chapter seven
RILES
Heart thumping, I shoot upright in bed and wake to what sounds like a commuter train rumbling by my ear. Confused, because I went to sleep on a ship out to sea and not on the subway, I rub my eyes and fumble for my cell, blinking until I can focus on the godawful time of three thirty-seven.
Are you kidding me?
I tap on the Flashlight button and illuminate the room, aiming the ray of light toward the sound. Riley’s log of a body is fast asleep and vibrating with every breath he inhales.
“You lying asshat!” I grumble, flopping back onto the mattress. He snorts like a hog doing a line of cocaine, so I spring back up, astonished. “Jesus!”
The stench of alcohol wrinkles my nose, and I want to scream bloody murder.
Great! Just… great! I’m bunked with a single party guy who suffers from sleep apnea.
Turning onto my side, I use the corner of the pillow to cover my free ear, muffling his locomotive swine grunts.
Jerk!
Never in my life have I felt so helpless and frustrated, so lost and alone. Tears sting my eyes, threatening to erupt and stream down my cheeks, so I puff out a long breath and count to five, forcing my despair down and tucking it away, because I don’t want to cry anymore.
After I left Riley at the theatre, I cradled Mom to my chest on the balcony and sobbed for over an hour, and then I struggled to get to sleep, my eyeballs on fire, my head swimming with nerves over my pending first night in the cabin with a stranger.
I hadn’t known what to expect, which was somewhat terrifying.
Actually, that’s a lie. It was so terrifying that I swiped a butter knife from the buffet restaurant on my way back to the room and placed it under my pillow… just in case.
My fingers graze the stainless steel. I’m tempted to bonk him on the head with the handle just to knock him out and shut him up, but I open my bedside drawer instead and place it inside.
Clearly, I don’t appear to need it for self-defense, because he’d rather torture me with sound than physically attack me in my sleep. An encouraging thought, I guess.
Lying there, utterly depleted, exhausted, and running on fumes, I stare at the shadowed ceiling. And speaking of fumes, yuck! Did he down a full keg of beer?
Swiping the air in front of my nose, I kick my feet and fling my comforter off, and then I march to the balcony door and wrench it open for some much-needed fresh air and white noise before climbing back into bed again, the soothing sound of the ocean and gentle movements of the ship once again sending me to sleep.
Sunlight spears through the open door, coaxing my heavy eyelids to open. I rub them with my knuckles and roll onto my back, Riley’s snoring now a soft rumble.
Propping myself on my elbows, I glare at him before climbing out of bed, pillow in hand. How dare he sleep peacefully when all he’s done for the past several hours is disrupt the peace? How dare he just lie there without a care in the world? Well-rested. Blissful. Comfortable.
Inching along the side of his bed, I raise my pillow behind my head but pause as my eyes settle on his bare leg poking out from underneath his sheets. A nicely sculpted leg. Muscular. Tan. A virile sprinkling of hair.
I stare at it, captivated, as if I’ve never seen a man’s leg before.
He snorts.
I freeze.
He snorts again, eyelids spasming before relaxing again.
Despite how freaking annoyed I am at him, I can’t deny his rugged good looks. I also can’t help but wonder if he’s wearing any underwear, because I can’t see any sticking out from under the sheet.
Wait! Is he naked? I step back. He better not be!
Slamming the pillow down on his face, I wrench it back again, and shout, “Wake up!”
Riley releases a cacophony of grunts, blinking as he wrestles with his sheets until he’s upright and leaning back on his palms.
I whack him again for good measure. “You liar!”
“What the fuck?” He raises his hand, shielding himself from further blows.
“Yes, what the fuck indeed.” I stab my finger at him. “You snore like a damn freight train.”
The jerk searches the room and then looks at me as if I’m an imbecile. “Freight trains don’t snore.”
“Whatever! You do!”
Growling, I whack him again, then storm to the closet and collect my clothes for the day.
“What time is it?” he grumbles as if it’s too early to be awake.
“Time you moved cabins.”
“Wait! What?”
“You heard me.”
“Come on, Riles. You don’t mean that.”
I wrench open the bathroom door, step inside, and allow it to slam behind me, shouting, “I most certainly do!”
“I’m sorry,” he calls out. “I don’t usually snor—”
“Liar!”
Growling again, I slam the toilet lid down, lay a towel over it, and place my clothes on top before boxing the air like Mike Tyson’s uncoordinated twin.
I’m not normally the violent type. Frustrated air-boxer?
Yes. Physically connect my fists with someone else?
No. Yet, for some reason, Riley makes me want to kung-fu his ass. Twice over.
Clenching the edge of the vanity, I grit my teeth and stare at myself in the mirror, my hair awry, my eyes puffier than a pufferfish. Oh my God! I look like Beetlejuice.
I groan, turn the faucet on, and grab my toothbrush, scrubbing my teeth like a mad woman before spitting out the froth more forcibly than intended, white foam spraying the mirror.
Tempted to leave it there, because Riley seems to think mess is acceptable, I end up wiping it away, since the clean freak within me won’t stand for it, and then I secure my shower cap and step into the shower, hot water massaging my shoulders and neck and slowly easing my volcanic tension.
I press my palms against the wall, hang my head, and exhale, once again counting to five—a stress-relief technique I picked up not long after starting my job with Georgia.
It’s a daily ritual I perform, but I certainly didn’t anticipate having to continue it on vacation.
Then again, what would I know? I never go on vacation. Perhaps they are stressful.
No, they’re not. Vacations are enjoyable. My vacation will be enjoyable, just as Mom wanted it to be. Riley and his snoring be damned.
Today, we dock in Halifax, Nova Scotia—one of my bucket list ports of call—and I plan to visit St. Mary’s Basilica, the Fairview Lawn Cemetery, and the Titanic exhibit at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic.
Ever since I was a young girl and watched Titanic at the theatre with Mom, I’ve been fascinated—borderline obsessed—with the ill-fated maiden voyage.
More than fifteen hundred people tragically died on April 15, 1912, and what’s worse is their demise could’ve been avoided.
I’m also a hardcore Leo DiCaprio fan.
Humming “My Heart Will Go On” as I psych myself up for the day ahead, I finish showering, then I spend the time needed to put on my makeup and do my hair when a knock on the bathroom door has me almost poking my eye out with my mascara wand.
“What?” I grouch.
“Hurry up! I need to piss.”
“Piss over the balcony.” I swipe on another coat of mascara then bite my lip, contemplating whether he’d be the type to do just that, which I think he would, so quickly add, “No! Don’t! Use the toilet in the lobby instead.”
He groans and murmurs, “Fine,” and by the time I’m done, he still hasn’t returned, which only elevates my frustration with him. We need to go over more rules and boundaries. “Sleep with your mouth closed” a new one added to my list.
Not having the time nor patience to wait any longer, I say a quick goodbye to Mom before placing her in the safe with Mr. Snuffles as company, then I collect my bag and passport and head to the buffet restaurant for a quick breakfast.
The smell of pancakes, toast, and bacon heavily permeates the air as I dodge person after person rushing about with plates and bowls in hand, some of them lining up at food stations while others try to find empty tables.
“Holy cow!” I murmur. This place is busier than Times Square.
Making a dash for the coffee machine, desperate for my elixir of life, I scoot to a stop and wait in line for a short while before pouring a cup, and then I weave my way to one of the food stations to grab a bagel.
My chances of finding an empty table seem slim, but I scan the room nonetheless, when Riley raises his hand and waves me over to where he’s seated.
Huh. So this is where he disappeared to.
I consider flipping him the bird but don’t, instead acknowledging him with a single head nod as I chart a path in his direction.
“Morning, sunshine.” He tips his mug to me, his twinkling blue eyes annoyingly wide and fresh.
I decide I no longer like them.
“It’s been morning for me since three-thirty when your hog call woke me up,” I say, sliding into the spare seat and releasing my plate onto the table with an intended clatter.
“Hog call?”
“Yes.”
“Wow! That’s insulting.”
“It’s meant to be.”
“Brutal.”
“That’s what happens when I’ve had little to no sleep.”
“Sorry.” He dips his head and sips from his mug. “Must’ve been the beer.”
“Good guess, Einstein, because I was nearly drunk off the fumes.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “That bad.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs again.
His apology seems genuine, but it doesn’t change our dilemma. “You said you didn’t snore.”
“I don’t… usually.”
“Well, you did, and it’s a problem.” I spread cream cheese on my bagel and take a bite, mumbling, “I’m not spending the next few weeks with no sleep.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It won’t.”
Scoffing, because you don’t just magically stop snoring because you say you can, I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. “How can you be so sure?”
“I have a plan.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Speaking of plans, we need to revisit the rules and boundaries.”
Riley groans. “It’s too early for that.”
“I’m serious. Our situation is already unconventional and uncomfortable. The least we can do is set some guidelines to make it a little easier.”