Chapter Four PHILLIP
Chapter Four
PHILLIP
The sun shines brightly overhead. There’s not a single cloud in the sky as Aurelia slices through the water with calm efficiency. I look around the bridge, and I can’t help but think of all the naysayers. How many times was I told that this wasn’t possible? That the technology wasn’t up to snuff? That if only I could wait another five or ten years, I would have no issue constructing a ship run solely on renewables.
I can’t help the satisfied smile from creeping across my face before I take a small sip of my celebratory Macallan. I should be a gentleman about it, but truthfully, given the option, I’d love to rub everyone’s noses in this success.
I did it, assholes .
I stand beside the captain on the bridge as we cruise away from port. We’ll reach Key West tomorrow, our first stop of many on this maiden voyage. Though I’ve grown up on boats and yachts, my captaining experience lies mostly with sailboats, nothing of this caliber. I enjoy watching Captain Neal at work. He makes it all seem easy, and he damn well should. He’s the best in the business, and he’s getting paid a staggering amount of money to captain this vessel.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check to confirm it’s another email from the ship’s chief engineer. We’ve been in constant communication. With so many new energy systems in use, I can’t take any chances. I’ve doubled the engineering staff on board, outpacing maritime requirements so that there will be no shortage of hands on deck should we need them.
I’ve requested hourly reports from the chief engineer. The last few have confirmed that all systems are functioning just as we’d hoped.
I breathe a small sigh of relief.
On this first day especially, it feels like there’s a lot on the line. If there’s one thing I know about technology, it loves to fail. I can’t allow it. There are too many influential people on board. Too many reporters and journalists and photographers who would love the pleasure of writing a scathing review, detailing every instance of failure on our part.
If I hear one more joke about another notorious ship’s maiden voyage in comparison to ours, I’ll throw the joker overboard. Better yet, I’ll order someone else to do it for me.
I pocket my phone again and tune in to the conversation taking place behind me. While all our other invited guests are with Ms. Patel enjoying an exhaustive tour of the ship, including the technical areas usually off limits to anyone outside of the crew, we’ve granted Arthur Burton, a lead reporter from The Times in London, an exclusive interview. Our first of many on this trip.
I try not to let that thought sour my mood.
This moment is cause for celebration.
Besides, Tyson Ackres has it. There was no way I was taking this trip without him. As my closest friend and business partner, Tyson knows he has to be the sunshine to my rain, the smiling, cheery face to my otherwise doom and gloom.
I listen as Tyson gives Arthur a tour of the bridge. Just like everything else on this ship, our command center is pushing boundaries. Tyson explains how we’ve employed sensors, cameras, and artificial intelligence to help analyze data for millisecond-by-millisecond situational analysis. Thermal imaging, GPS, AWIPS, radar, sonar, ECDIS, lidar—we have an almost unlimited amount of data the crew on board can utilize to their advantage.
“So is the eventual goal to replace manned crews all together?” the reporter asks.
Captain Neal snorts under his breath. We all knew his question was coming. It’s what everyone wants to know. How is technology going to hurt us? Why should we be scared?
I look over my shoulder to see Tyson is taking the question like a champ. Better than I would, certainly. All the media training in the world can’t change my personality. Tyson is smooth and cheerful; he can hide his real opinions behind a shiny veneer. It’s why he’s better with the press than I am.
He flashes a practiced smile as he shakes his head. “While that could theoretically be possible, we’re choosing to look at technology as a friend, not a foe. Remote fleet command centers have been whispered about for years, but we aren’t out to take jobs. We simply want to make failures obsolete. We want to ensure that Captain Neal and his team have every resource at their disposal.”
The reporter jots something down in his notebook, apparently satisfied with Tyson’s response. Then like a homing missile, he turns his attention on me. I have no doubt he’s been hungry for my input since we began. While Tyson is the president of the cruise division for Woodmont Overseas International and, therefore, extremely important and in the know about all matters of this ship, for reporters, he’s lacking one crucial thing: the Woodmont name.
“Mr. Woodmont, you must be incredibly proud.”
“I am.”
He takes a purposeful step toward me. “Tell me about it. The trials and tribulations it took to get here.”
A proverbial microphone has just been thrust into my face.
I knock back the last of my Macallan—not wanting any of it wasted on this charade—and then I give him the robotic answer our PR team carefully reviewed and approved weeks ago.
For trials and tribulations, speak only about technological issues and theoretical red tape; make the engineers and staff at Woodmont Overseas seem like the heroes and leave real names and people out of it. It doesn’t serve us to piss off legislators, even if a few of them deserve to be thrown under the bus for their attempts to derail innovation. The few with nefarious ties to big oil and gas are on the tip of my tongue, but I refrain from deviating from the script, and Tyson winks at me over the reporter’s shoulder.
He knows how hard this is for me.
I’d rather do just about anything than talk to the press. I’m a private person by nature. I don’t enjoy the limelight, and I’ve succeeded in building a life largely outside the sphere of public opinion.
Arthur’s good at his job. His questions are succinct and to the point. He hits all the talking points I expect him to. None of the questions come out of left field, and when I think he’s about to wrap it up and move on—perfect timing, considering Ms. Patel should be finishing her tour soon—he pivots.
“Now concerning your family and friends. They must be—”
I talk over him quickly. You have to do that with reporters. Like snakes, it doesn’t work to let them wriggle about. It’s best to cut them off at the head. “No.”
Tyson laughs. “You have to give them something, Phillip.”
Whose side is he on? The prick.
My gaze cuts back to Arthur, and I make sure my words are curt and clear. “My priority is Woodmont Overseas. I have no social life to speak of. I’m dedicated to my career, and outside of that ... there’s nothing else to say.”
“It’s rumored that you and Vivienne Chén—”
“ There’s nothing else to say .”
Unbothered, Arthur slides his pen and notebook back into his leather bag. He’s a veteran reporter, and he knows not to take my no personally. With a smile, he nods first to Tyson and then to me. “It was a pleasure talking to you, gentlemen. I look forward to chatting more over the coming days.”
An attendant near the door of the bridge steps forward, seamlessly inviting Arthur to follow her so she can connect him with the tail end of Ms. Patel’s tour.
“Thank you,” he replies. “I’d appreciate that.”
The moment the door closes behind him and we’re left in peace, Captain Neal curses in his notorious Scottish brogue. “Christ, they’re like leeches. Worse . And we’ve got a whole boat of ’em.” He shivers like something’s crawling up his spine.
Tyson laughs. “You two make them out as monsters. They’re harmless if you just feed them properly.” He points an accusatory finger at me. “ You don’t make it easier on yourself, Phillip, playing the cloak-and-dagger shit. You make it seem like you’re more mysterious than you are.”
“I am mysterious,” I say, barely able to get it out without a laugh.
Tyson shakes his head, and I point a finger right back at him. “Why should I care about your opinion? They don’t ask you about your personal life. Jesus, if they only knew.”
Tyson smooths a hand down his tweed sports coat, not the least bit offended. The cocky bastard. If there are two things I know about Tyson Ackres—and I know many , considering we’ve been friends going on a decade—he likes to dress sharply and flirt with women.
The list of women in his contacts could rival Casanova’s.
Sadly for them, he’s no longer on the market. For the last three months, he’s been a one-woman man. I’ve never seen him so caught up in someone, and most shocking of all, he wasn’t hooked by an attention-seeking socialite or some status-hungry model—it was a working mom of two, named Samara. Tyson was on a work flight from Moscow to London four months ago when he struck up a conversation with a shy flight attendant. The way he tells it, she was eager to do her job and get out of his sight. He was eager to get to know her better. Eventually, he wore down her defenses. When they got to London and he learned that they both had one night together in the city, he begged her to give him a chance. Despite her initial reservations, she agreed to a date.
I think she could really be it for him. Shocking as it seems.
“Does Samara know about your past?” I ask now, trying to needle him like he’s been needling me.
He shrugs. “She does. I’ve been honest with her. And by the way, you don’t have to say it like that. I was single, and I dated around. I never cheated. I never acted like a heartless womanizer.”
He’s being honest there, at least.
“Speaking of women,” he continues, “who was the enchanting brunette I saw you speaking to earlier in the observation lounge? The one chasing you down.”
“No one.”
“So you don’t deny she was enchanting?”
“ Enchanting ? Who talks like that?”
“Can you two hens bicker somewhere else?” Captain Neal grumbles.
Tyson can’t help but smile.
But I’m not smiling.
I bristle at the reminder of Casey.
Casey Hughes.
Jesus, talk about a blast from the past. I haven’t thought about her in years. Longer. I mean, I’m surprised I even recognized her. But I did, immediately. There was no lag time for my brain, no stalling as I ran through a mental Rolodex of contacts. Even all grown up, styled, and made up in a way that barely resembled the middle schooler I used to know, I pinpointed her immediately—the girl I ate lunch with a handful of times. My long-forgotten quiz-bowl crush.
Back then, I really liked her. She was smart and nice and beautiful. Of course that was all a front. Though there was no way to prove it at the time, I know she sabotaged me all those years ago. After the quiz-bowl district finals, while I was squinting through my shattered glasses, she fled from the stage like she was guilty of murder. Meanwhile, I went home a sore loser with a broken nose. I had to have surgery! And while she wasn’t exactly the direct cause of that, at the time, I couldn’t help but pin all the blame on her. After all, if she were innocent, she would have stayed to check on me. She would have acted like a friend. We were friends, or so I thought.
Funny.
“There’s nothing interesting to tell you,” I reply with a shrug. “She’s a reporter.”
“Ah, so it was a work issue that had her running you down like that? I didn’t hear what you two were talking about, but it seemed heated. I figured you two must know each other.”
I look away, narrowing my eyes as if inspecting a blip on the horizon. “In a way, we do. Our paths crossed a long time ago.”
When I look back at him, it’s just in time to see him unfurl a gotcha grin. He’s barking up the wrong tree.
I roll my eyes. “Not like that.”
He should know better. I don’t leave a trail of discarded women in my wake. I’ve always been serious about relationships, in it for the long haul. Just ask Vivienne.
“She’s beautiful.”
I hum as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.
It had, obviously. It felt like a gut punch to see her again, but for some reason, I find myself wanting to play this situation close to my chest. I have no idea why. Tyson wouldn’t care if I found Casey attractive; in fact, he’d be relieved to hear it.
I guess I still feel a certain loyalty to Vivienne even though she and I are no longer in a relationship, as of a month ago.
Tyson would tell me it’s time to move on.
He has told me that, plenty.
I’m just not quite there yet.
I’m still certain that this thing with Vivienne will resolve itself. She’s the type of woman I need by my side. I understand she doesn’t quite see that, and for now, I’m fine with tabling the issue. I have enough on my plate. My sole focus is on making sure the maiden voyage of Aurelia is a success. I want the best media coverage possible.
“So then what was she after?”
“She wanted to interview me, and I declined.”
He hums like he finds this particularly interesting.
I feel like I have no choice but to defend myself. “Every minute of my time during this cruise is accounted for. I think I’ll be giving enough of myself as it is.”
“Ah ... and so you were telling her that—turning down an interview request with someone you invited on the ship for interviews —while actively checking her out?”
Instead of engaging, I turn my head to the side and address the captain. “Captain Neal, remind me of the maritime laws for murder in international waters?”
“Christ,” he curses. “Don’t bring me into this.”