chapter eighteen #2
After our dining session ends, Riles and I make our way through the atrium and past groups of photographers posing passengers in front of ritzy, painted backdrops as if they’re members of the royal family.
“Those poor kids,” she says, pointing at one of the setups. “They look as stiff as boards.”
“I’m more worried about the father. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
She giggles and grabs my arm. “Let’s get our formal photo taken. We can act snobby and pretentious.”
Reluctantly allowing her to drag me to the spot next in line, I cringe at the fake chandelier and grand staircase props. “This is stupid, Riles.”
“I know!”
“So why are we doing it?”
“Ease up, Riley. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” I point to the nearly-passed-out father. “He doesn’t look like he’s having fun.”
She ignores me, her voice posh. “If only I had my tiara and a glass of Chardonnay.”
“You have a tiara?” I ask, confused.
“No!” She blinks her pretty lashes at me. “Do I look like I own a tiara?”
I eye her up and down. “Yeah, you kinda do.”
Playfully scowling, she once again drags me forward when we’re called for our portrait.
“Good evening,” the photographer says. “Please, have a seat, ma’am.” He ushers Riles to a stool and positions her, slightly angled, her knees pressed together, her hands neatly resting on her lap. “And you, sir, stand behind her and place your hand on her shoulder.”
I do as I’m told, feeling outright ridiculous.
“Excellent! Very nice.” He snaps a few shots and then checks his screen. “Now, ma’am, raise your right hand and place it over his. Yes, like that. And now look up over your shoulder and into his eyes. And you, sir, lean forward and look into her eyes too.”
For fuck’s sake. Does anyone actually buy these stupid portraits?
Awkwardly bending down, I lock eyes with Riles.
“Perfect!” the photographer says.
Riles blinks rapidly, her face tense and strained as if she can smell something unpleasant. I sniff, but all I can smell is her perfume.
Her nose wrinkles.
My eye twitches.
A snorty crackling sound bursts from her throat, much like a pinched balloon releasing air.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, jerking back.
She clutches her waist and bursts out with the laughter she’d been desperately trying to contain. “You look constipated.”
“I feel constipated,” I say through gritted teeth, “leaning over like this. This pose is unnatural.”
Fanning her face, she wipes tears from her eyes and puffs out a breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s try that again.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes!”
“Then stop laughing so we can get it done already.”
“I’m sorry! I just… I can’t keep a straight face. We must look ridiculous.”
“You think?”
Glancing down at her once more, I attempt to remain poker-faced while her mouth spasms, her brow bunching as she fights her pending hysterics.
“Don’t laugh,” I whisper, trying not to move my lips.
Her balloon-like screech slowly bubbles in her throat again.
“Don’t.”
It grows louder and higher, and I can’t hold my composure any longer, both of us bursting into laughter, Riles nearly falling off her seat.
“I can’t,” she says, gasping for air.
Bracing her in my arms, I hold onto her as she cackles like a hyena. “Clearly.”
“I’m sorry.”
The photographer waves his camera at us. “Try dipping her.”
In what… ketchup?
I frown at him. “She’s not a french fry.”
“Dip,” he insists. “Like a dance.” Nodding, pleased with his recommendation, he tries to demonstrate by throwing his head back a few times, twitching like a zombie.
I stare at him in disbelief and murmur, “What dance does he want us to do… ‘Thriller’?”
“No.” Riles giggles. “One of those romantic dips you see on movie posters.”
“Why?”
“Why not, I guess.” She guides my arm behind her back and clasps my other hand. “Are you ready?”
I grunt. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She goes to lean back but pauses. “Don’t you dare drop me.”
A devilish grin stretches my face. “Never.”
“I mean it!”
“I won’t. Just…. Let’s just get this over and done with already.”
Dipping her a fraction, my eyes chasing hers, I deliberately let her fall a tiny bit before securing her again.
“Riley!” she squeals, nearly crushing my hand with hers.
“Jesus.” I chuckle. “I won’t. I promise. I’ve got you.”
She shoots me a menacing look, then relaxes, so I lower her again, this time slowly and steadily, her head falling back, my spread fingers supporting her nape.
The skin of her collarbone glitters in the light—perfect, smooth, no doubt delicious.
I stare at it, wondering how it would taste, and if I did press my lips to her skin, would I be able to remove them again?
All humor and antics dissolve, my heart pounding at an unnatural speed.
“Uh… Riley?”
“Yeah?” I reply, still staring at her delectable skin.
She lifts her head, neck strained. “I think we’re done.”
Shit!
I’m tempted to seize the opportunity while she’s helplessly trapped in my arms by kissing her as I did in the theatre, but despite what my mind and body want, I don’t do it. She might kick, scream, and cause a scene. And the last thing I want is to erase the progress we’ve made.
Lifting her enough for my mouth to graze her earlobe, I nudge her neck with the tip of my nose and whisper, “We’re done… for now.”
She gasps ever so slightly, her fingertips biting into my forearms as I spin her onto both feet again, her chest rising and falling as she smooths the satin of her dress down her thighs.
“Excellent!” The photographer claps. “Good dip, yes?”
Riles touches her ear, her cheeks rosy, her eyes ghosting mine. “Yes. A very good dip.”
He hands her a ticket. “You take this to the gallery.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“You’re not seriously going to buy one of those portraits, are you?” I ask her, stepping aside for the next lot of dummies to pose.
She cocks her shoulder and hugs the ticket to her chest. “I might.”
Chuckling, because she probably will, I ask, “Where to next?” hoping it’s back to the cabin, or somewhere private at least.
Riles fixes the lapels of my jacket, slots the ticket into my breast pocket, and links her arm with mine. “I made a reservation today at a bar on the top deck. Thought it would be nice to have a quiet drink before seeing the Northern Lights. Care to join me?”
What feels like a mild current of electricity jolts through my body. It’s been so long since I’ve walked with a woman on my arm. That sense of pride, purpose, and possession.
I grin. “Lead the way.”
“It involves an elevator ride,” she taunts.
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
She grips my arm tighter. “I’m sure you can too.”
We make our way to the top floor, and I barely notice the walls caving in, my mind at ease with Riles by my side.
“What did you mean by ‘we’re done, for now’ exactly?” she asks as the doors slide open and we exit.
I side-eye her, thrilled my promise is lodged in her head. “I meant that, when you’re ready to kiss me again, it’ll happen.”
She stops at the entrance of the bar, her stare trained dead ahead. “What makes you think I’ll be ready to kiss you again?”
As I did downstairs, I lean in, graze my lips against her earlobe, and nudge her neck with the tip of my nose.
She gasps.
“That,” I whisper.
“You think my shock indicates I want to kiss you?”
“I do.”
“That’s rather presumptuous.”
“Is it?”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she lets go of my arm and explains to the front-of-house crewmember that she has a reservation. We’re then shown to a lounge, my hand happily resting on the small of her back until she takes a seat in a high-backed velvet wing chair.
“This is lovely,” she says, wiggling her ass on the cushion.
I remove my jacket, drape it over the arm of my seat, and roll up my shirtsleeves as she scoops up the menu and studies the list, her tongue darting out and wetting her lips.
“Oooh! I know what I’m having.”
I suppress a groan and sit, resting my ankle over my knee. “What’s that?”
“The peanut butter cocktail. Yum!” She leans across the small table between us and hands me the menu. “How about you?”
Scanning what’s on offer, I opt for something strong. I’m gonna need it if I’m to respectfully keep my hands to myself. “An Old Fashioned.”
“Are you?” she asks, lips pursed as she crosses her legs.
“Am I what?”
“Old-fashioned?”
I admire the curves—hers and the chair’s. “With some things, yes. With other things, no.”
Her brow hitches.
I smirk. “You seem shocked.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m not. You definitely give off both vibes.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know.” She moves her hand to her hair and twirls a loose tendril with her finger. “You just seem old-fashioned, but you also don’t.”
“In what way?”
Our waiter arrives, so she lets go of her hair, appearing relieved for the interruption. “Can we order an Old Fashioned and a Peanut Butter Mudslide, please?” she asks.
“Certainly. Whiskey or bourbon?”
Riles snatches up the menu and reads over it again, confused.
“Whiskey,” I insert.
He scans our lanyards and leaves.
“I was worried for a moment,” she says, setting down the menu. “I thought he meant my cocktail was the one with either bourbon or whiskey. Yuck. Thank God it was yours.” She winces.
I nod.
She smiles nervously.
I smirk.
“Sooo…” Her pretty eyes divert from mine to scan the room. “This bar is lovely.”
I rub my beard, enjoying that I’ve made her nervous… in a good way. “You said that already.”
“Did I?” She uncrosses her legs and then recrosses them.
I nod again.
“Well, it is.” She points up. “Look at that sunset.”
Arcing my head back, orange hues illuminate the sky beyond the glass-domed ceiling above, ornate pendant lights hanging from mirrored beams separating the many windows curving around us.
I have to agree with her; the bar is impressive—nineteenth-century décor with a modern twist. But I’m more concerned with the response she never gave me.
My eyes meet hers again. “You’re avoiding my question.”
“What question?”
“About how you think I’m not old-fashioned.”
Her mouth quirks. “Oh yes, that.”
“Well?”