps his hands behind his back. “So how’s it going, sharing your cabin? The two of you seem to be getting along rather well.”
“We are. We had a few hiccups at first, but nothing we’re not working through.”
“I bet you did. What a shock to find out you both weren’t cruising alone as planned.”