Chapter 31 #2
“Well,” Elodie announces with her usual predatory satisfaction. “That was the most educational Valentine’s cruise I’ve had in a while. I learned more about alternative lifestyle logistics than I ever wanted to know.”
“I’m never trusting another man with hemp jewelry,” Tinsley sniffs. “Or anyone who mentions expanding consciousness without referring to actual education.”
“Sweetie,” Elodie replies with her special brand of bluntness. “The only thing that needs expanding is your screening process. Might I suggest requiring references from previous romantic interests and possibly a psychological evaluation?”
“From now on,” Tinsley continues with growing conviction, “I’m demanding a full background check, medical exam, and possibly clearance from Interpol before I even accept a dinner invitation.”
“That might be overkill,” I point out gently.
“Better safe than sorry,” she shoots back. “I’ve got Rob Stone’s cosmic energy all over my tongue, and no amount of mouthwash is making that memory disappear. I’m considering industrial-strength bleach at this point.”
“And that’s another successful romantic cruise under our belt,” Wes says, expanding his chest as a few more stragglers head this way.
“Only one murder, minimal property damage, and most passengers left with their original spouses—which, statistically speaking, is actually an improvement over last quarter.”
Sadly, that’s probably true.
“I’m updating my security protocols,” Ransom adds as if he just expanded that protocol to include lifestyle group monitoring and possibly require hazard pay from the International Association of Maritime Security Professionals.
“New categories include swinger identification training, alternative relationship red flag recognition, and a strict no-Trixie-at-alternative-lifestyle-parties policy, effective immediately.”
“I won’t object to that.” A laugh bubbles from me at the thought.
“Think we should add that to the crew handbook?” Wes asks with a mock bow my way.
“Right after the chapter on ‘What to Do When Your Wife Finds Bodies Before Breakfast.’” Ransom shoots me a look that suggests I’m about to be featured prominently in maritime security training materials and possibly require my own warning label.
The entire lot of us shares a quick laugh over that one, with mine being the loudest and strongest for obvious reasons. Okay, fine. I’m bordering on tears, the real deal kind that comes with boo-hooing because there was far too much truth in that.
“I wonder what our next port of call will bring,” Nettie muses as if she’s already planning her next adventure and possibly researching international incident protocols.
“Hopefully, fewer swingers and more straightforward homicides. You know, traditional murder motives like money, jealousy, or revenge—and a lot less cosmic energy realignment.”
As the last of the passengers disappear into the Greenwich morning, wheeling their luggage and their secrets toward whatever awaits them on dry land, Ransom slides his arm around my waist possessively, having spent ten days watching people try to recruit me for activities he’d rather not think about.
“So, Mrs. Baxter,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice carrying that growling tone that makes me want to do inappropriate things in public places.
“Now that we’ve successfully avoided being converted to an alternate lifestyle, perhaps we should celebrate our commitment to traditional marriage values. ”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, though the way his fingers are tracing patterns on my hip suggests I already know the answer, and it probably violates several conduct codes for employees aboard the Emerald Queen.
“Well,” he says, his grin turning positively wicked as he pulls me closer, “our cabin is finally free of murder investigations, supernatural consultations, and alternative lifestyle recruiters. I was thinking we could conduct our own private research into why conventional romance is so much more satisfying than cosmic energy work.”
“Research?” I laugh, feeling heat rise to my cheeks as his other hand finds the small of my back. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Professional investigation,” he corrects with mock seriousness, though his eyes are definitely not professional as they travel from my lips to places that would make the French approve of our commitment to passion.
“I need to thoroughly document why my wife is infinitely more appealing than any alternative arrangement the universe might offer.”
“That could take all afternoon,” I point out, already mentally calculating how quickly we can get to our cabin.
“Though technically, I’m getting booted off this ship with all the other passengers in about an hour.
The good news is, I’ll be back in three hours to help with the next cruise’s inevitable murder. ”
He winces. “Let’s focus on the current investigation at hand.
” His finger glides under my chin. “It just might take all evening, too,” he adds, his voice dropping to that register that makes me forget we’re standing in a public location surrounded by maritime personnel.
“Very thorough investigation. Multiple... experiments.”
“I promise to fully cooperate. How about we seal the terms with a kiss?”
And we do just that.
The Emerald Queen sits quietly in her berth, already being prepared for her next voyage, her crew efficient and practiced in the art of erasing evidence of romantic chaos and preparing for whatever fresh disasters the next passenger manifest might bring.
But right now, all I can think about is the promise in my husband’s eyes and the fact that we finally have our floating home back to ourselves—no killers, no swingers, no ghosts, and no alternative lifestyle evangelists trying to expand our consciousness through questionable therapeutic techniques.
Just us, the ocean, and approximately seven hours before we have to pretend to be responsible adults again as the ship sets sail for its next adventure.
The ocean may be vast and unpredictable, but it’s got nothing on the human heart—especially when that heart belongs to someone with homicidal tendencies and a ticket to ride the Emerald Queen of the Seas.
Thank you for reading!