Chapter Eleven
Biting my lip, I press my face against the passenger window, barely containing my excitement as our SUV careens down the narrow, winding road from the airport to Tourlos Port in Mykonos, where our cruise ship, The Orchid Royale, is docked.
I’ve never been to Greece before. Heck, I’ve rarely traveled outside the summer trips with Mia and my parents to Taiwan in middle school to visit our ailing grandparents.
Even then, we wouldn’t have time to sightsee.
We’d spend most of our days at the elderly care center.
I’d listen to Grandma ramble about me being too skinny, how I needed to eat more to have the energy to study and earn good grades.
Have you eaten yet?
I smile inwardly. Maybe Mom got the phrase from Grandma.
After cracking open the window, I poke my head out to get a better view of this beautiful city.
Soft chuckles reach my ears, and I hear the faint sound of a camera shutter. Then I feel the distinct pressure of someone’s attention on me from the backseat.
I whip my head around.
Rex, manspread on the plush leather seat, a lazy tiger stretching out his limbs, is staring at me as if planning his next move to take me down. Bree sits quietly next to him.
He twirls his phone in one hand, his gaze sharpening as he scrapes his long fingers over the sexy scruff decorating his jaw. His attention settles over me like a blanket, and I don’t know if I want to kick it off or snuggle deeper into it. He cocks his brow and winks.
Unable to help myself, I mutter to Bree, “Watch out for this one. He flirts with anyone with a vagina.”
Ah shit. Why did I say that? I bite my tongue, and heat rushes to my face. The damn bastard chuckles.
Bree snaps her gaze to me, her eyes widening. “Oh, we’re not like that.” She glances at Rex then back at me. “None of my business.”
Huh? That’s what Rex implied last night. But the casual handholding, the brief touches. I’m so damn confused.
None of your business, Olivia.
Rex arches his brow again. He taunts, “See, what did I say?”
Rolling my eyes, I look away, finding Bree frowning, obviously deep in thought. She’s clenching her sundress like she’s nervous.
I frown as I watch her twist the fabric, releasing it, then twisting it again.
When she catches me looking, clear panic flashes in her blue eyes before it disappears. Then she smiles and relaxes.
Straining a grin, I turn my attention back to the infuriating man next to her, who still has his unnerving attention on me. And in this strange game of chicken, I look away as the car comes to a stop.
Without waiting for the staff to open the door, I jump out, clutching my Leica M6 camera hung around my neck, eager to get my first full glimpse of the city where we’ll be spending the next few days before setting off to Santorini.
Locals and tourists on their scooters zoom by, a line of luxury sedans and limos idling at the curb. Porters dressed in livery assist women clad in the latest cruise fashions out of their cars. Monogrammed luggage is neatly stacked and shuttled to the massive cruise ship ahead.
I ignore the chaos—the loud conversations in Greek and English, the blaring car honks.
Instead of heading to the ship, I beeline toward a small clearing, my lungs raking in the crisp air of brine and rosemary, my eyes absorbing the endless stretch of vibrant cobalt of the Aegean Sea glinting under the harsh sunlight peeking from behind the clouds.
Carefully, I adjust the dials, lift my camera, and take a photo.
I’m here, Mia. About to turn thirty, on my way to Las Fallas. You asked me to burn our regrets. I know what regrets I have, but you never told me yours.
Perhaps this is why I bury myself in work and avoid vacations. When the mind slows down, it wanders. It was easy to distract myself before—the heavy coursework in college and medical school, the grueling hours of residency, working at the hospital, and then later on, starting my practice.
I told myself this was me using my time wisely, making responsible choices for my patients, and not having my parents worry about me.
But now, at the cusp of thirty, away from everything I’ve numbed myself with, I finally realize the extent of my hollowness. The frustration. The discontent.
Will I finally get the answers? Will I be at peace, something that has eluded me since that morning when I found her still in her bed, a bottle of sleeping pills empty by her bedside?
Will I finally stop blaming myself?
Heart heavy, I make my way to the cruise ship entrance, knowing the porters will take care of my luggage.
“Welcome aboard The Orchid Royale, Dr. Lin.” A stewardess dressed in a lavender sheath dress smiles as I cross the threshold.
My eyes widen at the instant recognition. I’m a nobody in these circles. But then again, this is The Orchid on water. I shouldn’t expect anything less.
She hands me a brochure on thick card stock. “Your stateroom is specifically tailored to your tastes. The information is inside. Your room has a biometric lock, which can only be opened with the fingerprint you provided in your application to The Orchid.”
I thank her and follow the passengers in front of me, my attention riveted on the brochure.
Name: The Orchid Royale
Class: White Orchid-Class Ultra-Luxury Vessel
Length: 750 ft
Decks: 10 guest-accessible (plus restricted floors for staff, logistics, and The Bridge)
Cruising Speed: 20 knots
Guest Capacity: 500 (max)—never over 60% booked for maximum exclusivity
Crew-to-Guest Ratio: 1.5:1
Flag: Private registry
Designed in collaboration with Swiss naval engineers, Japanese spa architects, and Parisian interior designers, The Orchid Royale is more than a ship, it’s a sanctuary that sails.
Whistling under my breath, I marvel at the over-the-top luxury described, from the Twilight Cinema on the sky deck to the multiple specialty spas, infinity pools, and exclusive restaurants featuring the top chefs of the world.
The staterooms are one of a kind as well.
Unlike typical cruise ships, each suite comes with a full gourmet kitchen with gas stoves—I honestly don’t know how this is to safety code, but where there’s a will, there’s a way—housekeeper and concierge services, all the bells and whistles.
And of course, The Orchid, even on water, isn’t complete without the Rose floors, which in this case, span decks nine and ten. Now I understand why, despite us docking at each location for a few days, the itinerary doesn’t mention moving to hotels on land.
There are probably no hotels that can match the features and luxury offered aboard.
Soft laughter reaches my ears and I look up, my breath stalling when I see the towering entryway atrium—three stories of clear glass, backlit with warm lighting, large crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the lights reflecting off the pale marble floors.
Everything glitters and shines. I’d imagine Mount Olympus from Greek mythology looked something like this.
My mind swims back to Rex’s expression last night when I hedged my barely veiled threats, banking on him wanting this cruise to succeed because he had something to prove.
As I scan my surroundings, taking in the delicate florals—vibrant hydrangeas, lavender, orchids, twisting vines—the modern and sleek chaise lounges and sofas placed throughout the welcome lobby, I can only imagine how much work he’s put into it.
If this venture flopped, it’d be hard for any company to absorb the losses, even if the entity was Fleur Entertainment Holdings.
But why is he trying to prove himself?
He’s the chief marketing officer and successful by any measure. Why does he look so troubled? What is the playboy prince hiding?
The questions propel me to deck five, where the wellness pavilion and medical bay are located.
The latter is abuzz with activity—two nurses in lavender scrubs bustling around the brightly lit space. The decor is modern hospital meets minimalistic spa—white walls, marble floors, LED screens, chrome accents throughout.
A redheaded nurse with a pixie cut glances my way, her lips curving into a bright smile before she hurries toward me.
“You’re Dr. Lin, right? I’m Jessa, the day shift triage nurse.
We’ve been waiting for you, since the other doctors here are men.
It’ll be nice to have another woman on the team.
That’s Fiona.” She points to the Asian nurse, who waves at me.
“There are six of us and we rotate shifts. Want me to show you around?”
“Lead the way.” I grin, liking her bubbly personality already.
“I was so happy to be chosen for this trip. Can you imagine? A month in paradise? Sure, we’ll probably have to deal with snobs, but I can put up with anyone when I’m stuffing myself with the best carbs Europe has to offer,” she prattles on.
“To the right are private patient rooms,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Fancier than my hotel room, but still too basic for someone recovering from a cliff dive gone wrong.”
“Or a shellfish binge they’re convinced is a heart attack,” I add.
“Although, let me know if anyone is cliff diving. I’d hate to miss a live Darwin Award in action.
” I grin, referencing the awards given to individuals who removed themselves from the gene pool, a.k.a. dying, by the stupid choices they made.
“Exactly! I knew I’d like you.”
“I think I’ll enjoy my time here too.”
We move past the standard defibrillators, crash carts, oxygen tanks, and various equipment I expect to be on board.
“What’s in there?” I point to a closed metal door.
“Surgical unit. They even built in floor stabilizers in the event emergency surgery was necessary. Let’s hope we don’t need it.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Of course, they’d have a surgical unit. Why am I even surprised?”
“They’d probably fly surgeons over here if shit happens. There’s no such thing as expenses with these guys.”
Nodding, I follow as she pivots down a corridor matching the decor from the outside—marble floors, glass walls, some of which are opaque, others clear, revealing private rooms.
“These are your offices. There’s another patient entrance on the other side, away from the clinic. There are two other doctors on board—Dr. John Mackintosh, cardiologist, because most of these geezers are walking heart attacks, and Dr. Rhys Fenton, our generalist and trauma surgeon.”
As if on cue, a striking man in a white coat with raven hair almost as black as mine steps out, thin silver frames perched on his nose. “Jessa, can you get me—”
He looks up and spots us, his lips slowly curving into a charming smile. I don’t miss the quick but thorough scan he does of me.
“You’re Dr. Olivia Lin. I’m Rhys. I’ve been a big fan since I read your exciting analysis on SSRIs and addiction therapies.” He strides over and gives my barely outstretched hand a hearty shake. Then he directs another megawatt smile at me.
I wait for my heart to skip a beat. The man is tall, dark, and handsome, looks like he doesn’t live at home, has all his hair and teeth, and can most likely run a dishwasher. His cooking skills are to be determined, but I’m hopeful.
But my body doesn’t seem to care.
No flutter in my gut. No quickening pulse.
Instead, my mind wanders to the brooding playboy, the man, my patient, who doesn’t seem to like me that much.
How my nipples beaded into hard points when his low laughter followed me back into the bedroom on the jet, where I tossed and turned most of the night, hallucinating the deep, rumbly voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
Dammit.
Rhys cocks his head to the side, clearly waiting for me to respond, and I inwardly slap myself. “Nice to meet you. Call me Olivia.”
“And just like that, my day has gotten brighter,” he murmurs. Turning to Jessa, he asks, “Can you get me Mr. Reinhart’s files? He wants to meet later today.”
Before stepping back into his room, he motions to the empty office next to him. “Looks like we’ll be office mates, Olivia. I’d love to take you out for coffee—get to know you better.” A flirty wink later, he disappears inside and closes his door.
“Looks like you’re going to have your hands full,” Jessa quips, sneaking me a sly grin.
“No way. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not happening.”
After idle chitchat and booting up my computer only to realize my schedule, including the teleconferences with my existing patients back in New York, has been preloaded, I shoot a quick message to my parents, telling them I’ve safely boarded the ship and not to worry about me.
Then I make my way to the sky deck with my camera.
I want the sun on my face and to snap some photos. Mia would appreciate them.
The sky deck is quiet as I turn at the top of the steps. Most guests are no doubt settling in their staterooms and resting.
“What do you mean there’s a problem?”
The unmistakable low rasp stops me in my tracks.
It’s Rex Anderson, and he sounds angry.