Chapter 5 #2
“The fact that he looked relieved rather than devastated tells me everything I need to know about their connection,” I murmur, selecting a chocolate-dipped strawberry and wondering if it’s possible to overdose on refined sugar.
“Most grieving loved ones don’t look like they’ve just been released from prison with time served for good behavior. ”
“Maybe she was a difficult person to love,” Bess suggests with a little too much hope, because after witnessing the woman’s character for a few short hours, it’s like calling a tornado a gentle breeze.
“Difficult is an understatement,” Nettie adds, reaching for her third petit four with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s broken up with her bathroom scale permanently.
“From what I’m hearing, that woman could start an argument in an empty room and probably did on a regular basis.
I bet she criticized his breakfast choices, alphabetized his sock drawer, and had opinions about his breathing techniques. ”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through our analysis like a stiletto through designer velvet.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite hussies gathered for high tea and low gossip.
” Elodie glides over to our table with the satisfied swagger of a cat who’s not only gotten the cream but convinced the entire dairy farm to hand-deliver it with a bow on top.
She settles into the empty chair next to me and wiggles her shoulders in a way that suggests she’s got news worth sharing.
“You’re in a good mood,” I observe, watching her practically glow with satisfaction. “Either you’ve discovered the fountain of youth or you’ve been up to something that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls.”
“Oh, it’s definitely the latter,” Elodie purrs, helping herself to a macaron because, let’s face it, she’s earned her carbohydrates through vigorous physical activity.
Elodie chirps out a laugh. “I live to see that old bat wring her hands. I’m her least favorite grandchild.
She once tried to make me wear a turtleneck to a school dance.
” She averts her eyes. “That was the night I discovered bras make perfectly fine accouterments to be worn in public.” She pops a macaron into her mouth and promptly chomps it down.
“For the record, Madonna stole the look from me.”
If it were anyone else, I would be the one averting my eyes, but it’s Elodie. I fully believe her.
Nettie shakes her head knowingly at the woman. “She’s not only in a good mood, she’s downright glowing. You got lucky, didn’t you, Toots?”
Elodie’s grin could power the ship’s navigation system.
“Let’s just say one of the studs from last night’s welcome party walked me to my room and provided some very thorough comfort in my time of grief.
The man has healing hands and an impressive understanding of therapeutic massage techniques.
Very therapeutic. He worked out all my tension—every last knot of it.
Multiple times, in fact. The man believes in thorough treatment and repeat sessions for optimal results. ”
“Therapeutic massage?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Oh yes, very therapeutic indeed.” Elodie fans herself with her napkin. “I may need several more therapy sessions before this cruise is over. For my emotional well-being, of course. It’s practically a medical necessity.”
“Of course,” I say, tossing another macaron her way. She did earn it.
“Good for you!” Nettie cackles with the enthusiasm of a granny who appreciates a good conquest story. “Nothing like a little medicinal male attention to cure what ails you.”
“Speaking of male attention,” Elodie turns her predatory gaze to Bess with the focus of a hawk spotting her prey, “how about you? That handsome silver fox who was practically undressing you with his eyes looked like he was ready to conduct his own private examination of your emotional well-being.”
Bess waves her off with practiced denial. “He wanted no such thing. He was just being nice. Besides, I’m not interested even if he was, which he wasn’t, but if he had been, I still wouldn’t be interested.”
“That was the long way home,” I quip.
“Right,” Nettie snorts. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
“Your Majesty,” I say with a mock curtsy.
A shadow falls across our table like an eclipse of distinguished masculinity, and we all look up to find the silver fox himself, looking like he stepped out of a cologne advertisement for men who know their way around both adventure and hearts.
The mystery man has everything you’d expect from someone who’s aged like fine whiskey in a premium barrel—silver hair perfectly styled with the kind of precision that costs serious money, a perpetual tan that suggests regular encounters with tropical climates and possibly professional tanning services, and the kind of confident smile that’s probably charmed women out of their better judgment for decades.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says in a voice smoother than the ship’s premium bourbon. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Bess practically melts into her chair like ice cream in August. And if she were actually ice cream, we’d need a mop by now.
Oh, who are we kidding? Nettie and I would have lapped her up.
We’d never let some good frozen dairy go to waste.
Speaking of which, we’ll have to hit the soft serve ice cream station on the promenade deck after this.
“You’re not interrupting at all,” Bess manages, her voice climbing an octave higher than usual and taking on a breathless quality that suggests she’s either smitten or suffering from altitude sickness.
And considering she lives on a cruise ship, we all know which is which in this budding smitten saga.
“I’d love to formally introduce myself. I’m Rex Hartwell.
Friends call me Rexy, enemies call me sir, and beautiful women can call me anytime.
” He flashes that million-dollar smile that probably cost him just as much.
“I work as an airline pilot out of Miami International, which means I’m very good with navigation and handling turbulence. ”
The double entendre hangs in the air like expensive perfume, and I can practically see Bess’s brain short-circuiting.
“I’d love to see more of this ship.” His brows bounce as he continues to bore his way into you-know-whose soul.
“I’ll give you a tour!” Bess practically launches herself out of her chair with the enthusiasm of a woman half her age and twice as desperate. “I know every deck, every restaurant, every—”
“That sounds wonderful,” Rex interrupts smoothly, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”
And just like that, they’re gone with Bess practically floating alongside him as if she’s discovered the secret to levitation through sheer romantic possibility. So much for not believing in romance.
“Get a room!” Elodie shouts after them with far too much glee, causing several nearby teetotalers to nearly choke on their scones.
“Honestly,” Nettie shakes her head with exasperation, “that woman hasn’t been this excited since they invented compression socks. Get ’em, Red!”
Before I can throw my own commentary into the ring, Tinsley strides up looking as if she’s been personally appointed by the Valentine’s Day police to maintain romantic order on the high seas and possibly issue citations for excessive flirtation.
Bess had better watch out, because the way she’s acting, Tinsley might want to lock her in the brig.
“Trixie,” she says with the kind of forced sweetness that could rot teeth and cause cavities in nearby innocent bystanders.
“I need you to keep your deadly tricks to yourself. This cruise is about love, not caskets. Valentine’s Day is almost here, and I bid you to try not to use Cupid as an excuse to plunge an arrow into half the passengers. ”
“For the record,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster while holding a cucumber sandwich, “I don’t plunge arrows into anyone. Bodies just seem to show up around me like uninvited party guests with terrible timing.”
“Same difference,” Tinsley sniffs, clearly unimpressed by my distinction. “Just try to keep your homicidal magnetic field to yourself.”
She storms off before I can point out that magnetic fields aren’t exactly something you can control, and that if I could turn off my apparent attraction to murder victims, I would have done it long ago and saved myself the potential therapy bills.
“That woman needs to get laid,” Elodie observes with her usual tact.
“She’ll have to stand in line behind half the ship,” Nettie adds. “Although judging by her personality, she might be waiting longer than the line for the chocolate fountain on formal night.”
“Maybe she just needs a good laugh,” I say, making a face.
“Or a good smack.” Elodie winks because apparently, it’s something she enjoys.
“Probably both,” I say.
I watch Tinsley disappear into the crowd, probably to terrorize some other innocent passengers about their potential for mayhem, then turn my attention back to the storm brewing outside the windows.
Dark clouds gather like nature’s own murder plot, and I can’t shake the feeling that someone on this ship is planning their own Valentine’s Day surprise that doesn’t involve flowers or candy.
The question is—will it be chocolates and roses, or something far more deadly?
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about holiday-themed cruises, it’s that nothing says I love you quite like premeditated murder—and someone on this ship is writing love letters in blood instead of chocolate.