Chapter 1 #2
She may have been a nervous wreck earlier, but now here she is, looking composed and professional and definitely hiding something.
But who am I to judge? I chat with dead people and trip over homicides with alarming regularity.
Whatever she’s running from, I hope she figures out soon that this ship has a habit of catching people right when they’re falling.
It caught me. And whether she knows it yet or not, she’s already got people in her corner.
I’m her loudest cheerleader.
Also, there’s that fun little detail Ransom dropped on me as our last cruise ended.
Marina Maxwell is not who she says she is.
He wouldn’t elaborate. Just gave me that look he gets when he’s uncovered classified information and can’t share without violating seventeen federal regulations. But the message hit home. Marina has secrets.
Which honestly makes her fit right in with this crew.
Whatever Ransom found out, he said he’d fill me in soon enough. But I’m planning on getting that information out of him one way or another. Let’s just say I have plans that involve lots of kisses and a locked cabin door.
More passengers stream past us—couples, solo travelers, a family with enough luggage for a year-long expedition. We smile, we greet, we point them in the right direction. It’s cruise ship choreography, and we’ve all memorized our parts.
A commotion erupts near the entrance—laughter, excited chatter, the unmistakable energy of women who’ve bonded over shared experiences and a great deal of wine.
They pour through the gangway in a glittering flood, easily fifty of them, all radiating midlife confidence and zero interest in keeping their voices down.
I don’t blame them. The ship has a way of stripping your inhibitions and turning you right back into a teenager. A teenager with better skin and a fully funded retirement account, which frankly is the superior model.
Most of the women speed past in a blur of designer luggage and American accents, but a smaller group heads straight for Wes.
The woman at the front of the pack commands attention without trying.
She’s tall, five-ten at least, with silver hair braided in an elaborate wreath around her head.
She has sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes the exact shade of fjord ice, and a spine that could intimidate granite.
She’s wearing a glorious burgundy velvet shawl with a matching dress, paired with heavy silver jewelry—brooches, a rigid metal necklace, and amber beads the size of gumballs.
She moves through the crowd like she owns not just the ship but possibly the entire ocean.
“Captain!” Her voice carries across the atrium without effort. “Astrid Storm with the Velvet Viking Book Club.”
Wes extends his hand with his company-issue captain smile. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Storm. We’re honored to host you and your group.”
“The honor is ours.” Her handshake looks strong and sturdy. Wes’ fingers may never recover. “We’ve been planning this cruise for a year.”
“A year and three months,” corrects a petite woman beside her.
She’s maybe five-two with a wild mane of frizzy auburn hair going gray at the roots, round owl-like glasses, and the soft, patient face probably earned from decades of wrangling teenagers.
She’s wearing layers of flowing scarves in earth tones and gripping a battered leather messenger bag bursting with paperbacks. “But who’s counting?”
The group laughs, warm and genuine, and I’m already in love with them.
Astrid gestures at the woman with the frizzy auburn hair. “This is Sienna Caldwell. Our resident English teacher and defender of bodice rippers everywhere.”
“They’re romance novels,” Sienna says mildly. “And they’re literature.”
“They have Vikings with abs,” Astrid counters.
“Your point?” Sienna shoots back, and more laughter ripples through their group.
I make a mental note to join this book club at my earliest convenience. Possibly before we leave port.
A third woman steps forward, tall and willowy, a honey-blonde bob swinging at her jawline. I’d bet good money she remembers birthdays and brings people coffee without being asked.
“Astrid, you’re scaring them,” she says with a light laugh. “We discussed making good impressions.”
“I am making a good impression.” Astrid turns back to Wes. “We’ve claimed the Valhalla Lounge for our Bon Voyage bash. Seven o’clock. You’re all invited.”
“The what lounge?” Tinsley asks.
“That’s what we’re calling it,” Sienna explains with a grin, her glasses sliding an inch down her nose. “It sounds far more dramatic than the Coral Lounge.”
“Everything is more dramatic with Valhalla involved,” the blonde chimes in, and the women around them break into another round of cackles.
Wes nods. “We’d be delighted. Thank you for the invitation.”
If there’s a buffet involved, I’ll be there by six forty-five. Six thirty if there’s shrimp. Some things you don’t leave to chance.
“Excellent.” Astrid winks. “Bring the whole crew. We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” I ask.
“Being alive, sweetheart,” Astrid is quick to answer. “Being gloriously, unapologetically alive.”
Here’s hoping the entire lot of them stays that way.
They sweep off toward the elevators in a cloud of velvet and enthusiasm, and I watch them go with genuine appreciation.
I love seeing women my age banding together and having a good time.
I have a feeling those women are going to be trouble—my favorite kind of trouble.
And I know for a fact Bess, Nettie, and I will want in on it.
We tend to gravitate toward a good time.
That and murder.
“I need to join that book club STAT,” Nettie announces in their wake.
Bess levels her with a look. “You don’t even read romances.”
“Well, it’s about time I start. Especially if men with hot abs are involved.” She fans herself. “Did she say Vikings?”
“She definitely said Vikings,” I confirm.
“Well then.” Nettie’s grin brims with pure mischief. “Time to expand my literary horizons. Maybe my romantic ones too.”
“It’s a book club,” Marina says. “Not a dating service.”
“Eh.” Nettie shrugs. “Everything is a dating service if you try hard enough.”
“That explains the last elevator ride,” I say.
“That was a misunderstanding,” Nettie insists.
“That was a proposal,” Bess counters. “The man filed a complaint.”
“He filed a compliment,” Nettie sniffs. “There’s a difference.”
“Words to cross-stitch on a pillow,” Bess muses.
“Already commissioned it,” Nettie fires back. “It’s hanging over my bed.”
Ransom’s hand settles warm on my lower back. “This cruise is already off to an interesting start.”
“They’re all interesting when Trixie’s involved,” Tinsley mutters, scribbling on her clipboard. “And deadly.”
I shoot her a look. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
I spot someone massive near the entrance, an entire mountain range in full Viking regalia. We’re talking fur cloak, leather armor, braided beard, and an actual shield. I get a better look at him and gasp.
Oh my word. He’s enormous. Seven feet tall at least, with shoulders that would need their own cabin. His hair hangs in thick braids of blond, brown, and gray. His face is all sharp angles and even sharper intentions, quite possibly nefarious ones, and he’s heading straight toward us.
Scratch that. He’s heading straight toward me.
“Speaking of Vikings, here comes one now,” I manage, my voice pitching higher.
The supersized Viking locks eyes with me and picks up speed. A breath hitches in my throat and a yelp escapes me as I grab onto Ransom’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his whole body shifting into protective mode.
I’m about to say something, but that Viking barrels over with a guttural snarl and does the unthinkable.
He walks right into me before unleashing an ear-piercing howl that rattles through my skull and possibly my ancestors’ skulls.
Somewhere back in the old country, a great-great-grandmother just dropped her knitting.
Then just like that, he explodes in a shower of silver stars and vanishes.
I stand there vibrating like a tuning fork while trying to keep my soul from jumping out of my body.
Embarkation day, my favorite brand of chaos. I’d like to formally amend that statement.
“What the—?” Ransom growls as he looks around. “What made that awful sound?” His eyes latch onto mine and he frowns. “That was an otherworldly visitor, wasn’t it?”
I nod, still waiting for my heart to climb back down out of my throat. Although, if I’m being honest, somewhere underneath the terror, a tiny part of me is already rolling up her sleeves for what comes next.
“You know what that means,” I say with a hesitant smile.
He gives a curt nod. “That means murder.”
Welcome aboard, everyone.