All around me is an atmosphere of happiness and anticipation. People wave to their families and take selfies or group shots. I bump into a walker and almost trip over a cane.
“Miss, can you take a picture of us?” an elderly gentleman asks.
Once I agree to help one group, I’m quickly passed cameras, cell phones, and even old-fashioned video cameras from everyone around.
Guess being single and alone makes me the designated photographer.
I’m returning phones and cameras as quickly as new requests come in.
“Thank you, lass. You’re so sweet,” a little old lady says. “Are you all alone?”
“My friend was supposed to meet me, but she seems to be lost,” I answer, hoping she doesn’t think “friend” is a euphemism for the type with benefits.
“You should join us after the safety presentation,” the lady says. “We’re all classmates at our fortieth high school reunion. Look for us under the red and black balloons. We’re banning pilots.”
Why would they want to ban pilots?
I don’t get a chance to ask because they switch from fumbling for selfies to asking me to take pictures of them.
The geriatric cheerleaders jump and clap, while several creaky men get down on their hands and knees to form a pyramid. Others, who are no doubt thirty pounds heavier than high school weight, climb precariously over the wobbly row of sweating men on the floor.
The whole contraption looks doomed when the apex of the pyramid, a frail-looking Asian woman, is lifted to the top and held there by a burly man who is probably her grandson.
I grab cameras and snap pictures as fast as I can before everyone crumbles on top of each other, then rush to help them up. Knees pop and joints crack, but the reunion crowd is happy as I pass their cameras and phones back to them.
“Miss, a picture for us?” A man dangles an old-fashioned digital camera from his wrist, and I’m surprised at all the strangers trusting me with their electronics.
It isn’t until the ship clears out of the Los Angeles Harbor before I pat all my pockets and check my purse and then panic.
My phone!
It’s gone.
Oh my …
Frantic, I elbow and twist my way back to my cabin. Hopefully, I left it on my bunk with my carry-on.
My heart thudding and thumping, I barge into the cabin and find a dark-haired man sitting on my bunk.
“Oh, excuse me, I must have opened the wrong door.” I back out and shut the door, even while one part of my brain reminds me that my access pass worked and my luggage is inside.
The man opens the door and winks. “No, you didn’t. Jade sends you her regrets. I’m her cousin, Jordan, and I’ve come to take her place.”
I gape at the dark-haired man with a mischievous glint in his chocolate-colored eyes. A pair of aviator sunglasses hangs from his shirt pocket.
He’s hot and sexy, no question about it, but there’s something else about him I can’t put my finger on. Oh, sure, he witnessed my sex toy debacle, and he’s amused.
I snap my fingers and it all comes back to me. Jade’s cousin was the snot-nosed kid who tormented me in grade school. “Jordan Reed. I know you from third grade, you punk.”
“You still remember,” he states as if he’s completely aware that no one could ever forget the spit wads and pieces of bubble gum he stuck in my hair.
Actually, I wouldn’t have recognized him if I’d passed him on the street. While his third-grade self was the terror of Miss Vidovich’s class, this current incarnation is a mouth-watering hunk: thick, dark, wavy hair styled and gelled, a small golden hoop earring in one earlobe, a sharp Puckish chin and dark, broody brows over a straight, strong nose.
“You terrorized me the one year you stayed with your aunt and uncle.” I stab my finger at him accusingly. “Why are you here now? Is this some sort of joke?”
“Joke’s on both of us,” Jordan says, his lopsided grin higher on the left side than the right.
My naughty mind immediately wonders if he cocks left down below, too.
“No, you’re the joker. Not me. I’m a serious socialite wannabe.” I can’t even keep a straight face at the title I held while trying to marry Stephen Sommers the Third.
“Then we’re in luck,” Jordan says. “I’m also a hoity-toity one-percenter wannabe. Jade sent me to cheer you up and pretend to be your husband. What’dya say we rock this boat and show old, stiff Stephen what he missed out on?”
“Oh, no, I don’t give a crocodile’s patootie what Stephen thinks. I’m off social media. Off the internet, and oh, I lost my cell phone, too. Did you happen to see it lying among my stuff?”
“Sorry, haven’t had a chance to go through all your things and be nosy yet,” he says with a painted-on straight face.
My cheeks burn red-hot, and I glare at him, wondering if he was the jerk who stuffed the pistol vibrator into my carry-on.
“I have to go to lost and found.” I fan myself as if Jordan farted and scrunch my nose. “You can’t stay here with me.”
“Why? Do you stink or something? I don’t mind.” He lays back onto my bunk and arranges the pillow under his gelled hair.
“I mind.” I grab his arm and drag him from the tiny cabin. “You’re the last person I need to pretend to be my husband and make Stephen jealous.”
“That’s not the goal,” he says smugly. “I know you don’t give a rat’s patootie about Stephen Sommers, future senator. Jade told me to give you a good time.”
I narrow my eyes. “Even worse for you. Jade betrayed me big time, and she’s no longer my best friend. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to go.”
He struggles and yanks free of my grasp. “Oh, no. I’m not some stuffy gentleman who’s going to back down. If you want me off this boat, you’re going to have to fight me.”
“You’re getting sent to the brig.” I huff, wheeling around in the narrow passageway. “I’m reporting you to security.”
“We’ll see about that. They might not take your side of the story,” Jordan says. “After all, I am a ‘J Reed,’ and you’re just ‘Guest.’”
“No way.” My mouth drops open, and I punch my hands to my hips.
Jordan whips his access pass from his pocket and waves it in front of my face. “Nyah, nyah, nyah, it’s my room. Not yours. Go ahead and report me.”
I narrow my eyes as much as I can to sharpen my gaze to pencil points and glare at him. I’m sure it isn’t working, because his smirk widens and he winks, amused.
“Then I’m getting off this ship.” I stride through the passageway and alight onto the main deck. I report my missing phone with the concierge and ask if there’s any way I can get off the cruise ship.
“You’ll have to take the safety class first. Go to your muster station where they’re having the life boat orientation,” the bored-looking man says, pointing in the direction where folks are milling around and trying on life jackets.
A crew member shoves a jacket at me. “You’re late for the drill. Pay attention while we direct you to the nearest life boat.”
“Actually, I want off this ship,” I say with a pointed glare at Jordan who dared to follow me. “Is there a way I can take one of those life boats back to the harbor?”
“Safety isn’t a joke,” the crew member says. “Those life boats have an important function.”
“I understand. But I want to go back. Can you call a tugboat or the Coast Guard or a helicopter for me?”
The man’s lips turn down in a frown. “Unless you’re having a medical emergency, you’re staying on this ship until we reach Hawaii. Now, simmer down and put on your life jacket.”
I gape back at him. How dare he treat me like a five-year-old? I’m a paying customer—well, guest of a paying customer who happens to be a Reed, the family who owns this ship.
“There has to be a way. I’ve changed my mind and want to go back.” I point over the rail at the land behind us. “We’re not that far out to sea.”
“Sorry about my wife being difficult,” Jordan says. “We’re newlyweds, and she has cold feet, if you know what I mean.”
The crew member’s expression barely changes, but we catch the attention of the fortieth-reunion crowd who wants to ban pilots.
“Oh, how sweet,” a woman with streaked gray hair says. “First night jitters. It’ll all be over fast enough.”
“It’ll only hurt like a pinprick,” her friend says. “You won’t notice it a bit.”
“He might be just as nervous as you,” the first woman with the streaked hair says. “Don’t worry if it’s on the soft side.”
The two of them cover their mouths and giggle.
I level a smirk at Jordan at all of the small, fast, and soft references. “Do they know something about you I don’t know?”
He ignores the women and guides me toward the wooden railing. “Time for you to bail.”
“Oh no, if anyone bails it’s you.” I push him jokingly. “Over the edge you go.”
“After you, wife.” He tugs my life jacket strap.
“I dare you to jump. It’s a long way down.” I peer at the sheer height and shudder. Jumping out of a rowboat is one thing, but a cruise ship?
How many stories up are we?
“I jump, you jump,” Jordan argues. “Hold my hand and we’ll go together. What are you, chicken?”
I size him up. Back in third grade, he was the class prankster. I was the shy wallflower he picked on.
I cried easily. My knees wobbled whenever I bumped into him in the hallways, and I blushed and skittered off to safety if I saw him swaggering toward me.
But in a way, he toughened me.
After he moved away, I gained poise and presence, having learned to paste on a confident smile and tilt my chin up.
“I’m not a chicken, and I’m not scared of you.” I grit my teeth into a toothpaste ad smile. “We’re going back to our cabin and laying down some rules. Be forewarned. I’ll give back more than I get.”
“Is that a promise? I like the sound of getting more of everything from you.” He smirks a long one and licks his lips.
I shake my head dismissively. “You men always think you have some kind of benefit coming to you. No, Jordan Reed, you’re nothing but a pastime Jade arranged for me to forget my disastrous life. It’s going to be fun to make you suffer.”
“I believe she wanted me to give you a good time,” he counters.
“Right, by screwing with you.”
“Back at you.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and my dirty mind can’t help but picture him hot, naked, and hard. I mentally slap myself.
Jordan Reed isn’t dangerous. He isn’t my type, and there’s zero chance of my heart getting entangled with his.
“Getting back at you for everything you did to me in third grade’s going to be fun. Let the games begin.” I raise my hand and slap his palm.
“The gloves are off.” He grasps my hand and curls his grip lightly over my fingers. “And so is the rain jacket.”
Naughty brain of mine pictures his unsheathed member, hooked up and to the left.
I slap my own face and lean over the rail.
I should jump.
Chapter 3
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Jordan shouts after me as he follows me through the corridor leading to our cabin.
“Excuse me? What makes you think I’m running from you?”
True, I didn’t jump. Not that stupid, but I had to twirl around, toss my life vest, and weave my way through the crowd to hide the blush I’m sure was glowing on my face.
I stomp toward my door and wedge myself through it. Eff my life.
What did I do to deserve being stuck with Jordan for the next twelve days and nights?
Jordan’s still wearing his ridiculous life vest which gets stuck when I try to shut the door on him.
He gets himself in, and I head for the bathroom. Everything’s smaller on board a ship, and there’s barely room to turn around in the bathroom, or as they call it, the head.
He shrugs off his life vest and drops it on the floor. “If you’re not running, then let’s mosey over to the bar and celebrate.”
He grins as if we’re good friends and had agreed to spend the trip together.
“Celebrate what? Sorry, I’m in a grouchy mood. Jilted bride. Cancelled wedding. Dumped by my bestie. Did Jade fill you in on my life history?”
He crosses his arms and nods, trying to look serious, but a small quirk lifts the left side of his lips.
Bet he hangs left.
My eyes involuntarily shift downward and to the left, or to my right, his left.
“Hey, I know you’re not having a good day,” he says. “That’s why Jade sent me to cheer you up. Christmas is a bad time to be alone.”
Which is why I agreed to come on the cruise. Except I was supposed to be with my bestie among a sea of strangers.
“What’s in it for you?” I’m already weirded out by finding a strange man in my cabin.
“Free Christmas cruise,” he says.
“Don’t you have family? A girlfriend? Somewhere to be?”
“No one’s talking to me other than Jade,” he says. “I voted the wrong way in the last election.”
“Oh ….” My jaw drops. “That’s horrible. Not that I want to know which way is wrong for your family.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” he says. “I’m a straight shooter and unfiltered.”
Gah. Now I’m picturing him shooting without protection.
Why is my mind so freaking dirty?
I change the subject.
“If Jade cared about cheering me up, she’d be here. We planned to shop and spa the entire cruise together.”
“Something popped up last minute,” Jordan says, and I picture eight inches popping up.
This is what I get for narrating some of those raunchy romance novels I get paid for.
“What popped up?” My voice squeaks through narrowed vocal cords.
“Aiden Lin, that Navy SEAL she’s in love with. She needed a last-minute replacement, and here I am!” He spreads his hands like he’s a ringmaster doing a “ta da!” gesture.
“Aiden came back?” A smile tickles my cheeks, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Jade must be on top of the moon.”
I can’t be angry at her for the ditch and switch. After all, I ditched her first when she went on her Caribbean getaway where she ended up meeting Aiden Lin.
“Everything okay then?” Jordan places a hand on my shoulder. “Want to have a drink with me? Or do you want to hit the duty-free shops? How about the casino?”
“You’re really trying to help, aren’t you?” My heart softens somewhat at the man who appears overeager to do his job. “Guess Jade didn’t want me alone on this cruise, because I might never step out of my cabin.”
“Exactly.” He jiggles my shoulder. “Think of me as your personal Christmas elf. Let’s dress up in green and red and hit the casino. Maybe we’ll get lucky this Christmas.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and I return him a discouraging scowl. I still don’t know what’s in it for him, but if he pulls any pranks, then I’m going for a preemptive strike.
“First, we need to lay down rules,” I say, putting on my sternest expression. “You’re not to call me your wife, especially in front of the other passengers. You’re to stay on your bunk, and I’ll stay on mine. You have to turn around whenever I tell you, because I’m not squeezing myself into the head every time I have to change. You’re to leave the toilet seat down, and you must deodorize the head every time you use the toilet. I don’t want to smell your crap. You have to keep your side of the cabin neat and clean. Throw out your own trash and use deodorant at night. If you snore, you have to wear nose vents.”
“Whoa there.” He holds up his han
d in a “stop” gesture. “I’ll respect all your rules except for the nose vents. I don’t snore, and even if I did, you can wear earplugs.”
“I’m not wearing earplugs.”
He knocks on the wall to the adjoining cabin. “These walls are paper thin. You might want to reconsider if the neighbors start getting it on.”
I push my hands over my ears and shudder. “I don’t want to think about people getting it on. So gross.”
He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t comment, so I continue, “As for overnighters, if you want to hook up with someone, you’re to go to her cabin. I don’t want to walk in on anything.”
“Neither do I,” he says. “No sneaking in a vibrator or waking me up with heavy duty buzzing and moaning.”
My mind immediately twists to the hot, self-love scene I finished narrating yesterday before packing my bags. And yes, I did include a buzzing sound effect between my moans.
Speaking of vibrators. If it wasn’t Jade …
I narrow my eyes and make a cocking motion with my hand. “I’d rather shoot you first.”
“That pistol-grip hunka-hunka thing is pretty loud.”
“Did you sneak it into my carry-on?” My eyes are mere papercuts by now. “You did, didn’t you?”
He whistles as if he’s entirely innocent. “The lady’s going for plausible deniability. No pain. No shame. You enjoy sex toys. I’ll keep your secret.”
“That piece of junk isn’t my vibrator!” I shout to cover up my wayward thoughts.
“My junk is better.” He makes a motion with his hand and all I can do is picture him grabbing his crotch. “Any other rules?”
I want to wipe that knowing smirk off his face, so I go on the accusation trail. “No long showers, even if you have to, um, take care of yourself.”
Oops, bad move. I definitely don’t want to imagine him naked, wet, and glistening …
“Don’t worry, I’ll set a timer,” he says. “I’m usually very quick. Anything else?”
I cross my arms, trying not to think about a quickie in the shower. Why are my hormones so overactive?
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