Chapter Five CASEY
Chapter Five
CASEY
Well ... that went badly. I’m kind of shocked, actually. I supposed there could be some awkwardness between us if Phillip happened to remember who I was, but I was able to delude myself into thinking that was impossible. With everything he’s done since we last met—all the places he’s traveled, all the people he’s met—a lowly eighth-grade girl surely pales in comparison.
Well, lesson learned.
He not only remembers me, but he’s also still angry with me. Oh, I wish I’d never sabotaged his team!
I’m summarizing all this into a neat little paragraph in a Word document. It’s not what I’m supposed to be working on. My fingers should be flying a mile a minute on all sorts of exciting descriptions about my tour of Aurelia . I’m supposed to outline the various spa packages and the dining experiences—everything I just learned, everything that could fly out of my brain if I don’t carefully jot it down. I should not be fixating on my encounter with Phillip Woodmont.
What is Aurelia compared to its owner?
Its enigmatic, haughty, ARROGANT owner.
Phillip Woodmont is just as proud and spiteful as you would expect for someone in his position. I can’t get over how much he’s changed. Oh sure, he’s handsome. Aren’t they always? His good looks are probably a gift from the devil in exchange for the souls of a thousand suffering children or something equally horrible. How blasé. How CLICHé to be handsome when you also rule the world.
His suit was custom. His neat black glasses were probably designer too. His watch was expensive and heavy and actually very ostentatious. I can’t believe he has the nerve to walk around with something worth that much casually draped across his wrist when there are starving people in the world!
What else . . . ?
What else!
His hair! Oh god, the money he probably spends on haircuts.
The vanity of it all.
The blinking cursor taunts me. An entire blank page waiting to be filled with every detail of the tour I just completed with Ms. Patel. Instead, I can only focus on Phillip.
Dammit.
I push away from the desk in my suite and look around at all the pristine furnishings—luxurious jewel tones on the lamps and light fixtures, compelling artworks, subtle wallpaper, inviting furniture, and lots of natural light pouring in through the large windows.
My bags are still packed and sitting neatly by the door. I didn’t have time to unload everything before heading to the observation lounge earlier this afternoon. For one fleeting second, I contemplate leaving, but I can’t. I also contemplate working around my promise to Gwen. I could save face and give up on the interview with Phillip and just turn in a detailed report of my time aboard Aurelia . It’s tempting to throw in the towel, cobble together the last scraps of my dignity, and leave the Phillip issue well enough alone.
He doesn’t want to give me an interview. In any other circumstance, I’d accept that.
But not now.
The stakes are too high.
Everything—and I mean everything —rides on this assignment.
There are no two ways to slice it: my life is currently ... in shambles.
Up until last year, I lived with my grandmother. We’d always been a team. My parents were what we in the biz call degenerates. It was my grandmother who raised me, who took on the role of mom, dad, uncle, aunt, sister—you name it. She’s all I had. The strongest woman I’ve ever known.
When cancer came calling a few years ago, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that she’d succumb to it. We’re talking about a lady who at sixty years old signed up to coach my Little League team when no one else would do it. A lady who once made a mechanic start crying when he tried to swindle her into getting unnecessary work done to her Pontiac Grand Prix. A lady so caustic and sassy, everyone in our town knew not to cross her. I mean, the cojones on the woman were something else.
Still, after the cancer diagnosis, I felt like it was prudent for me to move back in with her to help out. The arrangement worked well for the both of us, actually. I’d just graduated from college and was drowning in student loans while trying to make it as a fledgling journalist. Even after I got the job with Bon Voyage , I stayed with her because I wanted to be there to drive her to appointments, to hold her hand on the bad days. Whenever she grumbled about it, I told her it was me who needed her . It wasn’t even a lie. My pittance of a salary is not nearly enough to afford a decent apartment along with all of life’s other necessities.
For a good long stretch, we were making do. It seemed like we could really pull this off. She’d get better, I’d get a promotion, and we’d eventually laugh about the hard times that were well and truly behind us. This delusion was so strong that when she got the diagnosis that her lung cancer had started to spread, I didn’t even balk. Never mind that she’d spent the better part of fifty years sucking cigarettes down to the filter. I figured cancer would get the message and scurry off to find some other more hospitable host.
The chemo and radiation didn’t do the trick, though. The rail-thin end, the way she wheezed in each breath—I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
I remember the last time I broke down in front of her while she lay mostly helpless in her hospital bed, heavy, grief-laden tears pouring down my cheeks as she gripped my hand and pursed her lips at me. Jean Hughes did not abide tears. Not then, not ever. She pulled me down to her with a strength I didn’t realize she still had. Her fingers tightened around mine, and she reassured me, “You’re gonna make it, kid. Okay? You’ve got sunshine in you, you know that? You don’t ever let anyone snuff it out.”
Her death last year was bad enough on its own. Becoming an orphan when you’re a young adult is a bitter pill to swallow. No one really feels all that bad for you because you’re not a kid anymore, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re really on your own now. No safety net to speak of. No emotional support system.
Then came the money issues.
Guess who was the first to come knocking after my grandmother passed away. I’ll save you some time here. It wasn’t a kind stranger. Not a valiant white knight. Sadly, I was fresh out of rich relatives wanting to play my benefactor.
No, the person knocking on my door and calling my cell phone incessantly, the one sending letter after letter was none other than Steve Buchanan, your friendly debt collector.
Now, let me clarify something for anybody as dumb as me. My grandmother may have died, but her mountain of credit card bills and medical debt were alive and kickin’. Oh, and wouldn’t you know? Grandma hadn’t paid her taxes in over a decade. Good going, Jean.
“Okay, well. How much does her estate owe?” I asked him when I finally gained the courage to take one of his calls. The question is absolutely hysterical when I think back on it, because it shows the state of mind I was in at the time. I thought there was a way out. Oh, shoot. A couple grand? Let me see what I can do.
The actual figure—the one I still can’t think about without wincing—came later, after Steve asked if I was sitting down, and he assured me he would do everything he could to help me out.
Helping me out actually meant seizing my grandmother’s house and all her possessions, ha, ha, ha! Steve, you’re so silly!
So yeah, I’ve definitely been navigating a rough patch lately.
As of two weeks ago, I said goodbye to my childhood home, moved all my earthly possessions into a storage unit in White Plains, and started to halfheartedly search for an apartment while living out of a hotel room.
When Gwen spoke about this assignment during our staff meeting, I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind. Clearly. I regret sticking my neck out and lying about my relationship with Phillip, but it’s too late to turn back now. There’s nothing to lose—no real place to call home, no family, no boyfriend, a job I hate ... my hope of having a future career as a successful journalist and making my grandmother proud is all I have left, and it hinges on getting this damn interview.
Phillip probably assumes he can run me off with a halfhearted rejection, but he’s dead wrong, and he’s about to find that out the hard way.
Tonight’s welcome dinner is in two hours.
I spend the next thirty minutes unpacking and settling in, taking full advantage of the place I’ll call home for the next ten days. I spread out my things in the bathroom, organizing my moisturizer and face wash on the black marble countertop along with all my cosmetics.
Then I shower and carefully blow out my hair before moving on to my makeup. My grandmother spent thirty years behind the Chanel cosmetics counter at Saks Fifth Avenue in New York City. She never left our house without a full face of makeup, a fresh set of curls, and two strategically placed spritzes of Chanel N°5. Though I protested at the time, I’m grateful she taught me well.
The natural, subtle makeup I’ve worn all day? Gone.
A touch of bronzer and the right swipe of a warm-pink blush melds perfectly with my tanned complexion.
I achieve a soft golden smoky eye with ease. I layer honey-brown tones and then tap on a little shimmer so that my blue eyes don’t just pop, they punch .
My full lips are stained a strawberry red.
When I step back and turn my chin from side to side, inspecting every detail, a zing of excitement races through me.
Am I trying to seduce Phillip?
Absolutely not.
I just want to stop him dead in his tracks. I want him to feel the same way I did when I saw him in that suit this afternoon.
News flash, you aren’t the only one who grew up.
I don’t even hesitate before I grab a flashy gold dress from my closet and slip it on. It’s short and fitted, with a structured bodice and a draped silk skirt. It’s one of the dresses I splurged on for the trip, and I’d planned to pull it out a little later on in the voyage, but tonight’s the night.
My shoes are a lace-up pair of gold heels.
I can practically hear my grandmother’s hearty round of applause.
Eat ’em up, Sunshine.
When I knock on Sienna’s door so we can walk to dinner together, she swings it open, and her jaw practically comes unhinged. Her reaction is exactly as I’d hoped.
“Well done, Casey.” She circles around me, getting a view of every angle. “Trying to steal the hearts of every man on board?”
Just one.
But no. That’s not right. I don’t want Phillip’s heart. I want his soul in glossy magazine print. My name on the byline.
Sienna’s gone all out for dinner too. She’s gorgeous in a bright-aquamarine dress with beaded embellishments that look like abstract tropical birds. Her blonde hair is slicked back and knotted at the nape of her neck.
She takes a silly video of the two of us as we head toward the elevator, instructing me to blow a kiss right at her camera.
I’m grateful for the levity she brings. I haven’t had a friend like Sienna in a long time. I had good girlfriends in college, but after we graduated, their lives continued while mine stalled so I could move back in with my grandmother. They have relationships, marriages, even children now. I don’t. We’ve kept in touch as best as possible, but it gets to a point where you start ignoring people’s calls and texts, knowing all you have to tell them is more of the same: my grandmother is still dead; yes, I’m still working for Bon Voyage , no promotion in sight; no, I haven’t gone on any dates; in fact, I haven’t even thought about going on a date in ages.
I’ve been avoiding filling my friends in on the worst of what’s transpired over the last few weeks. If they knew about my grandmother’s house getting seized, I know they’d offer to take me in, but I can’t seem to bring myself to stoop to that. It’s embarrassing that they’ve all done it—created the lives they always wanted—while I’m still at the starting line, worse off than ever before.
Sienna’s a good distraction, fun and carefree. The perfect companion on a cruise like this. With her by my side, the reality that awaits me back in White Plains feels a million miles away.
Just before we head into the dining room to join the others for a predinner cocktail, I tug on Sienna’s arm.
“Thanks for teaming up with me. It’s better with you here.”
It’s true. I can’t imagine having to walk into events solo. I’d be even more intimidated than I already am.
She assesses me thoughtfully. “Seriously, same. Fate knew what it was doing by putting our suites side by side.” As we step inside the dining room, she takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, hands it to me, and then takes another for herself with a thank you and a smile. “Now tell me, how’d the chat go earlier with Phillip? Have you secured your interview?”
“Not exactly.”
The declaration is followed by a heavy gulp of champagne.
She frowns, waiting for me to elaborate.
“He told me no, flat out.”
Her brows tug together in confusion. “But isn’t that the point of all of this? Why are we here if not to chat with him?”
“I suppose he wants everyone’s focus to be on Aurelia , not him. Though I think his rejection is more personal than that.”
She frowns. “How so? Did you put your foot in your mouth earlier? Bad first impressions can always be undone. I swear it.”
I take another sip of champagne, and for the first time, I let my gaze rove around the room. It’s already packed with the other invited guests. I’m among royalty. I see an older woman I recognize as an editor from Vogue . There are journalists here from Bon Appétit , Condé Nast Traveler , and Travel + Leisure amid a slew of other boutique magazines. Then there are all the freelance content creators like Sienna. The room is packed with influential people, and Phillip stands at the center of it all, holding court.
He’s changed into a sharply fitted black suit that he’s paired with a gold tie.
It gives me endless pleasure to see the tie is almost the same shade as my dress. If we were a couple, it would look like we’d planned it.
Good looking doesn’t cut it with him. A travesty, when you think about it. It’s one thing to go up against a formidable man, and another to have to endure a collection of panty-melting features that make you suck in a sharp breath every time you see them. Absolutely, cruelly unfair. He’s arrogantly old-money handsome, drowning in good genes so that even if he had a long, thick scar down his face, he’d still somehow pull it off. He could chip a tooth, grow a third ear, anything. Women would still sigh and say, God, he’s good looking .
He’s talking to the same man I saw in his company earlier—tall, Black, handsome, well dressed. They’re two peas in a pod. I recognize him now because, along with unpacking and getting ready for dinner, I combed over the Woodmont Overseas International website again. It was a failure on my part that I didn’t take the time to memorize every single member of the executive board before today. I can chalk it up to a hard few weeks, but it still makes me feel like a novice journalist.
The man beside Phillip is Tyson Ackres, Phillip’s business partner, and from what little information I could glean online, his good friend. Phillip is a supremely private person, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be found about him online. I came across a few tidbits about Tyson, a few photos of Phillip alongside a pretty woman—Vivienne Chén, his longtime girlfriend. Though rumor is they recently split.
When I interview him, I’ll be sure to ask about it.
Sienna sees me looking at Phillip. Whatever expression I’m wearing must be pathetic enough that it makes her take action. Champagne flute still in hand, she nods toward Phillip’s group. “Follow me.”
“Wait. Why ?”
My question goes unanswered as I trail after her. Surely, she knows what she’s doing. She seems extremely confident.
“Sienna,” I hiss quietly. “It’s not so easy to explain. This situation between me and him. It’s silly ... but it’s complicated.”
“Well, we’re about to un complicate it.”
Oh, Jesus, she doesn’t get it.
We’re already across the room, beelining straight for them. Phillip hasn’t seen us yet, so it’s a surprise to him and to me when Sienna turns to me suddenly, laughing as she accidentally (on purpose) stumbles back into Tyson.
There’s a gasp of surprise, a perfectly contrite apology.
“Oh gosh, sorry. Sorry . I’m such a knob. Did I spill anyone’s drinks?”
Tyson smiles—no doubt charmed by Sienna’s British accent—and shakes his head. “All good here. Phillip?”
“She didn’t touch me,” he replies a tad too brusquely, looking at me rather than Sienna.
He holds my gaze for a painful second; then he looks away, not even bothering with a once-over. If someone asked him the color of my dress, I doubt he could even guess.
Thank god Sienna’s here to cut the tension. “Casey and I were just chatting, and I wasn’t looking where I was going. Ugh . Apologies, truly. I’m Sienna Thompson. I recognize you, Phillip. Thanks, by the way, for the invitation to come aboard! And sorry, I don’t think we’ve formally been introduced yet?”
Tyson smiles politely and extends his hand, first to Sienna and then to me. “Tyson Ackres. Pleasure to meet you, Sienna and ...?”
His warm brown eyes turn to me in invitation.
“Casey Hughes,” I supply. “From Bon Voyage .”
He grins. “Excellent. We’re happy to have you both on board.”
“ We’re the lucky ones!” Sienna gushes. “Our suites are insane.”
Tyson chuckles. “Where did they put you two?”
Sienna looks to me for backup, but she doesn’t need it. “We’re on deck eight. I think we’ve got master suites; that’s what Ms. Patel called them. Though I could be confused. Premium suites, signature suites, silver suites, who knows—the ones with the huge balconies and loads of windows. Forget my flat in London; I’ll never want to leave this boat!”
“The suites on deck eight are something special. Are you happy with your accommodations as well, Ms. Hughes?”
Tyson’s question jars me out of my staring contest with my champagne glass.
I look up. “Yes. Very . Thank you.”
“And have you enjoyed your first day on board?”
What a loaded question.
I can’t help but glance at Phillip, though he’s looking away, his features pensive, his jaw tightly clenched.
I hate how difficult he’s making this.
“I think it could have been much better if your friend agreed to let me interview him.”
The words tumble out on their own accord, but I’m not upset about it. I have nothing to lose, remember? Better to have it out now, with witnesses.
Phillip turns slowly, leveling me with a gaze that’s meant to shrink and cow and bend. I stand tall.
“I thought I made myself perfectly clear this afternoon, Ms. Hughes.”
My eyes narrow like I’m pondering some great mystery. “I’ve never known someone to go through the trouble to amass a collection of journalists on board a boat and then deny them the thing they’ve been hired to do. Is it a power trip or some other game you’re playing?”
“Write about the boat, Ms. Hughes.”
His tone is a biting warning I blow right past.
“I’d rather write about you . Scratch that. My boss would rather I write about you.” I lift a shoulder, feigning indifference. “I couldn’t care one way or another.”
Tyson’s booming laugh jars me into the realization that I’ve stooped too low. Phillip’s dragged me down to his level. An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but Tyson speaks first.
“Sienna, I was about to go over and chat with Ms. Patel for a moment. Care to join me?”
“Oh sure! I actually have a few questions for her,” Sienna says, clearly eager to leave me all alone with Phillip.
The moment Tyson leads Sienna away, Phillip steps closer to me, emphasizing our size difference. My heels don’t cut it. My makeup and dress barely feel like armor anymore. I can smell his spiced cologne. The heady scent binds around me, tethering me to him like a rope.
His scalding blue eyes practically sear me. “I find your obstinance incredibly annoying.”
“And I find your rudeness ridiculously unprofessional. Have you treated every journalist here the way you’ve treated me?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been nothing but respectful to them.”
I can’t help but laugh at how rude he is! “Is this all because of what happened when we were barely teenagers? Because I do actually regret it.”
“So you admit you did tamper with the cord?”
I restrain an eye roll. I’m not against apologizing to him. I would have led with that straight away the first moment I saw him if I thought there was a chance he remembered me. But since then, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. This tension between us seems to make it hard for me to say the right thing.
“Yes. I’m sorry . Is that what you want to hear?”
He shrugs coolly. “Maybe before. Now, though, it’s done. I’ve made up my mind, and I’ve always been stubborn.”
“And proud.”
He doesn’t even deny it.
“This is my career we’re talking about here. Not some juvenile trivia game!”
He doesn’t respond to this, and I’m left to take a deep breath and regroup, to try to salvage as much of this exchange as I possibly can.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, softening my voice, trying to appeal to the humanity that must exist deep down inside him.
“Oh, all right. I’ll help.” For a second, hope flares inside me like a flame. He leans in, taunting me like a fish on a line. “Here’s what you’re going to do. When we get to the next port, you’re going to take your pencil and notepad. Got it? Make sure you have your phone or recorder, too, whatever it is you journalists like to use for interviews. You’re going to tuck everything into your bag—all your belongings, actually—and head toward deck five and disembark. If you promise to never bother me again, I’ll even pay for your flight home.”
I wish I could bring my high heel down onto his foot, hard . “I’m not leaving.”
His tone is smug and final. “You won’t win.”
I unfurl a teasing smile. “I suppose all I can do is try .”
Then I tip back the last of my champagne—aware of his focus on my berry-stained lips—before I force the empty glass into his hand, turn on my heel, and walk away.
God, it’s satisfying.
I feel his gaze pinned on me like it’s a real tangible thing. A cuff around my neck. A belt around my waist.
I’m buzzing with energy, though I don’t fully understand the private smile that unfurls across my lips.
He didn’t agree to an interview, so why do I feel like I just won?