Chapter 4 #2
I glance around the room, half expecting to see the blonde ghost hovering near the champagne fountain.
“No. Absolutely not,” I say with zero conviction.
Her brows knit together. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I can assure you, there’s definitely no ghost in this room right now.”
I never said the ship.
They both laugh.
“I heard there have been a few homicides aboard.” Holland winces. “And that maybe the ship is, you know, cursed.”
Silas tries to laugh it off, sliding an arm around her waist. “Please ignore my wife. She has an overactive imagination. A few accidents don’t make a cursed ship.”
“Exactly,” I say with forced brightness.
Cursed? Where have I heard that before? Oh, right—from me.
Silas offers an amicable smile my way. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to hit the dessert table before Gideon starts his speech.” Silas guides Holland away, and I catch the tail end of her whisper. “I’m telling you, something about this place feels off.”
I can’t help but frown because I happen to know something is off about this place.
I head toward the buffet just as the lights dim and moody instrumental music swells from hidden speakers throughout the lounge. A spotlight cuts through the darkness and lands on Gideon at the front of the room.
The door opens in the back, and Ransom and Wes slip inside, both of them lethally handsome in dark suits. Ransom’s tie is a deep burgundy, and Wes has ditched his captain’s whites for civilian clothes, which somehow makes him look even more devastating.
They sidle up next to me, and Wes murmurs, “You look stunning.”
Except his eyes aren’t on me.
They’re locked on Marina across the room.
Ransom and I share a look. Is Wes smitten?
“Were you able to beef up security?” I whisper to the man I happen to be smitten with.
Ransom’s jaw tightens. “Quinn wouldn’t even let me into the office. It was brutal. She said she was simply following protocol.”
I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s not your fault.”
“Everything’s usually my fault eventually. Let’s not rule it out.”
“Trixie.”
“Just saying.”
Gideon taps a microphone, and the room falls silent except for the gentle background music.
“Good evening, everyone!” His voice booms through the speakers. “Welcome to the Second Act Society’s inaugural cruise celebration. I’m thrilled to see so many familiar faces and even more excited to welcome our new members.”
Applause ripples through the crowd.
“For those who don’t know me, my name is Gideon Vale, and I founded the Second Act Society three years ago after my own major life transition. I went from corporate burnout to living my dream, and I want to help all of you do the same.”
He pauses, his gaze sweeping the room.
“First acts are for learning your lines. Second acts are for going off script.”
More applause.
“Over the next ten days, we’ll be exploring Iceland’s gorgeous landscapes, but more importantly, we’ll be exploring what’s next for each of you.
We have workshops, networking events, and yes,” he winks at the crowd, “I’ll be doling out a few delicious secrets, too.
I’ll reveal all of the tips and tricks I’ve learned from helping hundreds of people reinvent themselves. ”
The crowd eats it up like it’s the lava cake at the midnight buffet.
Speaking of which, I sure hope they’re serving lava cake on that dessert table.
Ransom gives my hand a quick squeeze as if he knows what I’m thinking. And face it, he so does.
“So raise a glass with me.” Gideon lifts his champagne flute and inspires others to do the same. “To second acts, second chances, and refusing to let age define what’s possible. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” the room echoes.
The lights come up a notch, and the music shifts to something more upbeat. Conversations resume, laughter fills the air, and the bon voyage party kicks into full gear.
We watch as Gideon weaves through the crowd, stopping to chat with various guests.
He makes his way to Marina, leans in close, and says something that makes her face drain of color.
She shakes her head, says something back, and makes a beeline into the crowd, disappearing among the throng of guests.
“Huh, that was odd,” I say just above a whisper.
“I’ll see what that was about,” Wes says, but he’s immediately bombarded by a group of women who all want pictures with the handsome captain.
“Captain quicksand,” I murmur.
“He’s got about three minutes before they propose,” Ransom says.
“You’re optimistic. More like thirty seconds.”
Ransom and I watch as Gideon approaches Silas near the bar. Whatever Gideon says makes Silas’s expression harden. He gets right in Gideon’s face, his voice too low to hear but his body language screaming with fury. Then Silas marches off, leaving Gideon standing there with an amused smirk.
I shake my head. “Why do I get the feeling that man always has the upper hand?”
“Because you’re right,” Ransom says with a sigh. “And having the upper hand typically leads to trouble.”
Holland bumps into Gideon—a part of me wonders if it was a deliberate move—and she says something that wipes that smirk right off his face. He looks genuinely stunned as she turns on her heel and disappears into the depths of the crowd.
“This is a high-drama night,” Ransom observes with a frown.
“Let’s hope it’s not high-trauma.”
“Famous last words, Mrs. Baxter.”
“I specialize in famous last words. It’s practically a side hustle.”
The music shifts to something slower and far more romantic as Ransom extends his hand.
“May I have this dance?”
“You, my handsome, brilliant husband, may have every dance.”
I take it, and we move onto the makeshift dance floor where several couples are already swaying.
His hand settles on the small of my back, and I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar cologne—sandalwood, cedar, and that warm bottom note that is just him.
We dance for twenty minutes, maybe longer, lost in our own little bubble while the party swirls around us.
“You know,” I murmur against his chest, “I think this Second Act Society has the right idea. We need to seize the present by the sexy horns.”
“That was definitely not in Gideon’s speech.”
“It should have been.” I pull back to look at him. “And, regardless, I think we should take some of our own advice.”
His eyes darken. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let me show you.”
I take his hand and lead him toward the exit, weaving through dancing couples and chattering groups.
We slip out into the corridor, and I guide him down a dimly lit hallway away from the party noise.
The hum of the ship is quieter here, the muffled beat of the music thumping faintly through the walls.
It smells like lemon polish and whatever cologne the last steward was wearing.
And despite the fact it’s romantic in its own way.
“Mrs. Baxter.” Ransom backs me against the wall with that growl I love. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
“Always.”
He kisses me, and I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, and the entire world narrows down to just us, just this, just the two of us dancing through the—
I trip over something.
Ransom stumbles, trying to catch me, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs. We land on something soft but oddly firm, and my hand touches fabric. Expensive fabric.
I freeze.
Ransom does too.
We both look down at the same time.
A face stares up at us. Blank eyes. Slack jaw. That exquisite paisley scarf is still wrapped around his neck—tightly—extremely tightly.
Gideon won’t have to worry about his second act anymore.
Gideon Vale is dead.