Mr. Right Now

by Kristina Knight

  There was something going on with Casey. Everything she’d showed him since boarding the ship was that she was only looking for a fling. But he didn’t believe it.

  Cassandra Cash wasn’t a fling kind of girl. From everything he knew she was a serial monogamist. The type looking for commitment, not a quick lay in the pool house.

  Not that they had found a pool house. Yet.

  She was running from Nate and the break-up, but there was something more, underneath the tabloid flash.

  The bartender clunked the beer bottle down on the bar and said, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Mason nodded but didn’t turn around. He reached over his shoulder, caught the bottle in his hands and took a drink.

  “Rum and Coke,” someone requested and then muttered, “Might as well enjoy the island drinks as long as the cruise lasts.”

  Mason turned his head to see Tyler sitting on the barstool next to him.

  “She didn’t take you back, huh?” Mason couldn’t help rubbing it in. Casey sharing a room with Tyler had never sat well with him. Because the man was a stranger, of course. Mason ignored the voice reminding him that he had done things with Casey some married couples didn’t do, only a few hours after meeting her. And he was a virtual stranger, too. She didn’t even know his occupation.

  “Nothing to take back. We were barely acquaintances.”

  “But you were sharing a room.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The bartender delivered Tyler’s drink and he took a long sip. “From what I understand, the two of you were doing everything but sharing a room. What’s the difference?”

  Good point. Mason decided to leave that alone. “Did they at least find you a place to stay for the rest of the cruise? With your, uh...delicate condition, I’d hate to see you sleeping on deck.”

  Tyler finished off the drink and rose from his seat. “I get nosebleeds. I don’t have pneumonia, Plumber Boy.” He left before Mason could say anything.

  Now what did that mean? Obviously he’d seen Casey since the incident in the dining hall. Which meant she’d probably explained who Mason was. Or who she thought he was.

  Did Tyler know he was a reporter, or was he simply trying to make Mason feel bad about his occupation?

  Either option seemed likely.

  He pulled the BlackBerry from his pocket and punched a few buttons. Nothing. He needed to find another way to reach the mainland.

  * * * *

  Casey spotted Mason across the deck. Sitting at the bar. How appropriate. Didn’t all journalists drink? Hemingway had. In all the movies reporters had a favorite hangout. Mason Drury, Reporter At Large, was likely no different.

  She was halfway to the bar hut when she remembered the plan: avoid Mason until she could get into contact with Jane. She paused. But with him so close, she couldn’t help but head straight for his chair.

  “You’re Cassandra Cash,” a woman to her right gasped. Casey turned to see a middle-aged woman sitting on one of the cabana chairs with a dog-eared paperback book across her knees. “You write those wonderful books.”

  “Hi.” Casey was never sure what the correct response was. Did she say, “Yes, I am” or “How do you do”? She reached out, taking the other woman’s hand in her own. “What’s your name?”

  “Doris Teague.” She held up the book on her lap, Casey’s first book, the one that could have dealt Shock Jock a blow back to Peoria, but she’d taken the high road. Big mistake. No one was taking the high road with her. The woman continued. “I’ve read this one three times now and every time it’s like a new book. Would you sign it for me?”

  “Sure.” Casey smiled at the woman, shaking her head. She read the book three times? That had to be some kind of record. “Do you have a pen?”

  The woman pulled her beach bag onto her lap, finally coming up with a pen. Casey opened the front cover of the book and signed just below the book title.

  “I’ve pre-ordered all of your books since this one. It’s like you’re talking just to me.”

  A warm glow floated from Casey’s stomach to her head. How could she have been afraid of her fans? They were so sweet. They understood what she was writing about.

  “Thank you,” she said. Casey wanted to tell the woman how much her words meant, but didn’t know how without starting a crying fest. She handed the book back. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh, no. The pleasure is mine.” Doris held the book close to her chest and closed her eyes. She exhaled deeply, as if remembering an old friend. “If I’d ever fallen in love, I would have wanted my relationship to be just like the relationships you teach us to have.”

  “You’ve never been in love?” How did a woman reach middle age and not have been in love? Even a little bit.

  “I was too busy when I was younger. There was my career, and I took care of my brothers and sisters. Now that I’m older, it seems like all the available men are under thirty or over sixty.” She lowered her voice and said, “Or interested in a quickie in the lunch room. I’d prefer to have the whole dinner, if you know what I mean. Flowers and romance and talking late into the night.” Her eyes moistened.

  Casey sat down on the chair and reached across to take Doris’s hand. “If you see so clearly what you want, it’ll find you.”

  “I hope so. It would be a shame not to be able to share my life with someone.”

  Right. Like she knew love would find anyone. She’d thought she had found love with Nate, had been close to turning lust into love with Mason and was still alone. She was no one to wax poetic about love.

  They sat for a few minutes, each lost in her own thoughts. Finally, Casey stood and patted Doris’s hand. “It was very nice meeting you,” she said.

  “I’m so glad you were on deck this morning. I’d heard you might be here, but you know how those rumors get going. Pretty soon, you would have been Cher or Danielle Steel.” Doris laughed and waved her hands in the air.

  “No, I’m just me. I don’t think anyone would confuse me with Danielle Steel.” Cher, maybe, if they knew what had been happening in her room this cruise.

  They chatted a few more minutes, and Casey considered leaving to find January and a phone line that would work. She didn't need to confront Mason, which was just as well because the barstool he had occupied was empty.

  She ordered a cherry Coke from the bartender and watched him make a show of creating the drink. He popped a hot pink umbrella into it, dropped a cherry into the center and slid it across the counter to her.

  She laughed. “Somehow a simple ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem to cover the show. But thank you, anyway.”

  The bartender shrugged his left shoulder toward an oversized martini glass in the corner. “Tips are always appreciated,” he said, winking at her.

  “Always a racket,” she teased and dropped a bill into the glass. “This is the best cherry Coke I’ve had in years.”

  “Well, we aim to please, ma’am,” he said in a thick Western drawl. “Y’all come back any old time for a refill.”

  Casey finished off the drink, laughing at the act. She turned from the bar, bumping into the barstool next to her. A black object clunked to the floor and she bent to pick it up.

  A BlackBerry. She wanted one of these. They could work from anywhere, hotspot or not. At least, that’s what she heard. This one looked just like the model Mason was fiddling with on the deck the night before. It was sitting on the barstool where he had been just a few minutes ago.

  Had he left it behind?

  The jolt must have powered it on because the display lit up. A message popped onto the screen.

  No nametag accompanied the message. Only a single line reading:

  Time is running out. Get the girl and finish the job.

  If Casey had doubted Mason was a reporter, the hope was quashed now. The message could only mean one thing. His article wouldn’t be flattering.

  She didn’t want it to be his, damn it. One tiny little area of her life needed to be se
parate from the dramedy she was living. But then, Mason had been sitting here only a few minutes ago. Coincidence was one thing, denial something else.

  “Do you know who this belongs to?” she asked the bartender.

  He shook his head, frowning. “Doesn’t look familiar.” He went back to wiping down the bar. Soon he’d wipe a hole right through the mahogany.

  Casey chewed on her lip. She’d take it to lost and found first, then find January and a ship-to-shore line so she could send her own message. Then Mason.

  It was time she found out why he was on this cruise.

  Mason saw Casey come up on deck, and froze. She looked mad enough to take on a hornet’s nest. Was she looking for Tyler? Or him? He turned on the barstool. Maybe she wouldn’t see him.

  Coward.

  So what if he was. He couldn’t deny writing the story while he was still employed by Haynes. He needed to get fired, preferably with her overhearing. Staging the call, sure, but the firing would be real enough.

  He watched Casey in the mirror at the back of the bar hut and quickly made his decision. He needed to tell her the truth about who he was, but he could do that and keep her from hating him.

  It shouldn’t matter that she hated him. This, whatever this was, started out as a fling. But somewhere along the line Mason began caring about what Casey thought. Of him. Of everything. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he knew when he told her the truth he would. He needed to prove to her that he wasn’t working her for a story.

  While she was still talking with the woman on the cabana chair, he slipped away from the deck. He needed to keep his distance from Casey until he could get Haynes on the phone and tell him to shove the story.

  The game room was crowded with another poker game, Tyler sitting at the head of the table. Stopping by his room, he picked up shorts and running shoes. The weight room was empty. Quickly, Mason changed, then set up a treadmill for a thirty-minute circuit. Breathing easy, he pumped his legs as the treadmill moved.

  The real story on this ship wasn’t Casey and the situation that had her sharing a room with a stranger. No. The real story was what got her onto the ship in the first place. But Haynes wouldn’t go for that. The man hadn’t had an original story idea since the Watergate scandal broke. He was a follower, cutting stories out of other papers and sending his own reporters to cover old news.

  A new idea formed. Why couldn’t Mason write the real story? This stupid cruise started with Casey’s agent, who was working to repair her reputation after a bad break-up. And that led him to Nate. Nate was the lynchpin in this whole debacle.

  He was the story.

  Mason had a feeling Nate leaked the break-up stories, working every angle for a headline. His next ratings books came out in four weeks, and if it was another clunker he’d be on the outs with Hollywood. But a good showing would bring the wolves in Hollywood to heel. Every story on him would also mention the show. Name recognition would have some people buying a ticket.

  Once the light bulb glimmered to life, Mason couldn’t stop the connections. This had nothing to do with Casey. Nate was trying to save himself, and her ruination was only a by-product. Name recognition being what it was, he likely thought she would enjoy the press and new readers as much as he would like the bump in his ratings.

  Casey’s fear of being talked about drove her—or her agent—to madness right along with Nate.

  Two plus two. Four. Only, he had to prove Nate was the source, and that it was a lie. A man didn’t turn gay all of a sudden, but some people would believe the story. Or at least enjoy reading about it. The treadmill decelerated, signaling the end of the cycle, and he checked the clock. Nearly two o’clock. Mason swiped his face and neck with a fluffy white towel, then slung it across his shoulders. Shower first. Then, convince the purser to sign him onto the ship’s data plan a day late.

  He needed Haynes interested in Nate’s story, and the best way to do that was to sell Nate down the river. Turn him into tabloid fodder. Into an outcast. Mason figured the man deserved it.

  He stepped off the treadmill and froze as the weight room door swung open, crashing against the wall. Casey stood just inside the door, arms crossed over her chest and tapping her right foot. This couldn’t be good.

  “Hi, Casey,” Mason said. Hi? Brilliant. She was obviously mad, which could mean only one thing. She knew. At least he wouldn’t have to wait for the ax to fall.

  Instead of replying, Casey threw a small black object at him, then turned and locked the door from the inside. She must not want to be interrupted. Not good. Mason caught the object with his left hand. A BlackBerry. His? No, couldn’t be. His was still in his pocket when he changed for the workout.

  Unless she’d searched his locker. Mason raised an eyebrow. “Nice piece of equipment. Need help turning it on?”

  “Give it a rest, Drury. It’s not mine. It belongs to you.”

  Mason pressed the power button and watched as the screen turned green and then beeped. The LCD screen read No Service. “What makes you think this is mine?”

  Casey stepped forward and stabbed a finger at the BlackBerry. “Because you left it at the bar hut on deck. Don’t deny it. I saw you there. Then you were gone, and this was left behind.”

  “And you’re mad because I have a BlackBerry?” Play dumb, just for a minute. It would make her madder at first, but it might give him time to turn the story around. If he could make her mad enough to leave.

  Casey wrenched the BlackBerry from his hands, pressing buttons randomly. A wicked smile curved her lips and Mason went hard. Damn. Even angry, possibly about to kill him with assumptions, she turned him on. Keeping hold of the top of the BlackBerry, Casey turned it so Mason could read the screen.

  “Time is running out. Get the girl and finish the job,” she read the words on the screen from memory.

  What the hell? Not his phone, but whose was it? And was the message about Casey, or just a random message that meant nothing?

  “Don’t move,” Mason said, pushing past Casey. He checked his locker and hurried back to the weight room. She was still there, looking angrier than before. No matter how this went down, it wouldn’t end well. He might as well make it good. Come clean about everything. Crap.

  He tossed it, mimicking Casey’s actions from before. She caught it, comparing it with the unit already in her hand. A puzzled look settled over her features.

  “But, how... Why do you need two of these things?”

  “I don’t. That one—” He pointed to the unit in her left hand. “Isn’t mine. I don’t know who it belongs to. This one—” He pointed to the one in her right hand. “Is mine. Go ahead. Turn it on and find out all my dirty secrets.”

  Casey didn’t move. “But you’re the reporter. You’re the one with a job to do. A job that involves a girl. Me.” She turned toward him. A combination of hope and fear on her face. “If this isn’t yours, then there is someone else on board...” Casey pressed her hands, still filled with the BlackBerries, to her head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  * * * *

  Casey turned from Mason and paced. Just how many reporters had followed her to Florida and onto this damned ship?

  He or she could be anyone.

  Maybe the message was innocent.

  Time is running out. Get the girl and finish the job.

  It was generic enough to mean anything. Maybe someone was using inside information on a business deal.

  Crap, had she stolen some innocent person’s phone? She was a kleptomaniac in addition to the sex addict Mason was likely writing about in his story.

  “Can I have my phone back?”

  Mason’s words jolted her back to the weight room. She handed it over, looking again at the weird message about time, a girl and a job. Just because this didn’t belong to Mason, didn’t mean he wasn’t working her for his story. She had no reason to doubt Tyler’s word. He was an escort working toward his PhD. Ridiculous combination, but who would make that up? She’d seen him lie.
He was terrible at it. Opening his eyes wide, fiddling with his hands. No, when he told her about Mason, he looked directly into her eyes. No lying there.

  “So when were you going to tell me you’re working on a story about me?” She watched the color drain from Mason’s face. She was right. Or rather, Tyler was. But that didn’t matter. Mason was using her.

  “I’m not, at least not anymore.”

  “Because you already got the dirt on the sex-addict self-help writer who jumps people’s bones in public places?” To her own ears the words sounded harsh. How would anyone have respect for Cassandra Cash once the story was out? She obviously had no respect for herself.

  “You’re not a sex addict.”

  “Humph. But that’s what will make the best story. Don’t tell me you weren’t going to use it.” A sharp pain cut across her chest. More than anything else, she wanted Mason to tell her he wasn’t writing the story. That he wasn’t a reporter.

  But he didn’t.

  “I was brought on board to write a simple story about your latest book deal, but then the story about Nate hit a rival paper.” Mason tossed his phone up and down, catching it in his palm each time. “The story I was sent to write changed.”

  Casey wanted to feel surprise when Mason admitted to being the reporter. She only felt hollow. “And you rolled with the punches.”

  He shook his head. “And then I met you.”

  Tears threatened to fall from her eyes at his words. Why was it so hard to stay angry at him? And then I met you. Right. What a load of crap. But still the tears threatened.

  Mason reached his hand to her face, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “I couldn’t write about you being a sex addict unless I also wrote that I was using you for a story. I’m not using you, Casey. I’m not writing the story.”

  “Right.” And Nate wasn’t using her for a headline, either. Only a part of her did believe him. The stupid part that could never see through a lying man.

  “You’ve been hiding out on this ship.”

  Like that was a surprise. Why shouldn’t she be hiding out? Nate’s story sent her on this wild ride, and then Jane added to the humiliation by hiring a lover for her. And instead of falling for the escort, she spilled the entire story to a reporter. She was riding in one huge, humiliating circle.