Chapter 2
Trixie
“If Ransom gets bored without a real job, I’m blaming you.
” Nettie jabs a rhinestone-encrusted finger at Wes while adjusting her captain’s hat—the bedazzled monstrosity she bought from the gift shop approximately six cruises ago and refuses to retire.
It’s basically a fan favorite at this point—and it’s been in more guest selfies than the captain.
We’re gathered in the three-story atrium of the Emerald Queen of the Seas, surrounded by enough marble and crystal to outfit a chain of five-star resorts.
Outside the Copenhagen terminal, embarkation day chaos swirls in full force with luggage carts clattering across cobblestones, taxi horns blaring their impatience, and passengers hauling suitcases with the determination of folks who definitely overpacked.
Inside, the ship smells like fresh orchids, expensive cologne, and that particular brand of anticipation that comes with a brand-new cruise on the horizon.
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off the champagne fountain in the center of the atrium, where three couples are already posing for selfies despite the fact we haven’t even left port yet.
My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter, and at forty-nine—soon to be fifty, heaven help me—I never imagined my life would include living on a luxury cruise ship while married to a man who makes grown women forget how to walk in a straight line. But here we are—and I am not sorry for it.
“I wasn’t the one who fired him.” Wes holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Take it up with corporate.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Bess crosses her arms, her red hair catching the light in that way that makes the years behind her look optional. “As soon as I figure out which corporate lackey made the call.”
I think we all know it was Quinn Riddle, Ransom’s counterpart in the security department—or more to the point his underling, or she was at least. But she wasn’t trying to get Ransom tossed out on his ear, she was yet again determined to shove me off the ship once and for all. Boy, did that blow up in her face.
The thing is, Ransom was fired. Let go. Terminated. Shown the door. And none of us are happy about it, not even Quinn.
“Welcome aboard!” I call out to a passing couple, and my smile feels stapled on at this point. If I pop a cheek muscle, I’m suing corporate myself.
Ransom stands beside me in dark slacks and a crisp white button-down that does absolutely nothing to downplay the jet-black hair, the cobalt blue eyes, or the body that could stop a speeding train. No uniform. No badge. Just Ransom being Ransom, which is frankly enough.
Just my devastatingly handsome husband trying to figure out what to do with himself for the next ten days.
A woman in a floral sundress catches sight of him and promptly drops her purse, spilling lipsticks and loose change across the marble floor.
I really should start keeping a tally. That’s the fifth one this morning. I can’t blame them. It’s easy to be distracted by Ransom. I’d charge a finder’s fee, but I’m already his wife.
“You know what you need?” Elodie sidles up to us, her blonde hair styled to perfection despite the sea breeze wafting through the open atrium doors.
Elodie Abernathy would be one of my on-ship besties.
She’s sort of a self-proclaimed man-eater, but thankfully she seems to be one of the few women immune to my handsome hubby’s charm.
“A hobby. Pottery. Macramé. Competitive origami!” she all but shouts in her adorable South African accent.
“I was thinking more along the lines of consulting,” Ransom says dryly.
“Boring.” Elodie waves a manicured hand. “This is your chance to discover your inner artist. Trixie can teach you watercolors.”
He glowers dead ahead at nothing. “I’d rather walk the plank.”
“See?” Elodie chortles out a laugh. “You’re getting into the spirit already of trying something new.”
“I don’t care what hobby he picks up,” Tinsley snarls without bothering to look up from her electronic notepad, her chestnut hair falling in a glossy wave over one shoulder.
“So long as he figures out how to properly manage his wife.” She shoots me a side glance.
“Trixie, please try not to trip over any dead bodies this cruise. Your husband isn’t here in any official capacity, which means if someone gets murdered, we’re all in deep—”
“Tinsley,” Wes cuts her off with a warning look.
She shrugs. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Insurance is still arguing about the last incident.”
“Maybe I should wear a disclaimer sign,” I mutter. “Warning: May Cause Death In Your General Vicinity.”
“I’d buy that shirt,” Nettie says with a wink.
“Of course you would.” Bess huffs out a laugh.
“Darn tootin’,” Nettie doubles down. “In fact, I’d buy it in three colors.”
“Geez, Nettie.” Bess doesn’t even look over as she continues to greet the passengers with a wave. “Let the woman live.”
“I’d love to,” Nettie shoots back. “But considering her track record, it’s debatable if she will.”
A flash of crimson catches my eye near the gangway—elegant luggage, a jade green dress, and oh my word, it’s Marina. She’s actually here. She actually got on the ship.
I wave frantically, probably looking deranged.
“Marina! Over here!” I hop up and down in an effort to garner her attention.
She spots me and her face brightens as she navigates through the sea of passengers with her suitcase in tow.
She’s swapped the tan boots she had on earlier for a pair of ballet flats, and her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that makes her cheekbones do things most cheekbones can’t legally do.
She looks less shell-shocked than she did in that bar in Copenhagen, which is saying something, because the last time I saw her, she was trying her best to dissolve into a cocktail napkin.
“I’m so glad you made it through boarding!” I pull her into a hug before she can protest. “How was customs?”
“Surprisingly painless.” She glances at Wes, and a faint smile crosses her face. “Thanks to the good captain.”
“Please,” Wes’s dimples make an appearance, “call me Wes.”
There’s a flicker on his face that I can’t quite read… then a thought hits me and I gasp a little.
I catch Ransom’s eye, and he raises one eyebrow in that silent communication we’ve perfected over the past year. Something’s happening there. I raise one right back. He nods. I know. I saw it myself.
It’s basically married telepathy. It’s very efficient. No voice or stamps required.
“Marina!” Bess practically tackles her with enthusiasm. “Come meet everyone properly. You’ve already met Wes, but this is Tinsley, our cruise director—”
“The one who doesn’t want any dead bodies,” Tinsley interrupts, extending a hand.
Marina takes a moment to cringe. “I’ll do my best,” she says solemnly.
“And this is Elodie,” Bess continues. “She runs the ship’s mall and has connections to every designer outlet within a hundred-mile radius of any port.”
“I like her already,” Marina gives a warm laugh.
Elodie grins. “Stick with me, honey. I’ll have you looking fabulous and broke by the end of this cruise.”
“In that order,” I add helpfully.
“Every time.” Elodie nods with satisfaction.
Another wave of passengers floods through the atrium entrance—easily forty to fifty people, all talking and laughing with the animated energy of folks who’ve clearly bonded already. Wes straightens, his captain’s face sliding into place.
“Ah, here comes the Second Act Society.”
“The what?” I ask.
“It’s a group that will be sailing with us this voyage. They’re all about reinventing life after fifty.” He gestures to the approaching crowd. “New careers, new adventures, new everything.”
“Please tell me there’s a group discount on reinvention,” Marina mutters. “I could use one.”
I’m about to probe her a little, honestly, none of us have any idea what sent her to that bar with nothing but her suitcase and a glass full of tears, when Bess points my way.
“Speaking of fifty—someone’s fiftieth is coming up hot in exactly nine days,” she reminds me, as if I could forget.
“Oh hush,” I say.
Ransom clears his throat, and I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“It’s true. Trixie’s fiftieth birthday is on the final night of this cruise.”
“Traitor.” I’m only half-teasing. And I shoot Bess the stink eye for reminding him of it, not that she needed to.
“What?” Nettie shrieks. “You’re turning fifty and you didn’t tell us?”
“It’s not a big deal—”
“Not a big deal?” Bess looks personally affronted. “Fifty is a milestone! A celebration! A—”
“Please stop talking,” I beg.
Wes glances at Marina, and his expression turns a touch sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind me sharing this, but I had to review your ID to approve the last-minute boarding.” He pauses. “It seems you have a birthday coming up on the final day of this cruise, too.”
Marina’s eyes widen, then she winces. “I’m turning fifty, as well.”
The collective gasp from Bess and Nettie sucks half the oxygen out of the atrium.
“A double celebration!” Nettie claps her hands like mad. “This is perfect! We need cake. We need multiple cakes. Heck, we need a whole cake buffet.”
I shake my head at Ransom. “Please don’t—”
“Too late.” Bess waves me off. “I’m already planning the menu.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But I think Marina and I should get a say in frosting.”
“You don’t get a say,” Nettie grouses. “You get a candle.”
“One candle?” I wink at Marina, who looks oddly Zen about our chaotic exchange.
“Fifty would be a fire hazard,” Nettie informs us.
“She’s probably not wrong,” Marina says with a laugh.
It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from her, and it’s a good one—warm and unguarded and entirely too brief. Women carrying secrets that size don’t usually let their guard down until something is about to give.
I hope I’m around when it does.