24 #2
We keep working with the tension breathing down our necks, shooting each other dangerously long, double-meaning glances, until the fateful moment arrives to use the industrial blender to churn the ice. And that’s when our free fall into utter chaos officially begins.
“Let me do it,” Helen says authoritatively, grabbing the machine.
“Why? Trust my hands a little.”
“Because I’m sure that’s the first step toward disaster.”
“That sounded like a very personal and painful criticism, Helen.”
“It sounded like an empirical observation based on your track record,” she replies, flashing an extremely attractive smile.
I stick my tongue out at her discreetly as she turns away.
Helen plugs the mixer into the outlet on the table.
At first, everything goes smoothly. For exactly seven seconds.
Then the machine emits a strange whine, followed by a rattling sound worthy of an engine, and finally decides to rebel against us.
It vibrates with the force of an earthquake—you have to add some drama to the story, right?
—and the semi-liquid lemon mixture shoots out in all directions like an out-of-control geyser.
“Shit!” Helen yells in surprise.
A thick stream of sorbet hits her uniform squarely, right on the epaulets.
Another one hits me right in the face, blinding one of my eyes.
The audience in the lounge chairs bursts into unanimous laughter.
Far from getting angry, I laugh hysterically, holding my stomach.
Meanwhile, Helen stares at her clothes as if she’d just witnessed a pastry-making war crime.
“Don’t laugh—this isn’t funny at all,” she protests, though her eyes sparkle with amusement.
“I can’t… I can’t breathe,” I manage to say between fits of laughter, wiping my eye with my apron.
Helen tries to turn off the damn thing while another splash hits us on the bounce.
Now I have lemon sorbet in my hair, and Helen has a trickle sliding down her neck toward the neckline of her shirt.
The scene is so utterly ridiculous that several tables of passengers start clapping and cheering us on.
“This is humiliating,” she protests, trying in vain to wipe herself clean.
“I think you look especially sexy with that piece of lemon on your right eyebrow.”
“Well, your whole face is smeared with sugar; you look like a cupcake.”
I try to wipe it off with my hand and end up making a bigger mess. Helen lets out a frustrated sound, half laughter, half despair, grabs a paper napkin, and takes a step forward, closing the entire distance between us.
“Hold still for a second, you little whirlwind.”
I watch her in silence, holding my breath, as she carefully wipes me down.
She’s too close; her fingers brush my skin through the paper, and the whole world—the shouts from the pool, the Caribbean music, the passengers—seems to turn down the volume all at once.
Everything becomes blurry, a faded background.
Helen barely looks up; our eyes meet just inches apart, and for an eternal moment it seems as though she’s going to break all the rules and kiss me right here. I see it in her eyes. I feel it in her breath. She’s so close that my heart completely forgets how to beat normally.
Then someone lets out a cheeky whistle from the lounge chairs, and we pull apart suddenly, as if the captain himself had caught us.
“We have to finish the dessert for the judges,” Helen says, composing herself as best she can.
As I’m plating the sorbet into the glass cups, I decide it’s missing the finishing touch of flair. I grab the bottle of limoncello from the kitchen stash and pour a generous splash into it while Helen decorates the rim with zest.
“What the hell have you done?” she asks, catching the scent.
“Italian magic and ingenuity. Trust my business acumen.”
The executive chef goes from table to table tasting the desserts, while the audience watches expectantly and in silence.
Helen stands with her arms crossed, rigid, the tension visible in her posture.
I try to look like the very picture of calm, though inside I’m praying to every hospitality saint available.
The ship’s captain tastes our sorbet with deliberation. Julianne Ferguson does the same and smiles faintly, looking at Helen. Arturo Valdés raises an eyebrow with obvious interest after the first bite. Finally, the executive chef sets the silver spoon down on the judges’ table.
“Excellent texture, despite the… technical incident with the blender,” the chef says, glancing at Helen’s uniform. “The acidity is very well balanced… and that final touch of liqueur is surprisingly elegant and daring.”
I smile, savoring the triumph. You can just picture me with my fist clenched, jumping around.
· · ·
“And the undisputed winners of the charity contest are… security officer Helen Müller and our entertainment coordinator, Maika Aranda, with their torpedo sorbet!”
The pool deck erupts in applause, whistles, and cheers.
I jump up and shout with excitement, forgetting my manners.
Helen needs a few seconds. Then she turns to me and starts laughing.
A genuine, free, bright, and unrestrained laugh that hits me right in the chest—making me fall a little more in love.
God. I think I’d be capable of sabotaging every blender on the ship just to hear her laugh like that again.
They hand us a small wooden plaque with the shipping company’s logo and a bottle of champagne from the ship’s reserve while the passengers applaud delightedly from the upper decks.
“The chemistry and the flavor have been excellent,” the executive chef tells us, winking at us before stepping away.
Chemistry. How funny. Very, very funny. Oh dear Neptune, if only he knew.
As the crowd of passengers begins to disperse toward the hot tubs and the rest of the activities, Helen and I are left alone by our workstation, which has turned into a veritable battlefield.
We have sorbet stains on our clothes, sticky hands, and the scent of lemon even in our souls.
Helen watches me closely for a few seconds and then shakes her head.
“You’re a genuine public hazard to the ship’s safety, Maika Aranda.”
“Damn, I’m dying to taste those lemon-flavored lips,” I think. But instead, I say:
“And yet… we’ve won.”
Helen looks down at my mouth for a long moment, devouring it with her gaze. Then she returns her eyes to mine. And the air on the deck fills with an electricity impossible to ignore.