Ship Happens (Ship Happens #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

HARPER

WELCOME ABOARD (OR NOT)

I grip my phone tighter as the cab pulls up to the port, trying to ignore the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. The Rendezvous looms ahead of me like a floating monument to excess—fourteen decks of “luxury singles experience” according to the garish banners flapping in the sea breeze.

“That’ll be thirty-eight fifty,” the driver says, eyeing the massive ship through the windshield. “Headed on vacation?”

“Work,” I correct him, sliding my card through the reader. “Definitely work.”

He eyes my casual outfit dubiously. I don’t blame him. Most people don’t board a luxury cruise ship in ripped jeans and a “Save the Oceans” t-shirt, but I’m not most people, and this isn’t a vacation.

“You a performer?” he asks, handing me the receipt.

I snort. “Marine biologist. Environmental consultant.” I tug at my shirt. “The outfit’s my subtle form of protest.”

“Doesn’t seem that subtle.”

“Wait until you see my PowerPoint presentation.”

I grab my battered duffel bag and step out into the humid Miami air. The truth is, I’m here to document The Rendezvous’ laughable “sustainability initiatives” for my consulting firm’s blog. Spoiler alert : slapping solar panels on a floating city that burns thousands of gallons of fuel daily doesn’t make it eco-friendly. But billionaire cruise line owner Marcus Cole thinks a few green buzzwords will distract from his company’s environmental destruction.

The cruise terminal buzzes with excitement. Everyone looks ready for prom night rather than a seven-day voyage—designer dresses, salon-perfect hair, enough cologne to qualify as an air pollutant. I clutch my backpack—filled with camera equipment, research notes, and exactly zero sparkly evening gowns—and join the check-in line.

“Welcome to The Rendezvous Singles Adventure!” chirps the woman at the counter, her smile so bright I consider checking for batteries. “May I see your boarding pass?”

I hand over my documents, wincing at the hot pink “Love Awaits!” logo stamped across the top.

“Harper Bennett! Perfect.” She taps away at her computer with glittery nails that could probably be seen from the International Space Station. “You’re all set for our Deluxe Romance Package in cabin 842.”

“I didn’t book a romance package,” I say, frowning. “Just a standard cabin.”

“Oh!” Her smile doesn’t falter. “It looks like you received a complimentary upgrade.” She lowers her voice like we’re sharing state secrets. “We have several high-profile guests this voyage. Management wants to ensure everyone has the full luxury experience.”

Translation : The ship isn’t fully booked, so they’re padding their numbers with upgrades.

“Great,” I mutter, accepting my key card.

“Enjoy your journey to love!” she calls after me with the conviction of someone who’s watched The Bachelor religiously for fifteen seasons.

I suppress a groan as I make my way up the gangway. The Rendezvous is even worse up close—gold accents everywhere, champagne fountains, and an actual red carpet leading into the main atrium. A string quartet plays while staff members hand out flutes of champagne to arriving passengers.

I accept one purely for journalistic research purposes. And because my hotel minibar charged eight dollars for a Snickers, so I’m taking freebies where I can get them.

The atrium rises several decks high, with glass elevators zooming up and down like something from Willy Wonka’s factory. Screens everywhere advertise the week’s activities: “Tantric Yoga for Two,” “Midnight Confessions Under the Stars,” and “Lovers’ Obstacle Course.”

“Are you here alone?” asks a woman with an impressive updo and a name tag reading “Matchmaker Melissa.”

“By choice,” I respond, raising my champagne in a mock toast.

“Not for long!” she sings, handing me a heart-shaped itinerary. “We have a 98% match rate!”

“Is that scientifically verified?” I ask, but she’s already bounced away to her next victim.

I sip my champagne, mentally calculating how many sea turtles could be saved with the money spent on just the crystal chandelier above me. When a staff member points me toward the “Welcome Mixer” on the pool deck, I head in the opposite direction. I need to drop off my bag and get my bearings before diving into this floating Tinder experiment.

The elevators are packed with excited passengers, so I take the stairs. By the time I reach deck eight, I’m regretting my decision to pack my entire marine testing kit. I fumble with my key card at cabin 842, shoving the door open with my hip.

The “Deluxe Romance” room makes me want to gag—king-sized bed covered in rose petals, champagne on ice, and a hot tub on the balcony shaped like a heart. I’m surprised they didn’t include a Barry White soundtrack.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, brushing rose petals off the bed. They fall to the floor in a sad little pile that screams “future vacuum cleaner clog.”

I drop my bag on a chair and step onto the balcony, taking a deep breath of salty air. The Miami skyline stretches behind us, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Maybe I can just hide in here for a week. Conduct my research at night like some kind of eco-ninja.

My phone pings with a text from my boss:

Got the inside scoop yet? The internet is buzzing about Cole Tech’s CEO being on board. Perfect timing!

I freeze. Cole Tech. As in Ethan Cole, Marcus Cole’s son and heir to the cruise empire. Also, the founder of Cole Technologies, the company currently developing ocean mining drones while pretending to care about marine conservation.

I didn’t know he was going to be on board. This just got a lot more interesting.

I quickly text back:

On it.

I grab my credentials from my bag. I might as well get this over with.

Back on the main deck, the mixer is in full swing. Beautiful people in designer swimwear lounge around the infinity pool, while bartenders serve drinks so colorful they probably need their own EPA warning. A DJ blasts music from a booth shaped like a giant seashell.

I scan the crowd, looking for the familiar face I’ve seen in countless tech magazines and environmental violation reports. If Ethan Cole is anything like his company profile, he’ll be surrounded by admirers and?—

There he is.

Standing by the bar, drink in hand, looking like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. Tall, with dark hair swept back from a face that’s annoyingly handsome. His white linen shirt costs more than my monthly student loan payment, casually unbuttoned at the collar to reveal tanned skin. A woman laughs at whatever he’s saying, touching his arm with manicured fingers.

I weave through the crowd, downing the rest of my champagne for courage. The closer I get, the more my blood boils. This man represents everything I fight against—wealth without conscience, tech without ethics, power without responsibility.

“Mr. Cole,” I say, stepping into his line of sight. “Harper Bennett, marine biologist. Care to comment on your company’s latest claims about sustainable ocean mining? Because I’m having trouble understanding how drilling into a protected seabed is considered ‘eco-friendly.’”

The woman next to him blinks in surprise. Ethan Cole’s expression barely changes except for a slight lift of one eyebrow. His eyes—an unnaturally vivid blue that makes my scientific mind wonder about genetic anomalies—flick to my credentials, then back to my face.

“Ms. Bennett,” he says, his voice smoother than I expected. “I didn’t realize we were doing interviews on vacation.” He takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “Though I suppose some people don’t know how to relax.”

“Some people don’t have the luxury of relaxation when companies like yours are destroying the planet,” I counter. “Your ‘Green Ocean Initiative’ is greenwashing at its finest.”

That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens, just slightly.

“Let me guess,” he says, setting his glass down. “You read one article about our technology and decided you’re an expert.”

“I’ve read every article, patent application, and environmental impact study your company has published,” I fire back. “And I’ve conducted my own research on the effects of seabed disruption on marine ecosystems. I have a PhD in Marine Biology, not a subscription to Twitter.”

His eyes narrow, and I can almost see the mental recalculation happening behind them.

“I assume you’ve read the actual research papers,” he says, “not just the activist outrage? Because our technology actually reduces the environmental impact compared to traditional methods.”

“Reducing damage is still causing damage,” I retort. “Especially when traditional methods shouldn’t be happening either.”

“And your solution is... what?” He steps closer, towering over me. “Because criticism is easy. Innovation is hard.”

“My solution is leaving fragile ecosystems alone!” The conversation around us has died down, passengers watching our exchange like it’s part of the entertainment. “But I wouldn’t expect someone with dollar signs for pupils to understand that concept.”

“Ah, the preservationist approach.” His mouth curves into a half-smile. “Very noble. Not particularly practical in a world that needs resources.”

“The world needs oceans more than it needs another tech mogul’s vanity project,” I snap.

His eyes narrow. “You clearly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you clearly do not know the damage you’re causing!” My voice rises. “Or maybe you do, and you just don’t care because it doesn’t affect your bottom line.”

Something dangerous flashes across his face as he steps even closer. I can smell his cologne now—something woodsy and frustratingly appealing.

“You don’t know the first thing about me or my priorities, Dr. Bennett,” he says, emphasizing my title with just enough condescension to make my blood boil.

“I know enough.” I grab a fresh glass of champagne from a passing server. “I know you’re just like every other tech CEO who thinks he can buy and sell the planet while pretending to save it.”

Ethan steps even closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes my heart race for reasons I refuse to acknowledge.

“You know, Dr. Bennett, for someone so educated, you seem remarkably uninterested in facts.”

That does it. The utter arrogance in his voice, the way he’s looking down at me like I’m some na?ve activist not worth his time—it’s too much.

“Here’s a fact for you,” I say, lifting my champagne flute.

And then I throw my drink into his perfect, exasperating face.

Gasps erupt around us. Champagne drips from his chin onto his pristine shirt. For a split second, shock registers in those blue eyes.

Then countless phones rise around us, camera flashes going off like strobe lights.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Cole,” I say sweetly, setting my empty glass on the bar. “I look forward to our sustainability discussions.”

As I turn and walk away, I hear the unmistakable sound of social media notifications beginning to ping throughout the crowd.

So much for keeping a low profile.

And so much for not making a scene on day one.

But the look on Ethan Cole’s face? Worth it . Completely worth it.

Now I just have to survive a week on this floating monument to excess with the billionaire whose face I just baptized in champagne.

What could possibly go wrong?