Chapter 6
After Nettie and I gobbled down more petit fours than we could count, we waddled back to our cabins for a nap with a towel teddy bear waiting to greet me and cuddle with.
It’s not Ransom, but it’ll do in a pinch when your husband is off doing important security things and you need something fluffy to hug while digesting enough sugar to run a candy factory.
Our cabin is pure luxury—plush carpets, a bed that feels like sleeping on clouds, gleaming wood accents, and a stunning balcony with loungers perfect for reading mysteries while the Atlantic sparkles below or for updating my blog.
The flat screen TV is hidden behind a mirror, there’s a fully stocked mini bar that knows my credit card too well, and the closet somehow has enough hangers for Elodie’s entire wardrobe.
She seems content to supply me with all of my fashionista needs.
The bathroom has those heated towel racks that spoil you silly, and there’s a turn-down service that leaves chocolates on our pillows every night.
Ransom and I will never leave this ship.
Have I mentioned twenty-four seven room service?
There’s nothing like a seven-layer chocolate cake at two in the morning—especially when sharing with a handsome bedfellow.
When I managed to rouse myself from my petit four coma, I found a text from the captain himself inviting Bess, Nettie, and me to dine with him at an all-new exclusive restaurant that just opened its doors here on the ship called Paradise.
Because apparently, when you are friends with the captain, you get first dibs on the fancy new dining establishments before they’re overrun by passengers wielding cameras and credit cards.
And yes, this fancy sit-down establishment is pay-to-play—or pay-to-eat as it were.
The main dining rooms and the buffet are included in the cruise fare, but there are a smattering of premium restaurants that require an extra credit card or two to dine at.
The Paradise Restaurant aboard the Emerald Queen smacks you in the face with more sensory overload than a perfume counter at the mall.
Fresh basil tangos with sea salt wafting through floor-to-ceiling windows, while crystal glasses sing their little hearts out to soft jazz drifting from speakers hidden somewhere in the jungle of greenery.
Three decks of pure dining deliciousness stretch before us, with enough plants to rival a botanical garden. It’s paradise found, indeed.
“Sweet mother of photosynthesis,” I mutter, following our server through what feels like dining in the rainforest if the had a degree from culinary school and a serious interior design addiction.
“It’s like someone took the Garden of Eden and gave it a Michelin star,” Bess points out as we’re seated at a table with a view that probably costs extra just to look at. “It’s botanical overkill. I mean, it’s beautiful, but I feel like I should apologize to my allergies just walking in here.”
“I’m waiting for Tarzan to swing through and offer us the wine list,” Nettie adds, bouncing in her pink sweater that spells out Love is in the Hair, complete with tiny embroidered Cupids that look as if their curly manes are just as out of control as their red-hot love lives.
Bess nods. “Tarzan would be better dinner entertainment than most places offer. But this place doesn’t need him.”
The panoramic ocean views steal whatever breath I have left after climbing three decks to reach paradise—it’s always Bess’s idea to take the stairs in lieu of all the calories we’re about to gulp down. She says our hips will thank us for it. She’s not wrong, but my knees aren’t the biggest fans.
Outside, the Atlantic stretches like a dark mirror under more stars than should be legal, while inside, this botanical wonderland shifts and breathes around us like it’s alive and plotting something romantic.
“Wes, this is absolutely gorgeous,” I tell our far too dashing captain, who’s swapped his usual dress whites for a navy blazer that makes his green eyes look like they belong in a jewelry store window. “Thanks for letting us crash your grand opening.”
“I wouldn’t dream of dining here without my favorite troublemakers,” he says with his famed dimpled grin, and I don’t know whether to be charmed or insulted.
“Troublemakers?” Bess raises a brow. “We prefer adventure enthusiasts with questionable timing.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Ransom slides into the seat next to me, holding the scent of intoxicating cologne and danger. Even after months of marriage, the man still makes my pulse do the samba. “Though I have to admit, being married to an adventure enthusiast definitely keeps life interesting.”
“Thank you,” I say, more than pleasantly surprised by his enthusiasm, even if it did come with a frown. He’s still far too hot for his britches. And to be honest, the frown makes him that much hotter.
He ticks his head to the side. “I’m just glad we’re dining somewhere that doesn’t involve a crime scene for once.”
“The night is young,” Nettie is quick to tell him.
Ransom growls before turning to Wes. “Nice digs. Thanks for the invite.”
“Being captain has its perks.” Wes shrugs, although something in his expression suggests this dinner comes with an agenda bigger than just showing off the fancy new restaurant. “Besides, someone has to make sure these three don’t accidentally start an international incident.”
“Hey!” Nettie protests. “That only happened twice, and both times were technically Bess’s fault.”
“How was the chocolate fountain incident my fault?” Bess demands.
“You were the one who dared me to see how many strawberries I could balance on the serving spoon,” Nettie shoots back. “I was just being competitive.”
If memory serves correct, the strawberry incident ended well, and contrary to Nettie’s protest, she is the nexus of each and every fountain incident we’ve ever encountered. And there have been many.
Thankfully, our waitress materializes as if she’s been teleported directly from food service heaven, presenting menus that glitter with gilded edges. The offerings read like love letters written by culinary geniuses with unlimited access to expensive ingredients and possibly hallucinogenic drugs.
We put in the orders for appetizers.
“Cold-smoked yellow tomato velouté with green apple, basil, and wasabi,” I read out loud. “I’m in, but this sounds like it requires a passport and possibly a background check to order.”
Ranson lifts a brow as he peruses his own menu. “Lucky for us, we have both.”
“I’m going full adventurer with the bazaar bowl,” Nettie announces, studying her menu with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts. “Chilled labneh yogurt, beets, cucumber, almond, and homemade naan bread. It’s health food that’s been to finishing school.”
“Pan-seared scallops with cauliflower purée and pancetta for me,” Bess decides, closing her menu with the satisfaction of a woman who’s just made an excellent culinary choice. “Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
“The Wagyu beef carpaccio with truffle oil and microgreens,” Ransom selects with the confidence of a man who knows good food when he sees it. And it’s always a steak.
“Wild mushroom tartlet with goat cheese mousse and herb oil,” Wes adds, proving that captains have excellent taste in more than just ships.
Wes clears his throat with the kind of authority that suggests we’re about to discuss something more serious than whether the wine pairs well with whatever culinary masterpiece we’re about to consume.
And here we go.
“So, Ransom,” he begins, and I can practically hear the shift in the conversation’s gears, “any updates on our situation?”
The temperature at our table drops faster than my blood sugar after a buffet binge. Ransom’s jaw does that tightening thing that means bad news is coming dressed up in professional terminology.
“The body gets transferred when we dock in Portland,” he says, keeping his voice low enough that neighboring tables can’t add our conversation to their dinner entertainment. “Scotland Yard is meeting us there.”
Bess tips her head like she’s considering a particularly interesting crossword challenge. “Just like last time.”
“And the cruise before that,” Nettie chirps with enthusiasm. “At this point, they should just assign us a permanent liaison. Maybe get matching jackets that say Frequent Crime Scene Visitors.”
“The Emerald Queen Death Detection Squad,” Bess suggests with a mournful laugh. “You have to admit, it has a professional ring to it.”
Wes nearly aspirates his wine. “You’re talking about international law enforcement like they’re your bowling league.”
“Well, we do meet them with impressive regularity,” I point out, and Ransom shoots me a look that’s half amusement, half please don’t encourage them.
Our appetizers arrive looking like they belong in an art gallery instead of on dinner plates.
My cold-smoked yellow tomato velouté looks like liquid sunshine decided to get fancy, while Nettie’s bazaar bowl resembles what would happen if a rainbow got a degree in nutrition.
Bess’s pan-seared scallops sit like golden medallions on their cloud of cauliflower purée, Ransom’s Wagyu beef carpaccio is arranged like rose petals crafted from premium cattle, and Wes’s wild mushroom tartlet looks like something a fairy would serve at a very upscale dinner party.
And that’s exactly what this is turning out to be.
“This is almost too pretty to destroy with my face,” I murmur, then immediately contradict myself by diving in with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s never met a soup she didn’t like.
“Almost being the keyword,” Bess agrees, attacking her scallops like they owe her money. “Sweet Neptune’s beard, these are incredible.”
“If food this good is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” Nettie declares around a mouthful of her rainbow bowl. And it does look as if she’s hit the end of the rainbow with that treasure.