Chapter Two CASEY
Chapter Two
CASEY
Oh, look at that; I’m panicking again.
I think it’s my new normal at this point.
Sienna did say to meet her out in the hall at a quarter to one, didn’t she?
I’m starting to doubt myself.
I’ve been out here stalling for close to ten minutes, and I’m worried that if I don’t start heading toward the observation lounge now, I’m going to be late. I don’t even want to check my watch. It’ll only make my nerves more frayed.
This is what I get for trying to make a friend!
I should have just remained a lone wolf.
A door opens down the hall, drawing my attention. An older man steps out onto the plush carpet in the hallway. Like me, he’s wearing a press badge. It’s pinned over the left breast pocket of his dinner jacket. I study his profile, trying to decipher if I know him. There will be some serious talent on this trip. Journalists and photographers I’ve looked up to since I was in college.
He’s got a little heft to him. Tall and broad. Very little of his white hair is left, and deep, hard-earned wrinkles surround his eyes.
He looks my way and nods in greeting once he sees my press badge.
“Lincoln O’Neal. Nat Geo .”
My eyes widen in awe.
Jesus. That’s how I know him! He’s a famous photojournalist!
Say something, you nitwit.
“Casey Hughes. Bon Voyage .”
I tack on a little salute that feels charming in the moment but leaves us both a little confused as to how to proceed. Fortunately, he has the sense to carry on as if it never happened.
“Heading up?” he asks, indicating toward the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.
I smile weakly. “Um ... yes. In a moment.”
“Right, then. See you.”
He turns on his heel and leaves.
No!
I just lost out on a chance to chat with Lincoln O’Neal! I would have loved to pick his brain about his work. Not to mention, a moment with someone as influential as him could change the entire trajectory of my career. I could have endeared myself to him. We could have chatted and exchanged business cards. At which point, he would have seen my title and laughed. Dammit. Fine. Maybe it wouldn’t have been all that helpful, but as it is ... I’ll never know.
With a new font of courage and annoyance churning inside me, I turn back to Sienna’s door and give it three loud knocks. I was too chicken to do it before when I first came out into the hall, but it’s now or never. I can’t wait around for her all day.
“Sienna?” I lean in and speak loudly against the suite’s door. “Are you almost ready?”
“Coming!” she shouts back in a chipper tone.
That’s followed up with an audible groan like she just smacked into something, and then she shouts again. “ Coming !”
A moment later, the door swings open, and I see Sienna hopping on one foot, trying to keep her balance as she slips on her second high heel. She’s grimacing apologetically. “I know I’m late. Sorry. Sorry . A tale as old as time. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”
The number of outfits strewn about her living room is proof of that. I can’t imagine what her bedroom in London looks like. The place must be a disaster.
She notices my judgment. “Ignore all that.”
“I’m impressed, actually. How many suitcases did you bring?”
The amount of clothes in her suite could fill a department store.
“Only four. Big ones.” She laughs. “I’m horrendous when it comes to packing light for trips. I like options!”
She finishes with her high heel, then whirls around to grab a dainty Chanel bag from the table near the door. “I’m ready. Let’s go!”
Out in the hall, on the way to the elevator, she gives me a drawn-out appraisal.
“Sheesh. Absolutely knew you had it in you. A total knockout. Spin, let me see the back.”
“It’s nothing fancy.”
I’m wearing a pale-blue wrap dress that ties just above my left hip and hugs me in all the right places. The soft material falls a smidge too high above my knees, and though it’s not exactly work attire, it’s the best I could do. I had a hard time figuring out what to pack for this trip. I don’t have a closet chock-full of pantsuits and blazers. I mostly work remotely for Bon Voyage , and when I do have to commute to Manhattan for our once-monthly all-staff meeting, anything goes. Jeans, caftans, concert T-shirts. In fact, putting too much effort into your look makes you seem like a try hard (according to people more fashionable than me).
When I was given this assignment on board Aurelia , I knew my wardrobe needed a serious facelift. Pajama bottoms from high school and stretched-out Old Navy V-necks would not suffice. I strategically purchased a few nice dresses, but I couldn’t afford to blow it out. I don’t have enough fancy clothes to carry me through the entire trip, so I’ll have to pick and choose and strategize—and talk to Ingrid about the cleaning services she mentioned.
To jazz up my blue dress for this afternoon, I added a pair of diamond studs (courtesy of my late grandmother) and a pair of nude secondhand Manolo Blahniks that I had fixed up and made to look as good as new. I’ll be wearing them on repeat for the ten-day cruise. I’ve pulled my hair up into a high ponytail with neat wavy curls, and my makeup is clean and fresh.
As Sienna and I step into the elevator, I feel ready to take on the battle ahead of me.
Well ... right up until we actually arrive at the observation lounge, located at the top of the ship on deck nine. It’s a spacious, open room lined with expansive windows highlighting the view of the ocean and faraway horizon. A dozen separate seating vignettes—intimate tables surrounded by inviting armchairs—surround a midcentury bar.
The design aesthetic of the ship continues in here. A lot of monochromatic layering of tone on tone—beige, gray, silver, and white contrast against dark wood and sumptuous brown leather. It’s like the whole place was inspired by James Bond. Or rather, one of his rich nemeses. From the ornate light fixtures to the neatly arranged throw pillows—it’s clear the owners have spared no expense.
The room is already brimming with people mingling and chatting, but thankfully, it looks like we’re not late. Or at least no one has started giving a presentation yet or anything. We slip into the room, and Sienna leads me straight to the bar.
“What should we drink? Wait. Let’s start with lemon-drop shots. Something to loosen us up a bit.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Doesn’t this place feel a bit stuffy to you? I expected a few more people our age.”
“What about that group over there?”
I nod toward a group of women sitting in plush leather chairs near us, all around our age, stylish, and gorgeous . Each one of them is done up fancier than the next. Huge statement earrings, feathers, clinking bracelets, glitz and glam on a scale that has me rethinking everything I packed.
Sienna peers over her shoulder at them, grumbles, then looks away with a shake of her head. “Bella, Jenna, Avery. I can’t stand them. They’re influencers like me. I used to get on with them before I realized how horrible they all are. I mean absolutely savage . They’ll steal a brand partnership right out from underneath you if you aren’t careful.”
She waves the bartender over and orders our shots.
“Right, so they’re off the table. What about them? They look fun.”
She follows my gaze to the group of men I’m nodding toward. They have to be the oldest among us. One of them is dozing off in his chair.
Sienna bursts out laughing and nudges me with her shoulder. “I knew we’d get on.”
Our lemon shots arrive sporting rims caked in sugar crystals and curlicue lemon rinds. They almost look too cute to drink.
Sienna picks hers up and meets my gaze with a mischievous smile.
“To new mates.”
I smile and clink my glass with hers. “To new mates.”
Just before I tip it back, I add, “Why does this feel so ominous?”
She laughs and shakes her head after downing her shot. “Don’t worry. This’ll be the easiest ten days of work ever. Now, should we mingle? Or take pics? I need to get some content. Help a girl out?”
I expect her to shove her phone in my hand while she poses, directing my every move, trying for the best lighting, best angle. I can see it now. I’ll be playing the part of her begrudging Instagram husband for the remainder of our trip. But instead, she turns the tables on me. With her camera in selfie mode, she presses her face up against mine so that we’re cheek to cheek and smiles for the camera. I can’t help but do the same.
We look cute.
Better than cute, actually.
Our features complement each other. My rich brown hair seems all the more alluring next to her bright-blonde shade, and though my eyes are deep blue while hers are pale green, we’re both tan and happy and smiling. We look beautiful and carefree. We could be an advertisement for summer.
Well, false advertising.
I’m anything but carefree.
Now that I’m here, it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. I have to find Phillip Woodmont.
Sienna turns her attention to her phone and starts typing a million miles a minute. “What’s your handle? I’ll tag you.”
“I don’t have one.”
Her wide eyes fly up to me. “Oh wow. You really weren’t kidding about not being on social media. How do you survive?”
“I manage . . . somehow .”
I’m distracted. Already, I’m looking around the room, searching for Phillip. I’d prefer to avoid him at all costs, but I don’t have the luxury. Not if I want to complete my assignment for Bon Voyage .
To earn my exclusive ticket aboard Aurelia ’s maiden voyage, I’ve been tasked with writing a comprehensive review of the ship and all its offered amenities. I’ll need to create teasers and sidebars, bite-size content they can share online and in the magazine. Most importantly of all, though, the real reason I’m specifically here on the ship is because Bon Voyage wants an exclusive interview with Phillip Woodmont himself.
And I promised I could get it.
That was my big bad crime.
I completely lied at the all-staff meeting last month. It sort of just happened. I was in the back of the room, leaning up against the wall, trying to keep my personal life together while I tuned out the people around me. My phone was buzzing in my pocket, but I was too scared to check it. No one good had called me in months. Every time I answered, it was a new problem. My life had become so complicated that I was relieved every time an unknown number turned out to be a good old-fashioned scam call; a Nigerian prince asking me to wire him money was the least of my problems since my grandmother had passed away.
I’d been so focused on my phone’s incessant vibrating, counting the rings, that I’d missed the first half of the discussion about Aurelia .
Gwen Levis, my boss and the editor in chief at Bon Voyage , sat at the head of the conference table with her oat milk latte and her Hermès scarf knotted around her neck, her cool white-blonde bob and her vintage glasses. She started giving details about the trip, and it seemed like a done deal that the assignment would be handed off to Gabriel Rousteing, the most seasoned writer at Bon Voyage and a bit of a celebrity within our niche world of travel journalism.
I held back an eye roll. What did Gabriel need with another illustrious assignment? He wasn’t at the meeting! He wasn’t even in the country! He was in Dubai, covering a food-and-wine festival and partying with Bono. I mean, honestly ...
I was bitter about it, already starting my private pity party, when Gwen mentioned the possibility of trying something slightly different and moving beyond our standard coverage of the cruise. She wanted an exclusive with Phillip Woodmont.
The moment she said the name, it felt like someone sent a thousand volts of electricity through me. Phillip Woodmont?
It couldn’t be.
She answered my question for me.
“Phillip is heir to one of the United States’ oldest shipping dynasties. He moves in exclusive social circles, and he’s notoriously tight lipped when it comes to speaking to the press. It’s why most of you have never even heard of him. I’m desperate to change that. Our readers would devour an exclusive. I want to cover—”
“The man behind the mast.”
She looked up, confused about who’d spoken. Fair, given the fact that I don’t think I’d said a single word in the last thirty consecutive all-staff meetings. I might as well have been part of the wallpaper, an inanimate object people confused for furniture. Oh, sorry, Casey, didn’t mean to set my coffee down on you.
“What was that?” Gwen asked, curious.
The people standing on either side of me scrammed, saving themselves.
I cleared my throat and tried to be brave. “I said, ‘the man behind the mast.’”
Gwen’s lip quirked. “Cute. Yes.”
Just that the slight upturn of her lip was enough to send me to cloud nine. When had I ever once received her approval?
She gave me a succinct once-over. “Cassie?”
“Casey,” I clarified before adding with a little chuckle, “Or Cassie, whatever works.”
I hated myself a little in that moment. Not “or Cassie”! Cassie was not my name!
She looked to her assistant, and I could sense she was about to move on to the next agenda item. I felt my window of opportunity closing. My phone would start vibrating again; my insurmountable problems would continue to pile up. I’d return to my small cubicle in the darkest corner of the third floor, check my email, and find all sorts of busywork that had shit-all to do with writing. After I left the office for the day, I’d go back to my late grandmother’s house and continue packing up her things, stuffing the remnants of her life into tattered cardboard boxes.
“I know him,” I blurted.
WHAT?
Instead of backtracking, I doubled down. “I know Phillip Woodmont.”
Gwen’s pencil-thin eyebrow quirked with interest. “How?”
“We were ... classmates, sort of. It’s an interesting story.”
I’d never had her focus like I had in that moment. My knees almost buckled under the weight of her expectations and piercing gaze. “Meet me in my office after the meeting. We’ll chat.”
Now, I take a step away from the bar and crane my neck to see over the crowd. There are at least fifty to sixty invited guests in the observation lounge, all sporting press badges, all vying for each other’s attention. I’d like to mix and mingle, eventually. Right now, though, I’m on a mission.
“Where are you off to?” Sienna asks when I step away from her with a purpose.
“I need to hunt down Phillip Woodmont. I have to get an interview with him for work, and I’d like to make a good impression early .”
“Well, you’re heading in the wrong direction.” She reroutes me, turning my shoulders so I’m facing the right way.
“He’s just there, the bloke in the blue suit.”
She aims me toward a cluster of men talking in a semicircle. Only one of them is wearing a blue suit, and he cannot be Phillip. A laugh spills out of me. Not because the sight of him is funny. Oh no. It’s the opposite of funny. It’s toe curling. Fever inducing. Trouble .
I’m struck by the sight of the boy I used to know.
Intimidating, strong, tall, handsome—unfortunately, he’s all these things and more.
He has dark-brown hair that’s been styled in that perfect way: tousled a bit up top and neat on the sides. There’s a little wave to it, which has the effect of making him that much more tantalizing. There are two deep-set dimples bookending his lips and another on his chin. A hint of a five-o’clock shadow.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
Despite the few photos I saw of him online during my research, I was holding out hope he’d somehow remained the pip-squeak with braces, a man who wouldn’t throw me off. This assignment was going to be hard enough before, when I assumed Phillip would be spindly and awkward.
The man in front of me—the one I still can’t quite believe exists—gives off the air of someone absolutely assured that everyone in the room would willingly bow at his feet.
He’s an all-American prince in a cobalt blue suit.
“Jesus, he’s good looking. Do you reckon he’s single?” Sienna asks, staring at him from by my side.
“No idea.”
Why would his relationship status matter to me? That’s not what I’m concerned with, well, unless it pertains to my interview. I’d love to know about his personal life ... for the story. That’s it.
Sienna glances over to me. “Well, go on, then.”
All of a sudden, I find it hard to move my feet. It’s like I’ve accidentally stepped in a patch of superglue. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“You can! Be brave. He wants to chat. Why else would he have invited press on board?”
She makes a good point.
Giving in to these nerves is silly. Beyond the fact that he’s invited us on board, there’s absolutely no way he will recognize me. I’m worrying over nothing. We knew each other briefly, years ago. I look like any other journalist. In fact, compared to the glitzy glam of some of the influencers in the room, I could be a veritable wallflower, easily forgettable. I’ll use that to my advantage.
“Okay, I’m going.”
“Yes, go!”
She pats me on the shoulder, and I adjust my clutch beneath my arm.
I start to walk on unsteady legs across the parquet floor in the center of the room, not because it’s the fastest route to get to him but because it’s the path of least resistance. Everyone’s hanging around the periphery of the room or mingling at the tables. The center of the room, for some reason, has turned into no-man’s-land.
I’m alone there, dead center and midstep, when Phillip strides purposefully to the edge of the parquet floor before us all as if he’d like to address the room. He doesn’t need to hush the small crowd as he slides his black-framed glasses off his face and folds them in his strong, tanned hand. We’re rendered mute at the sheer sight of him. This is not the boy I remember from my time at Fairview Prep.
I freeze, unsure of how to proceed. I should scoot back and join the others, but just like before, my legs feel like jelly, all thanks to this man.
Phillip looks out toward the crowd, his gaze sweeping across the amassed group waiting with bated breath to hear what he’s about to say. He could read through his grocery list, and we would all lean in, wanting more.
When his gaze passes over me, I swear I can feel it like a feather across my skin. My stomach squeezes tight with anticipation, but he doesn’t stall, doesn’t linger at all. I’m barely there.
I ignore the initial pang of rejection because this is what I wanted! Anonymity is better!
Though to intrigue a man like him, to catch his attention— god, what would that be like?
I need to edge back into the crowd, but it feels disrespectful, like shuffling around during the playing of the national anthem. Everyone is stock still, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I also don’t want to hover alone in the center of the room any longer either ...
Quickly, with my breath sucked in, I scurry back to the line of people, scooting in alongside a group and blending in with the crowd just as Phillip smiles out at us.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Phillip Woodmont, group president at Woodmont Overseas International.” His voice is just deep enough to command respect. You could hear a pin drop in the room as he continues, “It’s a pleasure to stand before you all today, on board Aurelia , a ship that for many years was considered a hopeless pipe dream. For those who are unfamiliar with Woodmont Overseas, we’re a transportation and logistics company facilitating services between international and domestic ports. But more than that, my father, Captain Nathaniel Woodmont, built this business on a genuine passion for the sea and an unwavering commitment to serving people and communities.”
He’s clearly an experienced orator. There’s no rush to his words, no wobble in his voice. If I were speaking in front of this group, my hands would be shaking so badly I’d have to hide them behind my back.
“When I was first brought on in the company, I knew my focus would be on our cruise lines. Though they functioned well and proved lucrative enough, the fact remained that they were lagging behind our company mission to protect the seas we claimed to covet. Cruise ships, in general, are notoriously high producers of black carbon and are disproportionately bad for the environment, even compared to bulk carriers and oil tankers. As part of the leadership team, I felt a sense of obligation to bring them into the twenty-first century. I saw it as a black-and-white problem. Innovate or die. We have to be bold. No more polluting our oceans in the name of leisure travel. This world is moving so fast, baby steps won’t suffice. The cruise industry can do better, and at Woodmont, we have. Aurelia is our pride and joy—proof of what can be. Most other major players in the cruise industry have promised carbon neutrality by 2050.” His jaw tenses as he shakes his head. His passion is pervasive, infecting us all. “At Woodmont, we don’t feel that’s good enough. Aurelia features a closed glass fa?ade, urban gardening areas, and drone landing pads. We rely on harvested wave energy, solar power, fuel cells, and wind energy to eliminate the need for fossil fuels. More than that, we’ve made it clear we’re willing to share these technologies with our competitors in the hopes that in the coming years, we can all become greener. Rather than innovating and bolting closed the door behind us, we’ve paved the way for others to come with us. Hand in hand.”
Throughout his speech, he’s worn a fierce expression so compellingly handsome that I’ve found I’ve somehow gone too long without blinking. Now, though, the tension in his features eases. A hint of a smile plays across his lips as he continues, “I know many of you might be worried that with these new changes, we’ve prioritized efficiency and economy over guest experience, but I assure you, that’s not the case. With the help of Biron Design Group, Aurelia boasts luxury accommodations on a scale that could rival any five-star hotel the globe over.” He presents the woman standing at his left. She’s wearing a black pantsuit and a statement necklace that looks like a piece of modern art, along with a warm, welcoming smile. Her black hair is trimmed in a face-framing pixie cut that accentuates her high cheekbones. “I’ll allow Ms. Patel, our head of interiors, to walk you through a tour of the vessel before we convene here again for cocktails and light bites. Ms. Patel ...”
She steps forward and invites us all to join her.
Everyone else follows after her right away, eager for a good spot during the tour, but I take advantage of the opportunity laid before me. Phillip is momentarily alone, a king without his royal entourage. I doubt I have long. If I hope to get a private word with him this afternoon, this will likely be my only opportunity. It’s a stroke of luck I seize upon quickly, weaving through bodies, beelining straight for Phillip, ignoring the bite of pain as someone accidentally steps on my toes. They apologize, but I throw my own “Sorry!” over my shoulder without breaking stride. Phillip doesn’t see me until I’m upon him, cutting straight into his path, forcing him to stop abruptly before he runs into me.
We’re close. Too close. I’m inches away from his broad chest, and I have to tip my head back to get a good look at him. With a timid laugh of apology, I take a half step back.
His expression doesn’t soften. It’s as if I’m still breaking some kind of social code merely by existing. And I guess I am. Marching over to him was a little uncouth even for me, but there’s no room for social courtesies in journalism. Not if you want to get the story.
I really booked it over here. I’m breathing slightly harder than normal. Also I’m meant to do something. I’ve stalled him; I don’t want it to be in vain.
“Hello, Mr. Woodmont,” I blurt. “I’m Casey Hughes from Bon Voyage magazine. It’s a pleasure to be here, meeting you.”
I stretch out a confident hand, hoping to make the best introduction, or technically re introduction I possibly can. My smile couldn’t be wider. My eyes shine with hope and opportunity.
His wonderfully spiced cologne is distracting, but then so is everything else about him, specifically his size. He’s not overly bullish or anything, not like a hulking beast. Rather, he’s tall and broad shouldered, and he has a sort of lean stealth to him, a layer of muscle merely hinted at beneath his well-cut suit.
My, my, someone really had a growth spurt ...
I think I used to be a half inch taller than him.
He’s more intimidating than ever at this proximity, and it’s hard to force a swallow as my hand hangs limply between us. It becomes clear to me, a moment too late, that he isn’t going to accept my hand. He never even contemplated it.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as he looks me over slowly. His scowl gentles to something more like an amused smile. There’s a joke he’s enjoying, and his expression says it’s at my expense.
He peruses my dress, my shoes, my body with a lackadaisical indifference. When his piercing blue eyes finally deign to meet mine, my stomach squeezes tight. Dread chills me to the bone. I’m surprised I don’t shiver.
He tucks his hands into his suit-pants pockets—the final nail in the handshake coffin—and then replies with a confident air of indifference. “No introduction needed. I remember you, Ms. Hughes.”
His eyes cut past me in dismissal, and I want to shrink away and hide, but I can’t. I have to stick this out, painful as it may be.
“ O-of course . Right. You do?” My voice lilts a little with surprise. “I’m flattered, actually. I remember you, but I wasn’t sure, given your success ...” I’m stammering now, making a fool of myself. “I mean to say, I’m sure you meet so many people in your line of work. So many people eager to make your acquaintance.”
Yes! Flatter him! Stroke his ego into submission!
“I do meet a lot of people.” His eyes recapture mine, and I feel like I’m staring straight into the barrel of a sniper rifle. “Fortunately, I’m good at remembering the assholes.”
Assholes!
WHAT?
He tries to take a step around me, but I’m faster. After all, I’m the one with something to lose here. My job is on the line.
My laugh is forced and fake. My hand touches his bicep, and he looks down at it as if he’d like to cut it off at the wrist.
Oh my god, this is going horribly.
“Eighth grade was a really long time ago.” When it looks like he’s about to cut me off, I rush on. “But you have every right to be angry with me after everything that happened. I’m not proud of my actions back then. But look at you! You’ve clearly won. Made a real name for yourself. I was hoping to hear more about that, actually. My editor in chief at Bon Voyage thinks our readers would love an exclusive with you, getting to know the man behind the mast , so to say.”
I hope my witty wordplay will seduce him into compliance, and to my credit, he does smile.
Then he replies simply, as if it doesn’t pain him at all to say “No.”
I’m so stunned I don’t even think to stop him again as he curves around me and starts to head toward the set of double doors leading into the hallway where the tour has begun. Ms. Patel’s out there chattering away, and I should be at the front of that group, taking dutiful notes, asking questions about every last detail. Instead, I twist around to face him, dumbstruck.
It’s not out of the question that he doesn’t have time for an interview, but any polite person would understand you can’t just blurt out no. You offer some kind of platitude like I’ll have my people contact your people or Let me check my schedule , with both parties knowing that really means I’m not interested . But the fact that he just outright turned me down is worrisome for too many reasons to count.
“Is that a ‘no, but try me again another time’?” I ask, sounding hopeful.
At this point, I’m a fighter getting up after yet another knockout. He’s got to be thinking Christ, when will this girl quit?
He shakes his head, not even bothering to turn back. “That’s a ‘no, be glad I’m letting you stay on the ship.’”
Panic seizes me.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not in the least.”
Oh god. This is worse than I could have imagined. I hurry to catch him, curving around him, cutting off his path yet again. This is going way off the rails. I should cut my losses and regroup, form a proper strategy with a step-by-step game plan to smooth things over. Instead, I ask, “Is this really about something that happened between us in middle school ?”
Oops.
Now why did my tone have to sound so judgmental just then? I’m trying to smooth feathers, not ruffle them!
“Don’t make it sound so trivial. It’s not. You showing up on this ship, needing something from me is proof that karma never loses an address.”
Oh, he’s really enjoying this.
“It was nothing! Seriously! Come on .”
“It was eighth-grade district finals, and you cheated.”
I throw up my hands, waving them to encompass the whole observation lounge and the lap of luxury we’ve found ourselves in. “ What does that matter now ? Look at where you are!”
He doesn’t glance around the room. He doesn’t need to. His attention is on me for one last searing second before he states plainly and simply, in terms any dummy would understand, “No interview, Ms. Hughes, and that’s final.”