18. Sophia
Chapter 18
Sophia
N o matter how intently I stare at my ex, I can’t figure out how I ever found him attractive, let alone thought myself in love with him.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, though I have an inkling.
“Why so hostile?” Rupert asks demurely. “I missed you, so I’ve been walking around this place, hoping I’d bump into you.”
“This ‘place’ that I almost couldn’t attend, thanks to you,” I grit out.
“What do you mean?” His brown eyes shine with such innocence that a less world-weary woman might actually fall for it—just as I once did.
“The apartment,” I remind him. “The down payment I gave you before you disappeared? That ring a bell?”
His scamming me out of that money turned out to be the tip of the iceberg. Among other things, he also defaulted on the lease for the car that I co-signed for, dealing a final death blow to my credit score.
“Please.” He waves my words away like an insect, and I wish I were a Viking—because if I were, pacifist or not, I’d break his arm. “I can explain.”
“No explanation is necessary. You’ve got a gambling addiction—maybe a drug one too—and I was an idiot… but I’m not anymore.”
His amicable fa?ade slips for a microsecond, and I see what I always should have seen—a nasty piece of shit. “Is this about your hockey player boyfriend? He will cheat on you with one of his million groupies—we both know that.”
I take a step back. “What?”
“Just read the tabloids,” he says. “It’s all there.”
Dammit. Of course someone as slimy as he is would take an equally slimy gossip rag at its word. “Who I’m with, and who they’re with, is not anyone’s business, but especially not yours. Let’s cut to the chase. I know you’re here because you’ve sniffed out money, and you’re hoping to scam me out of some, but that’s not going to happen.”
I should’ve expected this. What Rupert did to me was very similar to what my mother did before him—and since she’s been sniffing around, it was only a matter of time before he did the same.
Rupert puts a hand on his heart—or where one would be in a normal human being. “You’ve got to let me explain what really happened. It was all a big misunderstanding. I was just about?—”
Someone angrily clears his throat.
For a second, a fantasy plays out in my mind, one where Mason shows up and does to Rupert what he did to Number Thirty during that game, or maybe even performs some sort of Viking-style ritual execution.
Except it’s not Mason. It’s Richard, though he’s almost unrecognizable with such a fierce expression in his eyes.
“Is this guy bothering you?” Richard asks, putting himself between me and Rupert.
Rupert raises his hands conciliatorily. “We were just having a conversation.” Then he examines my vertically challenged driver and, more rudely, adds, “Stay out of it.”
“I don’t think so.” Richard opens his jacket. To my huge surprise, there’s a humongous handgun in a giant holster. “In two seconds, you will either be leaving or bleeding,” Richard says, the way Clint Eastwood would in the role of Ivarr.
Wow. I wish I had my phone out so that I could capture Rupert’s expression. Suffice to say, it’s the closest a face can come to resembling a pair of shat-on tighty-whities.
Turning on his heel, Rupert sprints away.
I turn to Richard. “You carry a gun?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not just your driver. I’m your bodyguard.”
“Since when?”
“Since always,” he says. “Why else do you think you pay me as much as you do?”
I thought it was just the going rate for chauffeurs, but this actually makes more sense… if you forget Richard’s diminutive stature.
“Were you in the army?” I ask.
“Army Rangers, to be precise,” Richard says proudly, then walks over to open the door for me.
Isn’t that a Special Forces unit? Rupert was lucky he left with his tail safely tucked between his legs.
As we drive to the airport, I dodge Richard’s questions about my ex by shifting the conversation to the rigorous training Richard undertook in the Army Rangers. And it’s only partially because I am genuinely interested. The truth is, I’m so ashamed to talk about Rupert that I haven’t even told Abigail, my best friend, the whole story of our relationship. I was so na?ve and stupid to be duped like that.
Fortunately, Richard is professional enough to drop the topic, and we chat about my plans for the cruise as he helps get my bags over to security.
After an uneventful flight to the Melbourne airport, I get to Port Canaveral using Lyft, for obvious reasons. Exiting my ride, I lay my eyes on the aptly named Wonder of the Oceans .
I stand there, gaping at the ship for a minute, awed by the sheer size of her. If I recall my advertising brochure correctly, this ship can carry ten thousand people, has a full-sized basketball court, a giant surfing simulation machine, a “Central Park” that sounds as big as its namesake in the middle of Manhattan, and in case all of that wasn’t enough, it has an ice-skating rink.
Great. Now my mood is slightly soured because that last bit reminds me of Mason.
The closer I get to the Wonder of the Oceans , though, the more my mood improves—to the point that if I were a Viking, I’d have a shipgasm.
To my surprise, the crowd of passengers isn’t as big as I thought it might be. Maybe I’m early? Well, in any case, since I splurged on an ocean-facing suite, I get the VIP boarding treatment that bypasses the hoi polloi.
When I reach my suite, an unladylike giggle escapes my lips.
The place is huge, and the view from the balcony is what I’ve dreamed about: unending blue ocean.
After taking plentiful pictures, I plop into a nearby chaise and take a few relaxing breaths.
Amazing. I already feel like I’m on a vacation, and we haven’t even set sail yet—or fired up the motor, or whatever the cruise ship does to move.
“This is your captain speaking,” says a Russian-accented voice from the sky… or an intercom. The voice informs everyone that his name is Ivan Vorobey, and that we will soon be conducting a muster drill… or passing muster, or possibly, eating something with lots of mustard.
After the spiel is over, I don a yellow (or maybe mustard) lifejacket and make my way to my designated location.
Again, there don’t seem to be as many people around as I would expect—which could be a very good thing when it comes to going on shared attractions such as the zipline and the surfing simulator.
The mustard turns out to be a safety briefing. On my way back to my cabin, I enter the elevator, where I smell ice and birch.
My heartbeat spikes. All of a sudden, I’m thinking of gray eyes, broad shoulders, and Uber.
Dammit. Is this what pining for someone feels like? If so, I hate it, especially since it’s directed at a person who is so wrong for me.
Escaping the elevator, I do my best to relax, a task facilitated quite well by the balcony with the ocean view. Then I eagerly dress up for my first on-board dinner. Given the fact that I booked a suite, I have access to a VIP restaurant where I can sit at my own table. However, I much prefer the option to be seated with people from all over the world—the quintessential cruise experience.
When I get to the dining room, yummy smells make my stomach rumble.
The polite hostess shows me to my table, which, strangely, is completely empty.
Hmm. There are plenty of people at some of the other tables—especially the ones farther away.
Odd.
Someone clears his throat behind me.
I don’t know how, but even from that nondescript sound, I already know whom I will see.
My pulse leaps into the stratosphere as I spin around.
And yep.
There he is.
Mason Tugev pulls out a chair next to me and descends into it like a king onto his throne.
“Hey, Ladybug,” he drawls, sex appeal oozing from his every pore. “What’s for dinner?”