Chapter 15
After spending the afternoon with Jazz and her lifestyle-exploring friends—an experience that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about modern relationships and the integrity of my own moral compass—Ransom and I met up and decided we needed to fill Wes in together about the nefarious naughty dealings going on behind his back and behind closed doors right here on the Emerald Queen of the Sea.
We asked to meet up to discuss something important that deals with the ship and its passengers, but wouldn’t say more over the text, mostly because announcing, “Hey Captain, your ship is hosting a floating swinger convention,” seemed like the kind of conversation that required face-to-face delivery and possibly medical supervision.
So, he invited us to a Chinese restaurant on board that recently underwent a renovation and probably has no idea it’s about to witness the most uncomfortable dinner conversation in maritime history.
Heart-shaped balloons bob against the ceiling like floating accusations of romance, while red and pink streamers twist through the brass railings with the determination of party planners who clearly never heard the phrase “less is more.”
The scent of roses mingles with whatever industrial-strength aphrodisiac the cleaning crew apparently uses in their spray bottles, creating an olfactory assault that screams LOVE IS IN THE AIR louder than a fire alarm during Sunday service.
“At least the decorations match the scandal we’re about to discuss,” Ransom points out, his security officer instincts on high alert as we navigate past passengers who look as if they’ve been dipped in Valentine’s Day and rolled in glitter.
I’m about to say something and stop abruptly as something catches my eye.
Something is off. There are dozens of small crimson key magnets discreetly attached to certain cabin doors like tiny beacons of biblical proportions.
My brain, which apparently majored in Innocent Bystander Studies, suddenly connects the dots with all the grace of a freight train hitting a brick wall.
“Oh, sweet mother of maritime activities that violate several terms of service,” I breathe, stopping dead in my tracks. “Those aren’t just decorative magnets, are they?”
Ransom’s jaw tightens as his brain shifts into high gear, mentally cataloging door numbers with the efficiency of a detective who’s about to have a very uncomfortable conversation with the captain. “I have a feeling it’s their version of the upside-down pineapple—their own special swinging signal.”
“Ransom, we’ve been walking past these signals for days,” I whisper, feeling simultaneously naive and like I need a shower with industrial-strength soap. “I thought they were just really committed to the Valentine’s theme. I even complimented one couple on their festive door spirit!”
“Sometimes ignorance really is bliss,” Ransom mutters, though I bet he’s making mental notes like a man preparing for the world’s most awkward security briefing. “And sometimes it prevents you from accidentally becoming an unwitting participant in lifestyle recruitment.”
We share a moment of mutual horror that could power the ship’s navigation system—part how did we miss this? and part do we really want to know the answer?
The corridor echoes with soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers, punctuated by the distant clink of crystal glasses and whatever sounds people make when they’re having questionably therapeutic conversations behind closed doors. I decide not to analyze those particular sound effects too closely.
“Right,” I say, squaring my shoulders like someone preparing for battle. “Let’s go ruin Wes’s evening with information that’ll make him question his career choices, his faith in humanity, and possibly his decision to become a sea captain instead of a nice, safe accountant.”
Hot and Sour Seas Restaurant hits us with enough heart-shaped ambiance to turn commitment-phobes into hopeless romantics. Red paper lanterns cast intimate shadows across black lacquer tables, while floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the night-darkened Irish Sea like nature’s own screensaver.
The aromatic blend of ginger, garlic, and five-spice mingles with the soft tinkle of traditional music, only add to the red-hot romance theme, and don’t get me started on what the mood lighting is influencing me to do.
Wes sits at a private corner table, looking distinguished in his off-duty navy blazer, studying the menu with the kind of captain-like precision usually reserved for navigating through hurricanes. Which, let’s face it, is probably what this dinner is about to become—a category five.
“Captain,” I greet him, sliding into the booth with all the grace I can muster, seeing that I’m about to destroy a man’s faith in his passenger manifest.
“Trixie, Ransom.” He nods, though something in his expression suggests he’s already bracing for impact. “I ordered us some wine. I figured we might need it for whatever catastrophe you’re about to share with me.”
Smart man. Clearly, experience has taught him that when your security team requests an important meeting, it’s time to stock up on liquid courage. Especially when the head of security is bringing his jinx of a wife.
I spot Elodie at a table nearby, practically radiating satisfaction while a distinguished gentleman gazes at her like she’s the answer to prayers he didn’t know he was making.
The poor man looks like he’s been hit by a blonde freight train carrying advanced degrees in therapeutic research. And he so has.
Her date excuses himself—probably to recover from Elodie’s overwhelming presence or call his therapist—and she saunters over with a satisfied look as if she’s just discovered her enemy’s deepest secret.
“Well, well,” she purrs, sliding into our booth uninvited like a blonde torpedo in with impeccable fashion sense. “Mind if I join? I’m between courses—in more ways than one.”
“Please,” Wes gestures with resignation because clearly he’s given up controlling his own dinner party, let alone the ship. “The more the merrier.”
“That seems to be tonight’s theme,” Ransom mutters, which gets him a look from me that could melt the North Pole.
Our server appears like she’s been summoned by romantic dining deities, presenting menus that read like edible poetry written by someone with unlimited access to ingredients that require their own security clearance. The offerings promise to deliver both gastronomic heaven and decision paralysis.
“I’ll have the Peking duck,” Ransom decides with methodical precision. “Paper-thin pancakes, hoisin sauce, julienned scallions—the works.”
Classic Ransom—refined, organized, and probably thinking about how duck preparation relates to crime scene analysis.
“Sweet and sour chicken with pineapple,” I announce, then immediately regret my choice given our recent pineapple-related discoveries. I shrug at Ransom. “And yes, I realize the irony.”
“Szechuan beef with hand-pulled noodles,” Wes orders with the confidence of a man who likes his food bold and his problems complex. “Something with a kick.”
“Honey walnut prawns,” Elodie decides, probably already calculating social media angles. “If I’m going to sin, I’m doing it with shellfish and expensive nuts smothered in creamy goodness. Besides, my date has all but abandoned me.”
“We’ll also need the pot stickers, salt and pepper calamari, and spring rolls,” Wes adds. “Something tells me we’ll need substantial appetizers for this conversation.”
The wine arrives—a bottle that probably requires its own insurance policy—and after the ritualistic tasting and pouring, we settle into that pre-revelation small talk that feels like foreplay for disaster.
“So,” Elodie begins, twirling her wine glass with expertise, and barely containing her glee like a child who knows exactly what’s in the wrapped present. “I’ve been absolutely dying for this dinner ever since Trixie told me what you two were planning to share with our dear captain.”
She practically bounces in her seat with anticipation.
“You couldn’t have missed this for the world,” I observe dryly, wondering if there’s a support group for people who accidentally become involved in cruise ship scandals.
And I’ve been involved in enough that I could probably start my own.
“Are you kidding? I cleared my entire evening schedule—which, considering my recent therapeutic research commitments and the demands of my very eager study subjects, was quite the sacrifice.” She winks at Wes with enough mischief to assure him something egregious is afoot.
“But some entertainment is worth postponing other... activities.”
Ransom and I exchange a look that could communicate entire dissertations on the subject of timing and irony.
“Speaking of activities,” I venture, testing the waters like someone checking the temperature before diving into the Arctic Ocean, “I think maybe we should discuss those door magnets we discovered.”
Elodie’s eyes light up like Christmas morning and New Year’s Eve had a party together, invited all their friends, and decided to celebrate with fireworks. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
“Are you talking about those crimson keys I keep seeing?” Wes asks, clearly having no idea he’s about to receive information that’ll make him want to bleach his brain.
Our appetizers arrive looking like edible works of art—pot stickers arranged like little golden purses, calamari that practically begs to swim its way to my mouth, and spring rolls that are so perfectly golden brown I can practically feel them crunching between my teeth.
The black vinegar dipping sauce catches the lantern light like onyx gold, while the spicy mayo creates abstract art patterns on the plate.
We dive right into the spicy treats, despite the fact we’re about to dive right into an equally spicy topic.