Cruising (Love at First Sail #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

ABSOLUTELY (STORY OF A GIRL) — NINE DAYS

You would think that after nearly a decade of schlepping through airports for work, I—an actual adult woman—would arrive at a security screening checkpoint with some semblance of having my shit together.

You’d also think that, at thirty years old, someone like me could at least manage to keep track of their passport for the two minutes it takes to walk from the check-in desk to security.

But as I crouch on the dirty floor of Toronto Pearson International Airport, rummaging through my heavy black gear bag like a hungry raccoon, it dawns on me that, somehow—despite the fact I now use night cream and take a daily multivitamin to keep my knees from creaking—I’m still nothing more than a walking train wreck.

Where is a real adult when I need one?

A flurry of rogue tampons tumbles from my bag amidst my desperate passport search-and-rescue mission and I glance up briefly, catching a pointed glare from the security agent. His foot taps irritably, and I can feel the tension in his body language—all taut muscles and furrowed brows.

Whatever. It’s not like his (frankly, terrible) interpersonal skills are going to win him any awards.

And, if I’m being honest, the real problem here is not my inability to travel internationally with grace on little more than three hours of sleep and exactly zero cups of coffee.

No, the real problem is that someone, somewhere, once made the decision to print an important piece of government-issued ID on flimsy cardstock the size of a cocktail napkin.

A napkin–sized ID that just so happens to be standing between me and my escape from Agent Perma-Scowl.

“Sorry…it’s here, I just…” I mumble, fingers fumbling over zippers. My once-curly-now-frizzy hair is plastered to the sweat beading on my temples, and I’m starting to feel nauseous. “Let me check this pocket again.”

The man behind me huffs as I frantically pull out AV cables and lavalier mics that had, at one point, been neatly packed and organized.

How big is this bag? I wonder, now beginning to question if I actually have managed to lose my passport altogether.

That would be just my luck.

“This isn’t a movie theater. I need your boarding pass and passport, now.” I blink up at the agent’s hulking frame, resisting the urge to scowl back at him as I dig into a section I’ve already searched twice.

My phone buzzes in my pocket; the third time in the past ten minutes. I ignore it.

“Alright, that’s enough. You’re going to have to go to the back of the line, ma’am.”

I pause at the word.

That ridiculous word.

Ma’am.

Do I look like a ma’am?

My eyes narrow as I gather the restraint to not let loose the snarky response currently lodged in my throat.

I suppose mouthing off to an airport security agent is unwise if I want to actually make my flight.

I’m not a mean person by nature, but I can’t help secretly wishing for this guy to hit every red light on his way home tonight, or spill his coffee on his shirt during his next break.

Nothing major, nothing harmful, just inconvenient enough to ruffle a few feathers.

Finally, just as I’m about to give up, my fingers brush familiar cardstock. I peel back the fabric of my bag to reveal the navy blue booklet, tucked discreetly into a compartment of the front pocket.

“Aha!” I flash the agent a genuine grin as I whip out my passport and present it and my boarding pass to him like a toddler with a messy art project, hoping he’ll at least crack something resembling a smile.

Nope—not even a flicker of emotion on his face.

And now my head is spinning slightly from standing up too quickly. I catch myself wondering if this man has ever smiled in his life—the crease between his brows is deep. So deep, in fact, that I imagine he could hide spare change there, slotting a dime into the groove like a piggy bank.

Where would it go?

This is the thought I’m lost in when he finally grunts and glances up at me, then looks back down at the passport, frowning.

“It’s your birthday,” he says, more of an accusation than a question, really.

“Um…yes?” I reply awkwardly. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would offer a forced “Happy birthday!” to a woman he (a) does not know, and (b) likely considers to be part of the reason he hates his job.

Or at least, I assume he hates his job, by the way the scowl has completely transformed his face.

Still, I don’t want to test him. I don’t need another reminder that in only a few short hours I’ll be leaving my twenties behind.

“You don’t know?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. I gulp.

“Yes. I do. I mean, it is. Sorry, I just—I forgot what day it is,” I lie.

Real smooth, Chloe.

“Mhmm.”

Without another word, the agent shoves the documents back at me and calls for the next person in line.

For a moment I just stand there, bewildered, before snapping out of it, gathering my scattered belongings, and croaking out a nervous “Thank you!” as I scurry away, glad to finally be on the other side of that particular version of hell.

I mean, really, why aren’t passports virtual yet? I can get everything on my phone these days. Hell, I even pay for most things with my watch.

But put that stupid little book in my hands and I’m pretty much guaranteed to lose track of it immediately.

Ugh, I’m such a mess.

Which is honestly the biggest reason why I’m not thrilled about today being my birthday. It’s not that turning thirty is that big of a deal. It’s not. In fact, I enjoy getting older. Not everyone is so lucky…

And anyway, it’s not the age that bothers me; it’s the fact that I had a ten-year plan—and I’m no closer to achieving the bulk of it than I was when I made it nine years ago.

I’m not shooting documentaries or working on projects that excite me; instead, I’m still just taking whatever scraps I can get in an industry that’s not built for women like me.

Shaking off the shroud of failure that blanketed my mood during the conversation with the security agent, I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk toward the security scanners.

I shed my bag and shoes and place them in a bin to pass through the scanner, then collect them after I’ve crossed through the full-body metal detector.

Finally, shoes on and bag secured, off I go in search of the flat white I so desperately need to survive this flight.

As I round the corner and veer into the terminal traffic, I feel my phone vibrate again.

I fumble to pull it out, still not feeling totally put together.

There’s no need to guess who’s responsible for this telephonic assault.

No one—and I mean, no one—in my life would risk calling me repeatedly at such an hour without expecting an earful.

No one except my sister, Kyla.

Because she knows I’ll always answer.

Especially since I’m leaving her alone, truly alone, for the first time since Dad died a year ago.

Her contact photo pops up on the screen—a broad, inebriated grin spread lazily across her freckled face as she flashes a peace sign for the camera.

It’s so totally the opposite of who she is in real life, and a stark contrast to the deer-in-headlights expression she’s usually sporting: cute, but fucking terrified.

It usually makes me smile to see my sister so at ease. Except right now, the sight of her calling for the seventh time in less than an hour has me heated. Reluctantly, I swipe to answer, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I hop on an escalator.

“What? I’m trying to leave the country,” I gripe as I clutch the rail. My nails dig into the thick rubber, keeping me steady as an intrusive thought about being sucked into the top of the escalator by its sharp mechanical teeth plays out in my brain.

Although, it’s possible that scenario might be more enjoyable than flying at the ass-crack of dawn.

“Good morning to you, too,” she says sarcastically. “Have you boarded yet? Doesn’t your flight leave in, like, ten minutes?”

“I’m attempting to get to the gate. Which is why I haven’t answered your eleven trillion calls.”

“Oh…sorry,” she mumbles. “Since I didn’t get a chance to see you before you left, I just wanted to remind you that as soon as your per diem lands in your bank account, to—”

“Transfer it. Yes. I know. We’ve covered this. Multiple times.” Gritting my teeth, I try not to sound too annoyed. Can’t she be a normal Gen Z and just text me? A muffled sniffle comes through the other end of the line, and then it hits me: She’s been crying. Shit.

I take a deep breath and soften my tone, hoping it might help soothe her nerves long enough to go back to bed and catch a few more hours of sleep. “I haven’t seen it land in my account yet, but sometimes it takes a bit.”

“Alright,” she murmurs softly, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Anyway, I can’t send all of it. I need some of that cash for food if I’m in port.”

“Food can’t possibly cost a hundred bucks a day,” Kyla scoffs.

I snort and roll my eyes.

“It’s Europe, dude. Everything’s expensive. And I’d like to enjoy myself when I’m off the ship and not working twelve-hour days lugging gear. I’m not going to be eating McDonald’s in Rome.”

Although, to be fair, I had before. And I would again. European McDonald’s is much better than most North American fast food.

“Oh, one sec, Ky,” I say as I spot a convenience store out of the corner of my eye.

I veer toward it and hover in front of a small display of paperbacks, scanning the covers until I see something I recognize.

I pluck it off the shelf and head to the counter, securing what will hopefully be a decent distraction from the reality of being trapped in a tin can hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet.