Chapter Nine CASEY
Chapter Nine
CASEY
It was harsh the way I left Phillip on the dock—a sort of don’t-kill-the-messenger situation where he got all the blowback from my newly realized quarter-life crisis. I didn’t like how deep he was delving, and so I stormed away in a huff. I’m already sorry for it. I looked for him after I left the clinic yesterday. After only an hour, I was as good as new thanks to a paste of baking soda and seawater the doctor applied to my calf. When I left, I was given clear instructions to take a hot shower and apply an ice pack if the pain worsened, though it never did.
I went to dinner in the dining hall, ready to offer Phillip an apology and a thank-you for carting me back to the boat, but he never showed. Or at least, I never saw him.
I carried my disappointment all the way back to my suite, where Sienna and I went to debate having our big night out.
Ricardo had asked us to meet him at his bar so he could show us some of Key West’s nightlife, but it was a quarter to nine, and neither of us was making the moves to get ready. In fact, Sienna was splayed out on the couch in my living room.
“It’s not that Ricardo isn’t nice ...,” I started.
“No, I know. I feel bad that we can’t phone him and offer an apology. It’s just I can’t manage to move a single muscle. Not one .” She strained to pick up her arm as if to prove her point and then, with a groan, let it drop back onto the couch beside her. Apparently, after I left the beach picnic, she got talked into playing a few rounds of beach volleyball. Sienna admitted she isn’t very good at the sport—or rather any sport—but Javier was playing, and so she forced herself to “give it a go.”
“I have aches in places I didn’t know could ache.” She forced herself up onto her side.
“But was it worth it? Did you get to talk to Javier?”
She grinned. “Oh yes. I have no idea what you told him when you two were out surfing, but he seemed to get the idea that I fancied him.”
“You do—”
“Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that!” She sounded exasperated.
“ Well ?” Guilt washes over me. “Did I completely ruin it or what?”
“No. Nothing’s been ruined,” she says, and I let out a relieved sigh. “I actually need to thank you. I feel like my usual MO is to make men squirm. Does she, doesn’t she? That whole game, but Javier cut straight through all that nonsense. Apparently, he feels the same way. We’ve arranged to have a drink tomorrow night after that show in the theater we’re all meant to go to.”
“A date ?”
“Yes. A proper date. All thanks to you. Now hand me that bottle of Nurofen, will you? I’ll barely be able to stand up here in a second.”
On our third day on board, we left the Keys and started toward Turks and Caicos. With no port to explore, the crew planned an entire day of activities for us, starting with morning yoga, which Sienna skipped in favor of wallowing in bed (“Do you think I can manage a sun salutation right now? I can barely crawl to the loo!”), followed by a poolside lunch, and a ladies’ spa afternoon.
I’m having the best day. I enjoyed yoga almost as much as I’m enjoying hanging by the pool and working on my tan. I did manage to work a few hours, laptop open on my sun lounger. I typed up all the key points from the previous day, including my encounters with Phillip. It’s not that I suddenly think he’ll change his mind and give me the interview, but it’s better to get metaphorical pen on paper while everything’s fresh in my mind. It’s no coincidence that I can manage to type up pages upon pages of content about him, many more than I can compared to ... say ... the food offerings in the dining hall. It’s much more fun to wax poetic about Phillip’s jawline than it is to describe a sashimi roll.
Before I head to the spa, I shoot off an email to Gwen with another day’s worth of updates, pointedly leaving out the information about Phillip.
Her response is much the same as it was the day before.
This is fine, Casey, but truly we need that interview!!!
Three exclamation marks seem like three too many. I’m doing everything I can. I’ve looked for Phillip all day, and he wasn’t in the dining hall, neither was he at yoga or up by the pool. I’m not going to stoop so low as to hunt him down in his suite. I’m really enjoying my time on board Aurelia , and I’d rather not be hauled off by security just yet.
When the sun’s too hot to manage and I’ve done just about as much swimming as I can handle in one day, I venture down to the spa to join the others for our complimentary treatments. Yes, complimentary ! This job. I can’t even handle it. Getting paid to get a massage? Yes, please! I can’t believe I’ve been toiling away fact-checking while other journalists were living it up like this!
Sienna’s waiting for me outside the spa, and she does a double take when she sees me.
“God, look at you. A sun goddess. Now I regret not joining you down by the pool even more. No work-around, though. I had videos I needed to edit and post, and I phoned my parents.” She waves her hand. “They worry about me with all the travel. Silly, I know, but I’m their only daughter.”
“Well, lucky for you, we still have six more days on board to soak up some sun. How are you feeling?”
She frowns for a moment, confused. Then her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, after yesterday? Still sore a bit, but it’s nothing a good masseuse can’t work out.”
She shimmies her shoulders as she says this, and then she links her arm with mine and tugs me into the spa.
Now, I’ve been in lots of spas in my life. Dozens. At least.
Okay, truth, I’ve never been in one, ever.
If ole Jean Hughes was feeling like treating herself (and me), we’d get manicures at a salon that would run a two-for-one special on Wednesdays, down the road from her old house. Only catch? We had to use the same color, and my grandmother always picked. I rocked fire-engine red nails until high school.
But even if I were a frequent flyer at spas, I have a feeling this one would still take the cake. We enter a foyer with plush carpet, serene shimmery wallpaper, and a round table almost completely covered by a cascading floral arrangement tucked beneath a dripping chandelier; tranquil music plays quietly in the background. Two attendants greet us with glasses of fresh lemon-infused water and then direct us to where we can stow our items and change into custom-designed Hermès terry cloth robes (which we get to keep ).
They were smart to space us out throughout the day so it’s not a huge group filing in at once. I’m one of six, and the two attendants who come to collect us from the changing room—Brigitta and Ana—explain that we’ll each be able to choose three services from the spa’s overflowing offerings, which include things like seaweed wraps, HydraFacials, massages. As if all that wasn’t enough, we’ll then be whisked over to the salon for our choice of hair and makeup treatments.
I feel like a princess being pampered before a royal ball.
I start with a facial, and next I opt for a full-body citrus wrap, and then finally a decadent massage. I am so relaxed by the time my session is over, my worries don’t even exist. They’ve left my body.
I’m merely a vessel for lemon water and facials. Thank god for Sienna, though. She’s the one who had the sense to recommend we get our hair and makeup done at the salon, so we’re ready for the show.
“That way, we don’t have to worry about doing it ourselves. God, it’s such a treat not having to blow-dry all this hair.”
“Good call.”
I sit in the salon chair while some heavily accented blond man named Viktor— I think he’s Russian, maybe? —inventories all the things wrong with my hair. I didn’t see it before, but I certainly understand exactly what he means once he’s done with his diatribe. What was I thinking , keeping it this length? And no layers? How was it supposed to breathe? My god. I’m as offended as he is. Get the scissors!
He does his thing, working flawlessly and efficiently. I’m stunned with the end result. He’s cut my hair; I know he has, and yet, somehow, it looks longer and fuller than ever. How did he ... who is he ...
“Flawless,” he tells me, and I glow under his admiration. I’ve known him for forty-five minutes, and I’d trust this man with my life.
When I stand up to move to the makeup chair, he shouts at me not to slouch, and I straighten my back immediately lest I accidentally piss him off.
“He’s a bit scary, isn’t he?” Sienna whispers.
I just shake my head, worried he might somehow have ultrasonic hearing.
“He’s a creative genius. Don’t question it.”
After everything is said and done, once the last stroke of mascara has been applied to lengthen my lashes and my cheeks have been dusted with a shimmery pink blush, I’ve never felt prettier in all my life. I stand in my suite, in a slinky gold cocktail dress that Sienna’s let me borrow, and I almost, very nearly tear up. It’s the thought of my grandmother never seeing me like this—looking so grown up and glamorous, that is.
I suppose I dressed up nice for my high school prom and the occasional date or two, but it was nothing like how I look tonight. I never quite looked this stunning. Yes. I’m allowed to think it, I tell myself. Now that there’s no one else to say it for me. I deserve to hear it, if only here, in the quiet of my suite. I’m allowed to feel like pure sunshine in this gold dress. My legs go on forever in my coordinating sky-high heels, and though they’ll absolutely ruin my feet, tear them to bits most likely, there’s no choice. They have to be worn. I’ve never seen a more tempting pair of shoes. There’s a demure strap over my toes and another midway up my foot; then instead of a traditional buckle around my ankle, there’s a long thin snake-shaped spiral that winds up my lower calf. God, they look expensive. They’re Sienna’s as well. Some London brand I’ve never heard of.
“You take them. They’re yours. They were gifted to me, and they’re a half size too small, and I don’t know what I was thinking packing them for the trip. I suppose I was hopeful they’d work out, and now they have, on you .”
“You’re like my fairy godmother.”
“Oh, yuck, wasn’t she old? I’d like to be Cinderella’s sexy friend, the one who has a tryst with Prince Charming’s brother instead.”
My stomach is filled with nerves and not much else as we make our way to deck four. The performance starts in fifteen minutes, and I meant to grab a bite to eat in my suite before meeting Sienna, but I didn’t get the chance. They gave us little snacks and things at the spa earlier—cucumber sandwiches, fancy French cheeses, a sampling of smoothies, but looking back, it equated to about seventeen calories, certainly not enough to take the place of dinner.
Outside the theater’s entrance, there’s a cocktail bar. Sienna shoots me a look like Should we? I shake my head adamantly. We shouldn’t. But then she responds with a look that says C’mon, what do we have to lose? I roll my eyes. For me? Not much. Just my last lifeline. She crosses her arms and purses her lips.
In the end, we take our seats in the middle of the theater, each with a glass of champagne.
“Do not let me guzzle this down,” I say just before my lips come into contact with the most effervescent, bubbly, delicious champagne I’ve ever tasted. It’s gone in two seconds flat. “Right, well, don’t let me guzzle down my second glass.”
“Good evening, Ms. Hughes. Ms. Thompson.”
Sienna whirls around with a big smile. “Oh, hello , you two!”
I turn to greet Tyson, genuinely happy to see him for the first time since yesterday morning until I notice his friend behind him. Phillip is devastatingly handsome, as always. In a fitted black suit, sans tie, with the top two buttons undone at his collar—my mouth goes dry. I freak out. Look away. Then I realize after the fact that I forgot to greet him. Whatever happened yesterday on that golf cart doesn’t warrant me completely ignoring him, but what do I do now? Turn back and laugh? Offer a smile? I can’t. I’m glued to my spot, my heart thundering in my chest.
They fill the two seats behind us, talking to Sienna while I review the program like my life depends on memorizing every word of it. Somehow, they arranged it so Phillip is directly behind me, though it should have been Tyson.
Sienna and Tyson act like two chatterboxes, carrying on so easily, though Phillip is as quiet as I am.
Eventually, though, he leans forward, breaking the awkwardness with a greeting that sends goose bumps down my arms.
“Ms. Hughes.”
I smirk before turning gently to look over my shoulder, just enough to get him in view without having to spin all the way around in my seat. It’s easier now to look at him knowing what to expect. My heart rate only barely picks up. His hair is combed smoothly, dark and gleaming like it’s still damp from a recent shower. His jaw is clean shaven. His cologne is subtle but there, tingeing the air with a spice that has me wanting to lean closer.
I brace myself before I meet his gaze, proud that I manage to do it so confidently. You’d never know my hands were fisted in my lap. My heels bouncing against the floor.
“Surely, we’re on a first-name basis by now? I can’t go around calling you Mr. Woodmont.”
“Casey,” he amends with humor in his gaze.
My name rolls off his tongue, and it’s like he just said the most taboo thing my ears have ever heard—that’s how swiftly my body reacts.
He looks me over as if after only three days of being together, he can already tell the subtle differences in my appearance tonight. He can’t see much of my slinky gold dress, but the rest of me still captures his interest. My golden eye makeup, my striking red lips.
“I see the ladies’ spa afternoon treated you well.”
“It did. You’ve employed wonderful people. Brigitta, Ana—oh my god, Viktor . They’re very good at what they do. I’d spend my entire ten days in the spa if I could.”
He smiles, pleased with my compliments of his staff. It’s clear he takes pride in the crew on board Aurelia , and I have no doubt they’re compensated well for all their hard work. Every staff member I’ve encountered seems eager and grateful for their position with Woodmont Overseas.
“Did you have a hand in hiring them?”
“I review every last employee file, from the captain down to the most junior crew member.”
“Nothing gets by you.”
“ Nothing .”
I don’t know if he realizes his gaze is lingering on my lips. I brush them together and then offer one last smile before turning back. A lyrical song is beginning to play as the lights dim. The heavy black curtains rise as a group of dancers take the stage. I realize quickly that this is a modern dance performance rather than a traditional ballet or opera. Each dancer wears elaborate costumes and heavy makeup—transforming them into various wild animals found deep in the jungle. A tiger, a cheetah, a green shimmering snake. I’m transfixed by their movements; the passion and pageantry of the show are almost enough to take my mind off the man sitting behind me.
Throughout the performance, I feel his attention on me as if I were one of the dancers on stage. Having him directly behind me makes it so I can’t fully relax in my seat. It’s like I have one of these jungle predators at my back. At any moment, he’ll strike, and I have to be ready. I sit pin straight, my gaze focused intently on the stage. I don’t want to be seen talking or disrupting the performance, not while he’s there ready to grade me on my decorum.
My hair is down and curled by his expert stylist in the salon. I feel it slip over the back of the chair. I shiver, and Sienna sees.
“Want my coat?” she whispers quietly.
I shake my head and keep my attention up onstage.
Phillip shifts in his seat, and I hold my breath.
I’m not some big dummy who doesn’t understand the nuances of sexual attraction. It’s very obvious that I’m painfully attracted to Phillip. Though becoming aware of that and deciding what to do about it are two different things. I’ve established that it’s inappropriate to feel this way. I could land in hot water with Gwen if I pursued Phillip in that way—though would I really? Gwen’s never been all that prudish. If I were able to secure an interview with Phillip by any means possible, would she even care? In fact, she might be a little impressed by my willingness to go the extra mile. Or perhaps that’s just the champagne talking. They’ve passed around more. I’m on the last sip of my second glass, and I know I’m going down a dangerous path, but my hand keeps lifting the glass to my mouth despite the dull warnings in the back of my mind.
The performance is magical and captivating. I try to remember as much of it as possible so I can jot down notes when I get back to my suite, though truly, my mind is mostly preoccupied with Phillip. I’ve made my mind up about what I’ll do. It’s absolutely insane. My grandmother would get such a kick out of it. She’d hoot with laughter and cheer me on, especially if she knew the depth of my loneliness in the last year. The shell of a person I’ve become since her death. No wild nights. No romantic dates. Just life in its most basic form: rise, work, eat, exercise some, watch a few minutes of television, scroll online, lie awake until at some point my brain takes pity on me and lets me sleep. Each day is an exact replica of the day before. A carbon copy of boredom that’s become the status quo. I wonder if I should get a third glass of champagne.
I find Phillip in the observation lounge after the performance. It’s where everyone has gathered for more drinks. He’s speaking to Tyson and the captain, a booming, loud Scottish man with flaming-red hair. It’s wild of me to waltz right up to them and ask Phillip for a moment of his time, but as I’ve said, there’s nothing to lose. I’m at rock bottom. On the floor of the ocean. It’s me and all those weird blind fish slithering around in the depths with nowhere to go but up .
“Phillip, could I steal you away?”
All three men turn to me, surprise evident on their faces.
Phillip doesn’t agree right away, and his silence has me almost wanting to flee, but I’m here. I’ve done the hard thing, so I lift my chin and wait him out.
It’s Captain Neal who puts me out of my misery first. His thick red eyebrows shoot up, and he bellows a laugh. “You can steal me away, lass.”
He even holds his wrists together out in front of him as if begging to be led away in handcuffs.
Phillip shakes his head and steps forward, a private smile concealed as he dips his head for a moment. When his blue eyes lock with mine again, he motions for me to go ahead of him. I’m tempted to lead him to a quiet corner of the room, somewhere we won’t be overheard, but even that won’t do. We need absolute privacy for this conversation.
I loop past Sienna at the bar, glad to see she’s perched beside Javier, twisting a martini olive around the rim of her glass while she listens to him talk. Her chin is propped on her hand as she leans closer, completely enamored. I wonder if that’s customary for her or if he might be something special, unique in a way that Phillip is for me.
I’m surprised he doesn’t protest when I leave the room completely and walk out into the hall. It’s as deserted as I’d hoped it’d be. All the guests gathered in the observation lounge are deep in conversation or gambling at one of the tables set up in the back corner. The night is young, and I doubt anyone will bother us for the next few minutes. At least, I hope not.
Beside a small table tucked into a shallow alcove, I stop and turn, watching as Phillip reaches me. He carries a thick crystal glass holding the last remnants of a rich-amber liquor. He finishes it off before setting it down on the table, crossing his arms, and leaning ever so casually against the wall, obviously waiting for me to speak.
“I appreciate your time,” I say, hating how formal I sound. Aren’t we past this?
His lip curls in a deliciously wicked smile. “Care to tell me what this is about?”
His gaze falls to my wringing hands, and I immediately pull them apart. Thinking I might look as relaxed as he does, I try to lean against the table. But when it catches my weight, it teeters, and I blanch and reach out for a vase of flowers sitting on top before it topples over.
With an ever-encroaching flush creeping up my neck, I decide to just have out with it.
“All right, let’s cut to the chase. I’m prepared to offer you an exchange.”
Good. I managed to sound confident.
He doesn’t even balk, which is slightly disappointing. I’d hoped to catch him off guard.
“An exchange would require interest from both parties,” he says, nearly sounding bored. “You have nothing I want.”
“Sure about that?”
His icy-blue eyes seem to carry a question.
I arch a brow and sweep my hand down my body like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet open for business. Still, he seems to have a hard time piecing things together. Maybe he isn’t regularly offered sex in this way. Admittedly, I’m a novice at it, too, but subtlety has no place here. I’ll clearly have to spell it out.
“I’m offering an exchange of favors . Mine will be of the sexual kind. If that wasn’t obvious already ...”