Chapter Six CASEY
Chapter Six
CASEY
It’s the second day of our cruise, and Key West, Florida, is our first port of call. I can see the gorgeous turquoise water just outside my window, but I’ve yet to make it out of bed. My printed itinerary lists an entire day’s worth of activities I can pick and choose from: gastronomical experiences, workout classes, painting lessons. I could have disembarked the ship at 7:00 a.m. for yoga on the beach, but it’s already 8:45. I don’t normally sleep in past 8:00, but I went to bed way too late last night. Sienna and I were up to no good. It started at dinner. They seated us side by side—clear across the room from Phillip.
In the dining hall, they’d arranged and decorated two long banquet tables. Phillip’s place card was at the head of the first table. Mine was at the foot of the opposite table. We might as well have been on two different continents. It can’t be a coincidence. He undoubtedly had me moved on purpose. The nerve.
Sienna spent the entirety of dinner wearing down my resistance so I’d spill all the details about my past with Phillip. She wouldn’t accept god’s honest truth: nothing all that interesting.
“The tension! I swear it’s like you personally offended him and his entire family.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Later,” I said, aware that the other guests near us were trying to eavesdrop on our conversation.
We ended up back in Sienna’s suite after dinner, sipping our way through a bottle of champagne we’d ordered up, and once we’d drained that dry, we moved on to cocktails. She taught me some TikTok dance, and we filmed it together. We watched it back a dozen times, laughing harder every time until, eventually, I had to wipe tears out of my eyes. I did finally fill her in on my silly situation with Phillip—all of it. It’s hilarious that out of everyone in my life, she’s the first person to hear the whole sordid truth. That I’m a wanted woman. A criminal on the loose! Hah .
“He’s holding a grudge from when you were children ?”
She couldn’t believe that was all.
“ Exactly !”
She laughed. “No. No. There has to be more to it. Things you’re leaving off.”
“There’s not. That’s the whole thing. My grandmother drove me home after the competition. We didn’t even make it to regionals. End of story. I never saw Phillip again until yesterday.”
“He acts really torn up about you.”
I scrunched my nose, not really seeing it. I mean, sure, I rankled him; that much was obvious.
Beyond that ... who knew? With all the champagne in my system, I couldn’t really think too hard on the subject.
Now, still, I’m not exactly all here. I have a pounding headache to show for last night, and I feel guilty for not setting my alarm for earlier. I should have been up and at ’em, early birding the hell out of this assignment. With a deep let’s-get-this-over-with sigh, I thrust myself out of bed, moan through the first few steps to the bathroom, and—not bothering with a cup—I stick my head right under the faucet and drink. Once I’ve felt around the counter for some Advil, I toss two back, drink more water, and dare a quick glance in the mirror.
Good, not great.
We’ll take it.
My next item on the agenda is to shoot off a quick email to Gwen and the team.
All good on board Aurelia ! First day was jam-packed with activities. No chance for one-on-one with Phillip, but I can send a summary of the day and my tour of the boat.
Gwen’s reply comes while I’m still sitting at the suite’s desk: No need for trivial updates. Just send over bits of your interview with Phillip when you have it so we know what we’re working with. Also, Mark is going to send a few articles for you to fact-check.
I groan and let my head fall forward into my hands. It feels good to dig the heels of my hands into my tired eyes, waking them up.
I want to crawl back into bed and doze for another few hours, but I can’t. I can’t. I CAN’T.
I leap up from my chair and head into the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for the day. I’ve missed yoga, but there’s still a lot on my agenda. Starting at 11:00 a.m., small groups can disembark and link up with local tour guides to explore the beaches and Old Town, and I will absolutely be among them. I have big plans to soak in as much vitamin D as possible. Gobs of it. I want to come back on board the ship nicely bronzed. I dress in a bikini layered beneath a sundress. I hide the hint of dark circles under my eyes with some concealer and dab on a bit of blush and a few swipes of mascara, and by the time I leave my suite, I look fresh as a daisy.
I have a bag with my phone, ID, a small camera, notebook, tennis shoes—anything I might need when I’m off the boat for the day.
When I’m out in the hall, I consider knocking on Sienna’s door, but if I were her, I’d want to be left alone. She isn’t in the same position as I am. We talked about her job last night, the freedom it affords her. Sure, she has to produce content and post it. She has a schedule she adheres to for brand deadlines, and there’s the occasional conference call with her manager—but her day-to-day is mostly dictated by her own whims. She doesn’t have a boss in the same way I do. She can sleep in for as long as she wants.
She has the dream setup, as far as I’m concerned, and it’s not so much about the fact that she doesn’t need an alarm clock, it’s the fact that the world is her oyster. Last night, I was more than a little envious listening to her travel schedule of all the places she’s seen. I probably didn’t do a great job of hiding it (thanks, Mr. Champagne).
For the first time since boarding the ship, I have to be brave and head down to the common areas on my own. Without Sienna by my side, I almost feel naked. At least I know right where to go. They’re serving breakfast in the main dining room until 10:30 a.m., so I head there to get a little something to eat, preferably something carb heavy and sugary. I’d kill for coffee too. I could have made a cup in my suite, but something tells me Aurelia ’s crew knows how to whip up something a little more delicious than an espresso shot.
Thanks to Ms. Patel’s tour yesterday, I have no trouble navigating the ship. Decks one through three are the lowest decks and are meant for staff only. Decks nine and ten have the observation lounge and library. Decks six, seven, and eight mainly house suites and small cabins. The real action is on deck five. There’s the reception desk, a salon, a spa, a high-end boutique, and a pool. Deck four has the food. There’s a fancy French restaurant called La Dame, which is run by a Michelin Star chef and only open for dinner; a semicasual Italian restaurant called Roma, open for lunch and dinner; and the main dining room, which serves every meal. It’s beautiful inside. They’ve carried the neutral-gray and cool-silver tones into the room and added deep-teal fabric on the chairs for a pop of color. It’s a large space, able to host almost every guest on board all at once, but they’ve designed it to give the illusion that it’s much more intimate. No austere cafeteria here.
Walls jut out from the perimeter of the room to create private nooks for certain exclusive tables. It’s not enough privacy, however, because I see Phillip immediately upon entering. He’s at a back table, his attention on his phone.
I can’t believe he’s alone.
A smiling host informs me that the dining room is open seating. I can sit at any table I like, and I nod and move along, already certain of where I’m heading.
I have no choice.
I have to take full advantage.
Sink or swim, Sunshine.
Phillip doesn’t look up from his phone until I’m tugging out the chair across from him.
Bold doesn’t cut it. This is downright insane.
The waiter is there before Phillip can comprehend what I’m doing.
“Would you like to start with a coffee or tea? We have a full range of coffee options on the back of the menu if you’d like to glance over it.”
“A latte please, with a splash of vanilla,” I say at the same time Phillip cuts in.
“Bring it in a to-go cup. She won’t be staying.”
The waiter doesn’t even bother to check this with me before he hurries away, eager to do Phillip’s bidding.
Phillip’s gaze tries to flay me open. “I don’t recall inviting you to sit.”
My smile doesn’t waver.
I’m not so bad mannered that I don’t realize I’ve broken quite a few social cues here. It’s just that with Phillip Woodmont, civility and politeness will get me nowhere. In fact, normal human social cues hold no weight with him at all.
I tip my head to the side, playing dumb. “Are you usually this rude so early in the morning?”
“No.”
“ Ooh la la . Special treatment, then? I’m flattered. Humor me, though, considering my Advil hasn’t kicked in and my head is aching. The caffeine should help, but until then, let’s play nice.”
“There’s a slew of open tables. Pick any of them. Nurse your headache there .”
I pick up the napkin sitting on my plate—artfully arranged to look like an origami bird. “How delightful.”
His eyes narrow on me. He’s obviously perplexed. It’s clear that he’s used to a certain way of life (i.e., he speaks and the world listens). He’s probably forgotten what insubordination feels like. It’ll be my pleasure to remind him.
Whatever searing comment he’s thinking now as he studies my face, he contains it. A pity. I’d love to know what he thinks about me. He might have grown up into a man who holds all the power, but I’m no shrinking violet.
At least ... I didn’t think I was.
Sitting here across from Phillip has my cheeks flushing, my hand slightly unsteady as I smooth my napkin across my lap.
I swallow past my nerves. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”
I reach down into my purse to grab my phone. It’s only a swipe and a click, and then I have my trusty recording app open. I slide my phone across the table set with crystal stemware and a gardenia floating in a bowl of water. Its fragrance almost masks his cologne.
“You mind?”
“Actually, I do,” he says haughtily.
“Righto.”
I expected this, obviously. I reach forward and make a show of stabbing my phone screen with my index finger to pause the recording. Hopefully, it sends a clear message that I’m a team player. We can do this his way.
“There, now. It’s just us.”
His eyes pointedly sweep across the diners filling the tables behind ours, contradicting me. Fine. We aren’t absolutely alone, but there’s no one at the table directly adjacent to ours, and with all the chatter and clinking silverware, our conversation is relatively private. This wouldn’t be my first choice of an interview location, sure, but it’ll have to do. The odds of getting Phillip to agree to ... well, anything are slim to none. For all I know, this is the last time I’ll see him for the entire voyage. I have an idea that, given the choice, he’d happily throw me overboard.
“I’m not giving you an interview.”
“Fine ... no interview this morning .” I sound light and chipper. My sweet smile says I’m not bothered in the least. “That’s perfectly okay. I still think it’d be prudent to get the basics out of the way, though—our location, your physical appearance ... details I might forget later.”
The curl of his lips tells me he finds this particularly amusing. As if I could possibly forget the way he looks.
Right. So he knows he’s attractive. How maddening.
I expect another roadblock here. I mean, with how rude he’s been so far, it wouldn’t be all that far fetched to imagine him picking up my phone and tossing it clear across the room. Or better yet, over the side of the ship.
He remains mum, though, tucking into his breakfast with all the practiced grace of a man used to fine dining. No confusion over forks for this guy. He’s ordered an omelet and breakfast potatoes that look to be seasoned and cooked to perfection. My stomach growls, and I ignore it. The waiter hasn’t come back yet with my to-go latte.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part, but I get the impression Phillip isn’t sure what he wants to do with me. After all, he’d only have to lift a finger, and security would be all too happy to haul me out of here.
The fact that he’s letting me sit here is a small victory in itself.
I should build upon it.
Unfortunately, it’s not how I’m wired.
Something in me just wants to needle him. Always. It’s too tempting. The stuffy boardroom appearance. The sharpness in his elegant features. I want to ruffle his feathers, wrinkle his shirt, make him laugh.
I press record again and lean down, speaking directly into my phone.
“It’s Monday, a little past nine. I’m sitting across from Phillip Woodmont, who seems to be in a surly mood this morning.”
He exhales a small grunt and reaches for his coffee. Black. No room for cream or sugar in his overflowing cup.
“We’re on board Aurelia . Ship details to follow. Phillip—”
His eyes cut into me.
“Er ... Mr. Woodmont will sit for an interview another time.”
“No, I won’t.”
Spurred on by his obstinance, I start talking like I would if he weren’t listening. “His suit looks designer. I have no doubt he employs a stylist. The watch on his wrist, while beautiful, could probably feed a bevy of orphans. Would his wealth be better spent on charity? More on that later. His appearance ...”
My mouth goes dry. I refuse to gift him the truth about his face and all the annoying beauty it contains, so I move right along to his head of thick dark-brown hair.
“Well, it’s clear he went for the billionaire hair-plug special. Perhaps he got a referral from Elon Musk?”
Phillip reaches forward and pauses the recording with a deft finger. “This is my natural hair.”
I restart the recording, leaning down and lowering my voice even further, teasing. “He seems particularly defensive of his hairline. Investigate further.”
At this point, he’s lost the battle with his smile, and though I should be ticking a tally beside my name for having succeeded, I can do nothing but stare, a little slack jawed as if I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me. Phillip was handsome enough sporting a frown and furrowed brow, but it pales in comparison to the absolute devastation his smile wreaks on me.
An oversight I can’t repeat because he sees it—the momentary lapse in my defenses. The effect he has on me.
Dammit.
I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for his return blow, when a voice speaks behind me.
“I thought you were going to save me a seat this morning.”
I turn to see Phillip’s friend Tyson aiming a charming smile my way. He’s dressed just as nicely as Phillip, and I feel slightly out of my element in my sundress and bikini. Silly me for dressing for a tropical vacation when I should have slipped into my finest pantsuit.
“She sat down without asking first,” Phillip says rudely. “Here, let me tip her out of it for you.”
He stands up as if to act on his words, and I find myself gripping ahold of the cushion. Childish doesn’t begin to cover how we’re acting. It seems we’ve reverted right back to middle school.
“Phillip, let her keep her seat. Look, here’s another one coming.”
A uniformed waiter is hurrying over with a chair for Tyson. He sets it down at our table, and then behind him, two more waiters arrive with a charger, coordinating china, silverware, and a crystal glass. The whole production is so coordinated it’s like they’ve practiced a thousand times. They might have.
“Will you be having coffee this morning, Mr. Ackres?” one of them asks.
“Yes, please. Fill it up so high you’re scared it’ll spill over. Better yet, just leave me the pot.”
The waiter’s head dips in a reverent nod before he rushes off. The original waiter comes back with my latte—in a to-go cup, the lid placed to the side—and asks me and Tyson what we would like to order.
I hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at the menu. I didn’t think I was going to make it this far. I half expect Phillip to cut in and tell them not to bother with food, that I’ll be dining elsewhere.
“Are you a vegetarian, Ms. Hughes?” Tyson asks, trying to smooth down the tension radiating off his friend.
“No.”
He nods in confirmation, then turns to address the waiter. “Then we’ll each take the sunrise omelet. Potatoes and fruit on the side, please.”
“ Pancakes ,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “And a side of pancakes for both of us. Lots of syrup.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back. He’s so welcoming and friendly.
The happy mood is cut short, of course, the moment my gaze shifts back to Phillip. He’s such a black cloud—all that frustration evident in his furrowed brow.
“Seems you won’t be getting rid of me quite so easily this morning.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I look to Tyson. “Do you see what I have to deal with? I’ve been nothing but kind this morning, I assure you. He’s the problem.”
Tyson’s clearly amused as he replies, “He explained the circumstances to me. Apparently, there’s bad blood between you two.”
“’Fraid so. Think you could broker peace?”
He puffs out an exhausted sigh. “I’m not that good, I’m afraid. Phillip is a much better negotiator.”
I tilt my head at Phillip. “ Truly ? I have a hard time believing that.”
“Drink your latte, Ms. Hughes,” Phillip says by way of ending the discussion.
Like a good girl, I pick up my latte with its intricate foamed-milk design—I swear it’s a tiny version of Aurelia , absurd —and I take a long, pointed sip, holding eye contact with Phillip while I do it. There, now I’ve done what you asked. You can’t be mad about that.
I don’t know why I’ve found myself here, going up against a man positively dripping with power. I’m awfully confident for a person who has no arsenal to speak of, no ally, just a lowly fact-checker title and nothing to lose, I suppose.
Phillip’s gaze never wavers. He watches me lift the mug to my lips, and then his gaze drops to my throat as I swallow. I lick the bit of foam from the corner of my mouth and brush my lips together. It’s the most mundane thing—just a sip of coffee—and yet for some reason, I find it’s turned into something so heated that my body hums with excitement. I recognize what it is: innate, obvious attraction. Oh fuck. It’s so, so inconvenient to feel that zing. The sort that feels inevitable and deep. The kind of thing that digs its talons into you.
It’s one thing to acknowledge that Phillip is objectively handsome. Poll the US population and everyone would agree: he’s a grade A hottie. Attraction is different, though. Chemical.
Tyson clears his throat.
I set my latte back on the table.
“Tell me what I should do to win him over,” I say, talking to Tyson, though I’m looking at Phillip.
“I doubt you can,” Tyson replies truthfully.
My brow arches.
“Ah. ‘My good opinion once lost is lost forever,’” I say, quoting from Jane Austen.
Phillip’s mouth quirks like he wants to smile. “Exactly. And don’t you forget it.”
Tyson barks out a laugh. “Easy there, Phillip. She’s our invited guest, remember?”
I give him a gloating, devilish smile. “Yes. See? As your invited guest, I’m untouchable. And don’t you forget it .”
The air crackles as Phillip’s eyes darken. I was absentmindedly stroking the side of my to-go cup, but I yank my hand back and stuff it beneath the table.
The tightness in my belly almost hurts.
That ache of desire is so foreign to me.
I realize what I’ve done a second too late. I came over here with a clear goal: persuade Phillip to give me an interview. Instead, I let him goad me and drag me down to a position I can’t afford to be in (quite literally). Now that I know how easily he strips me of my self-control, my filter, my manners, I’ll have to be more careful with him in the future.
I open my mouth, preparing to offer a proverbial white flag by way of apology, but Phillip drains the last of his coffee and then scoots his chair back, standing so that I’m forced to acknowledge his intimidating size. I feel diminutive sitting in my chair across from him.
“Off already?” Tyson asks.
“I need to check in with Devin.”
“Ah, let me know if there’s any trouble.”
Phillip nods, casts me a quick glance, and says, “Ms. Hughes, enjoy your breakfast.”
When he walks away, I have to make a concerted effort not to let my gaze follow him through the dining room. I want to watch him, but I focus on my latte and take a heavy gulp.
Tyson’s attention is on me. I’m aware he’s studying me, but I’m too chicken to call him out for it.
I puff out a heavy sigh. “Well, that went horribly ...”
He shrugs cavalierly. “Eh. Don’t sweat it.”
Don’t sweat it? Impossible. I’ll be replaying our encounter on repeat the rest of the day. I’ll be dissecting every word, beating myself up for not playing my part better. I could have kissed his ass, really cranked up the charm. Instead, I was too focused on trying to get in some verbal jabs.
“You don’t have to eat with me. I understand I’ve put you in an awkward position.”
He can’t keep the smile off his face. “You have? This has been one of the best meals I’ve had in a while. Well ... certainly the most entertaining.”
“ Entertaining .” I snort. “I should apologize to him.”
He balks. “Apologize? Absolutely not.”
“I was rude.”
His expression turns steely. “So was he.”
“Yes, but I need him . Not the other way around.”
He frowns, considering this for a moment; then he casts the thought away with a shake of his head. “I’m not so certain of that.”
On the heels of this little veiled comment, the waiter arrives with our food.
“ Oh my god .”
Our side of pancakes was misinterpreted. In addition to our omelets, we’re both presented with a stack of six pancakes, each one the size of my head. Syrup drips provocatively over the sides, and butter melts in a way that has my mouth watering as they set the plate down in front of me.
Tyson’s eyes widen. “Well, damn.”
I laugh. “Eat up.”
It should be slightly awkward to eat alone with Tyson, but he’s so adept at carrying on conversation. He asks me how long I’ve worked at Bon Voyage , where I live, what I think of Aurelia .
In return, I ask about his position with Woodmont Overseas International, his time with the company, and eventually, his relationship with Phillip.
Tyson knows what I’m doing, of course. He hasn’t forgotten I’m here as a journalist first and foremost. He doesn’t shut me down, though. Either he’s trying to make up for Phillip’s harshness or he sees the benefit in throwing me a bone.
“Phillip and I are extremely close. We started working together when we were in our early twenties, and he let me live with him while I was looking for an apartment in New York City.” He gets a faraway look as he considers something. “That would have been seven or eight years ago, now. God, we were kids.”
“Single?”
He laughs. “Yes. We were both single at the time.”
“Was he a good roommate?”
“Course. I mean, his apartment takes up an entire city block. It’s not like we were on top of each other or anything. There was a cleaning service, private chef. All the usual pitfalls of having a roommate didn’t even come up.”
“So you two have been friends and coworkers for a while. That must get difficult at times?”
He mulls this over as he cuts into his pancakes. “Not really. Phillip’s extremely intense about work. So long as you do your job well, he gives you a wide berth.”
“Is he your direct superior?”
“Not technically, but with the Woodmont name, in a way, he’s everyone’s direct superior. The only people above him in the company are his father and uncle, and it’s no small secret that—with their approval—he’ll succeed them both when the time comes.”
“Do you think that’s good for the company?”
“It’s essential. No one could run Woodmont Overseas like Phillip can.”
“So he’s generally liked among staff?”
Tyson chuckles. “Think of it this way. You know the way Brits idolize Princess Diana? That’s how people at Woodmont Overseas feel about Phillip. He gives everything he has to the company. He cares about every member of staff, from the janitorial department to the chairman on the board, and they feel it.”
“So then professionally, he’s damn near perfect. What about his personal life?”
Tyson shakes his head, giving me a daring look. “ That , Ms. Hughes, is something you’ll have to ask him.”