Chapter 2 Willow
WILLOW
Cheyenne spots him before I do. “Don’t look. Don’t—okay, you’re looking.”
“I’m not looking.” I am absolutely looking.
Same suite of suits, same cluster of crisp collars and loosened ties at the edge of the ship’s karaoke lounge. Only it’s different tonight—no thudding bass and neon wash, just a cozy stage framed by velvet curtains and a crowd juiced on liquid courage and eighties ballads.
And there he is. Sean. Sitting with the same doctors, commanding everyone’s attention. His ankle is crossed over his knee, and he winks when he catches me looking, then goes back to talking.
“Lord, look at the ginger mountain beside him,” Dylan crows, a laugh stuttering out of him as he pretends to wipe his glasses to see Sean’s friend clearer.
My eyes wander over to his friend, the “ginger mountain.” Somehow, that first night, I was too focused on Sean to notice him, but now that I see him, it seems impossible that I ever missed him.
Tall, broad-chested, wearing a shirt that can’t decide whether to be formal or stretched across him like a test of fabric integrity.
Red hair that doesn’t obey gel. Blue eyes that cut through the dim like they’ve got their own internal backlight.
He looks strong, like he could pick me up and throw me over his shoulder.
Dylan looks between us, between the man and my open-mouthed stare and leans close to me to whisper, “I dare you to see if you can get with his friend too.” Surprised, I look over at him, and he has a mischievous smile as he waggles his eyebrows at me.
“You’re considering it,” he says, knocking my shoulder with his.
I let my gaze move back to the Irish ginger, who takes up space uncomfortably, like he doesn’t think it’s fair how big his body is, how much of the couch he needs.
I notice with a twinge of emotion that his pants ride just a little too high for how tall he is, that they show a tiny bit of his ankle.
Cheyenne snaps her fingers in front of my face. “No. Absolutely not. You like Sean. Sean likes you. He’s sweet.”
“Sweet.” I cringe, thinking about how many women waste away in relationships with sweet men. “We’re all having fun. Don’t I deserve some fun?”
The ginger laughs at something one of his friends says, and I snap my head to attention. The laugh is brief, contained, like he’s rationing it. He’s not scanning the room for attention the way Sean did. He’s watching. Noticing. The air around him feels…safe. Dangerous, but safe.
Dylan leans in. “Double the trouble, double the fun. Get yourself a duet.”
Cheyenne groans. “Dylan, stop. Willow, baby, you can do what you want, obviously, but come on. Haven’t you been jumping from man to man enough? Maybe settle on one for the next three days here, at least.”
“But…look at him.”
Cheyenne gives me the face she reserves for when I get attached to a feral cat. “You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to run away from liking someone by chasing someone else.”
“I’m not running,” I lie. And then, because Dylan is doing a drumroll on the table with two chopsticks he absolutely stole from a sushi plate, I stand. “I’m…singing.”
The sign-up sheet is a mess of hearts and illegible handwriting.
I pick a duet—“Shallow”—and sign up myself and an imaginary man—Herb Davis—because I’m a woman with a plan.
A humiliating plan, but a plan. The emcee, a woman with glitter eyeliner and the confidence of a thousand open bars, calls the performer before me.
The crowd whoops. Stage lights warm the cheap carpet. The ship hums under my feet.
When I turn from the clipboard, I nearly collide with a barrel chest.
“Sorry,” I blurt, hands up.
His hands are already out, not touching, but ready to steady. Blue eyes, close now. Freckles across the bridge of his nose like someone dusted him with cinnamon and forgot to blow it off.
He takes me in, like he’s making an inventory of me, making sure he didn’t break anything. “You grand?” His voice is a low Irish burr, different from Sean’s quick lilt. Slower. Weightier. Like a bass note you feel in your ribs.
“Grand?” I ask, confused.
“You all right?” he clarifies, his ginger eyebrows knitted together.
“Grand.” I chuckle breathily, then say, “Perfect,” which is bold for someone whose heart is trying to sprint a 5K.
His mouth doesn’t smile. His eyes do. The effect is disarming. “You’re up next. You nervous?”
“You keep a schedule for strangers?”
“I watch the room. I noticed you.” He tips his chin toward the stage, where a man is currently performing a power ballad like he’s rescuing it from a burning building. Then he leans toward me, practically bending in half, and whispers, “I noticed you watching my friend last night too.”
Shooting him an innocent smile, I stand up on my tiptoes to whisper back, “I don’t see him here now.” Because it’s true. Sean’s gone off somewhere, almost as if the stars aligned for me to flirt my butt off with his friend. Oh, I am winning this dare.
He looks around overtly, pretending to check under chairs. “Nor do I.” Then he holds out his hand. His fingers are big, blunt, a worker’s hands in a doctor’s crowd. “Declan,” he adds, as if offering a tool rather than a name. “Murray.”
“Doctor Declan Murray?” It slips out before I can catch it. I see him swallow a smile as he tongues his cheek.
The emcee calls my name. My stomach flips.
Declan steps to the side to let me pass and somebody behind us jostles with a slosh of beer.
Before I even register it, Declan’s hand is at the back of my elbow, firm, guiding me out of the splash zone, placing his body between me and the spill.
It’s nothing. It’s everything. I feel…tucked.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than it warrants.
He studies me a beat. “You really are nervous.”
“No,” I say, because pride, and also yes, I am nervous.
“In for four, out for six. Go on now.” The numbers arrive like a steady metronome. “Head up. Don’t lock your knees.”
“Are you…coaching me?”
“A bit.” The corner of his mouth thinks about a smile.
“What are your credentials? Do you sing?”
“Only when I have to.”
“And what constitutes ‘have to’?”
A beat. “When someone dares me.”
“What about if I dared you?”
His eyes hold mine until heat crawls up my neck. He doesn’t answer, and the emcee calls my name—“Willow Abel! Abel? Willow Abel?!”—so loud it feels like the building is made of my name.
“You’re up,” Declan says with a small smile, leaning just close enough for me to catch the faint trace of salt water and cologne clinging to him.
The stage is warmer than I expect. The microphone is a little sticky in my hand, and the overhead lights make it feel like there’s nowhere to hide. The opening piano notes ripple out, familiar and soft, curling into the space between heartbeats.
The words appear on the screen, but my voice comes out thin at first.
Tell me somethin’, girl…
I keep my eyes on the lyrics for the first line, but when I glance to Declan, he isn’t scrolling his phone or whispering to the person next to him like the rest of the crowd. He’s just…watching me. Steady. Still. The noise of the bar fades under that look.
Aren’t you tired tryin’ to fill that void?
My hand trembles around the mic, but my gaze doesn’t leave his. He doesn’t smile or wink or give me anything that would break the spell, just holds me there with that blue-eyed focus, as if the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
The bridge comes sooner than I expect. The space where the second voice should come in yawns open, lonely. My breath hitches. The band track swells.
And then I see Declan walking up onto the stage, saving me just like I planned, hoped. Needed. “You win,” he murmurs into my ear before taking the other microphone and sliding into the song like he was always meant to be there—low, warm, steady.
I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in…
He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t crowd me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat from his arm. Our voices find each other in the middle—his low and grounding, mine rising unsteady but steadied by him. For a second, it feels like we’ve always been singing together.
When we hit In the sha-ha-ha-ha-ha-llow, the crowd actually cheers. I can’t tell if it’s for the song, the moment, or both. I’m laughing into the next note, and it comes out breathless, like my ribs can’t hold everything in.
The final chord fades, and I realize we’re still looking at each other. He’s smiling now, small and private, like this was ours first and theirs second.
We step down together, the room bright and blurred around the edges. Declan presses a cold bottle of water into my hand and tucks a napkin into my fingers. “Hydrate. You’re pale,” he says. It should be bossy. It’s not. It’s…kind.
The emcee materializes. “You two did amazing. I’m sensing a duet in real life,” she sing-songs before dancing off.
“A duet in real life,” Declan repeats with a smile. When I look at that smile, there’s a quiet, steady thing humming under my sternum.
“I’m not looking for anything,” I blurt, because this is the part where a future version of me might need present-me to have said it out loud.
Declan nods like I told him the weather. “All right.”
“You’re not going to argue?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No,” I admit. I look to my right into a porthole. Sea and night pressed together like secrets. I catch my reflection in the glass—flushed cheeks, a mouth I don’t quite recognize because it looks a little reckless, a little sure. “I don’t know.”
“Then I won’t.” He stops walking. The hall light gilds his copper hair. “But what if you don’t have to look for it? What if I just give it to you?”
My pulse trips. “Give me what?”
“Do you want to find out?” he asks, sliding his room key out of his pocket. When I don’t answer, he murmurs, “Let me take care of you for a while. You like to be taken care of.”