1. Eliza
Chapter one
Eliza
T he smell of salt wraps around me as I make my way up to the Mystic Cruises ship. With one hand, I pull my luggage along behind me. In the other I hold my ticket.
I need this. For so many reasons, I need this. This cruise-turned-expedition is the only chance I have to get away from my life for a little while. I’ll be back to work just about the second I return home—and back to avoiding my ex-fiance at every turn.
Literally. Unless, of course, he transfers to another lab while I’m away. But I doubt that. Adam has never run from me, not even after we broke up. I doubt he’ll suddenly start. Even if it would make my life just that much more pleasant.
That’s why I signed up for this cruise. Adam might not run from things, but I do.
But at least I ran to a luxury cruise ship.
Although I still can't figure out how I got such an amazing deal on it. It's not like I usually have the budget for champagne wishes and caviar dreams, but I'm not going to question it and just enjoy this opportunity.
On a day like this, with the sun shining brightly and the warmth of the breeze wrapping around me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
At least that’s how I feel until I don’t quite clear the edge of the gangway as I finish the climb up to the deck, and then promptly stumble when I try to step aboard.
One minute I was in the air and the next I’m on the ground, slammed against the wood, cheeks flushed and knees throbbing along with the stubbed toe that led to this humiliating moment in time. I’m thankful I caught myself with my hands only a tiny fraction of an inch away from hitting my head on the deck too before I snapped it back up, but I’m sure I look ridiculous as I try to catch my breath.
Black shoes come into my field of vision, along with the smell of amber and mint. An odd combination, but… it works. A firm hand on my shoulder, and another juts out in front of me. “You need to get back up.” The voice is gravelly and masculine and maybe a little annoyed, but I take the hand anyway because I don’t trust that my knees, which shake with my mortification, could hold me up without something to stabilize me.
I mean to only glance at his face, but my eyes latch onto his and I can’t bring myself to look away as I absorb every detail of his features. The jet black hair that parts in the middle and brushes across his equally black brows. The perfectly straight nose, the full lips, the tanned complexion. Even his eyes, which are so brown they’re closer to black, draw me in.
He’s beautiful. The man, presumably in his early-to-mid-thirties, crooks an eyebrow, then bends down and grabs my suitcase for me. My eyes shift momentarily to the black ink I can see peeking out from the collar of his shirt. It’s not enough to tell what it is, but something is there.
Adam didn’t have tattoos. I didn’t think I liked them.
But the warm flush I feel no longer has anything to do with the temperature and everything to do with the man in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice weak and shaky.
His brows furrow. “Are you well?” he asks. “Did you hit your head? It looked like you might have.”
I’m about to tell him no, but I appreciate him humbling me by thinking I’m brain damaged, but he drags me over to the side and away from the throng of people I’d been blocking from getting on the boat, tugging my luggage and his own along beside us.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, trying to fight off yet another rush of embarrassment as he assesses every inch of my face, and not in the admiring way I’d been looking at him earlier, either.
“You hit the ground pretty hard,” he insists. “I was halfway across the boat and I heard it.”
“You’re not helping,” I snap at him.
He frowns, but nods. “Right.” He pauses and looks around, then sighs. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? You know your name and can see how many fingers I’m holding up?” He takes a step back and lifts four fingers.
“Four,” I say. “And Eliza.”
“Your name is four and I’m holding Eliza fingers?”
I give him a look. “Funny.”
He shrugs. “At least let me walk you to your room. So I can make sure you get there okay. ”
I laugh and shake my head. “No.”
This seems to surprise him. The word itself looks like it’s a shock to his system. I take in his attire, the expensive quality his clothes seem to have. The Louis Vuitton suitcase. Clearly, the man has money. He’s probably not used to being told no. “What?”
“No, I’m not going to let a strange man I just met lead me to my room when he thinks I have brain damage. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Technically, you’d be leading. And I don’t think you’re brain damaged . I just think you might have a concussion.
“That’s brain damage.”
He frowns again. “I know that. I just meant—nevermind.” He blows out a breath. “Just—are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m not a medical doctor, but I do have a PhD. I think I’m capable of determining whether or not I’m fine.”
He still seems unsure. Or maybe this is all a part of his game. Luring girls in by pretending he cares and then getting them alone.
That theory is quickly tossed out the window when he says, “Fine. I won’t follow you to your room if you promise me something.”
“You mean if I promise not to call the cops?”
“Cruise security,” he corrects. “But no. Just… promise you’ll meet me at the bar in a few hours. So I know you’re not passed out in your room with head trauma.” He gestures around the boat, bustling with people. “It’ll give you enough time to settle in and enough time for other people to start drinking exuberant amounts of alcohol. Just meet me there, prove to me you’re okay in a public place, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I stare at him for a long moment. I know I should just agree and walk away, that I should be grateful there’s someone here who cares, even a little, if I live or die, but all I can think is—
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does it matter to you?”
He stares at me for a long moment, as if he hadn’t really thought about that. As if he doesn’t even know. But then he says, “I turned around when you fell. I helped you up. You’re my responsibility now.”
“I can take care of myself,” I defend.
The man says, “The bar? Seven o’clock?”
I stare for a long moment, debating, before giving in and nodding. Fine. I’d probably wind up wanting to be drunk later tonight when the reality of my ringless finger settles in for the day. “Okay. Seven.”
“See you then,” he says. Then he grabs his luggage and walks away, not offering me a single backwards glance.
It’s only when he’s disappeared entirely into the crowd that I realize that he never gave me his name.