With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2)

by Chase, Valerie

  Is it me or is this day getting worse by the minute?

  My head still hurts, the remnants of my raging hangover not yet gone. My stomach nearly rebelled after breakfast, and not from my usual seasickness. Speaking of which, of course it’s storming, so even though we’re docked, the boat is moving more than I’d like. When we put out to sea it’s going to be tough not to puke my guts out.

  Hangover aside, the last morning of a cruise is inevitably when a couple hundred people realize it’s their last chance to order photographic mementos of their trip—and they turn into piranhas if they have to wait in line too long. We got complained at for four hours this morning before the last customer finally trotted off to the debarkation line and I could let my staff grab food while I restocked. That, of course, led to the debacle with the cart and my ruined paper. Cleaning up and salvaging what I could took enough time that I didn’t get so much as a French fry for lunch. Now it’s time to prep for the next round of passengers.

  And deal with my new hire.

  I sigh and reconcile myself to the fact that my wish for a pleasant, professional replacement photographer was not answered. Yasmin might be pretty, but if my experience with her so far is any indication, my job just got harder.

  “Everyone, this is Yasmin Alejo,” I announce. I don’t know much about her beyond that she’s a college grad from Louisiana. And that she called me an asshole earlier. “Some of you might recall my story about meeting her in the hallway a little while ago.”

  “Wait, this is klutz-girl?” Benny says, sizing Yasmin up. I’d just finished telling him about my encounter with her before the meeting. “You’re the girl who knocked over all our photo paper?”

  “It was an accident,” Yasmin says through clenched teeth. Her brown eyes are shooting daggers at me now. A girl like that, all high heels—on a boat, no less—and manicured nails is probably used to fluttering her lashes and getting her way.

  “Let’s give her a warm Star Heart welcome,” I say dryly.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” asks Charlie, a South African with ridiculously gelled hair. Probably the biggest womanizer amongst the staff, he’s already checking Yasmin out. It’s hard not to notice her petite but killer body, but I’m her boss, so she’s off limits. Besides, these days I don’t have time for distractions.

  “Sure does,” I tell Charlie, who pumps his fist before shaking Yasmin’s hand heartily.

  “Welcome aboard,” he says to her, grinning. The others are similarly cheered and shake her hand as well. The ‘Star Heart welcome’ is something we always look forward to when a newbie arrives. Yasmin looks a little confused, but smiles in return.

  She has a nice smile, I have to admit.

  Though I doubt she’ll be smiling for long.

  “All right, back to the meeting,” I say. “Passengers start boarding in ninety minutes. Let’s get the shop cleaned, and the storeroom stocked. I’ll go tally up the sales for the cruise and see who the winner is, and check in for the ship schedule.”

  “Winner?” Yasmin asks.

  “We have a sales competition each cruise,” I tell her. “Winner gets a prize.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  I haven’t decided this week’s prize yet, so I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. None of the newbies win on their first few cruises anyway.”

  Yasmin’s dark eyes cool. She looks offended, but she’ll wise up to the realities of ship life soon enough. Like every other newbie photographer I’ve trained, I’m sure she probably thinks she’ll make tons of sales right out of the gate. But she’ll learn. Everyone starts at the bottom, like I did. I spent my first eight-month contract working my ass off and learning the ropes, and by the end of it I was promoted to Photo Department manager. It wasn’t easy, but it’s something I’m proud of.

  As I head out the staff door into the crew hallway, I hear Camelia explain to Yasmin how we, not any custodial staff, are responsible for cleaning our photo gallery area and shop. I somehow doubt Yasmin has spent much time with a broom and vacuum, not with those impractically heeled shoes.

  I run up the staircase a couple decks, to Owen Swift’s office. As the ship’s Publication Manager, he makes and prints the daily program of events on board, plus whatever passenger handouts the Cruise Director needs.

  I give a courtesy knock, then open the door. Inside, Owen leans back on his comfy padded office chair, his feet propped up on his desk. His uniform looks rumpled and his eyes are closed.

  “Hey there, Owen,” I say.

  A single eye opens. Unsurprisingly, it’s bloodshot, because Owen was the one who made me stay up so late last night, pounding beers at the crew bar. He, at least, gets to nap away his hangover. I had to make do with four tablets of aspirin and a surly attitude.

  “I hate embarkation day,” Owen says.

  “Don’t we all. You got today’s program?”

  “In the print room.” He groans and pulls himself from his chair. “I guess I have to hand that out to the department heads now. Why can’t they come up and get them like you do?”

  “Because they’re lazy,” I say, even though we both know it’s not true. If the room stewards had to run across the ship for each day’s schedule—they put one in each cabin when they clean—they’d never get their work done.

  Owen walks with me down the hall to the print room, where I grab a stack of schedules for my team and for the inevitable passengers who’ll ask me for one.

  “Want to grab a beer or twelve later?” Owen says.

  “Sure,” I find myself saying, despite the headache throbbing at my temples. I can already tell that today is going to be one of those days where I’ll need to head to the bar after work. “I get off at ten.”

  “Ten? You’re the boss, aren’t you? Why don’t you make your minions work late instead? The beers are already calling our names.”

  I laugh, because Owen doesn’t care about his job, and he doesn’t quite get why I care about mine. “See you later, okay?”

  “Wait a sec,” says Owen. “I just remembered that Randall asked to meet with you tomorrow morning.”

  My throat goes dry. “Did he say what the meeting is about?”

  “Nope. Only that if he hasn’t caught up with you before nine, you should stop by his office.”

  “Right. Thanks for telling me,” I say, and jog back down to the Promenade deck. I need to focus on handing out the programs and looking over our sales figures, but now I can’t stop thinking about this meeting tomorrow morning. Randall Cunningham is the ship’s Hotel Director. In other words, he’s the guy in charge of nearly everything on the Radiant Star, except of course for actually moving it, which is the captain’s job. Randall is the guy all the department heads report to. Basically, The Boss. My boss.

  When I finished my first cruise contract last year, I wasn’t even sure I’d re-up after my two-month break. To be honest, I didn’t really want to. Ship life is grinding, with twelve-hour days and no weekends. No days off. Ever. I also get more seasick than most of the crew, especially when the weather sucks, like it does today.

  But then I heard about a lower-level management job opening up in the Star Heart Cruises’ corporate offices in Miami—and that they were looking to hire from within. Specifically, they wanted someone from the ships, a department head who excelled at drumming up revenue from passengers. Randall told me that my performance, especially after I’d been promoted, had been noticed. He said I’m on the short list for the position.

  And damn, I really want this job. It comes with a steady paycheck that’s higher than my parents ever earned, enough to let me finish my college degree at night.

  Plus actual weekends. God, I miss weekends.

  So if I can just get through this contract—and bring in much-needed revenue—then that job could be mine. That’s what gets me up every morning, what keeps me going when I fall exhausted into bed each night.

  Back in the photo shop, everyone’s busy: sweeping, mopping, wiping down
anything customers might have touched with a bleach solution, carefully washing all the display screens that will soon show off photos of happy vacationers. I grab one of the computer terminals and pull up the sales data for the cruise that just ended. I note each person’s revenue, tally up the total, and …

  Shit. My stomach knots.

  “Hey, everyone!” I shout across the shop. Heads snap up immediately. “Come on. Gather around. I have an announcement to make.”

  Hearing the sharpness in my tone, my staff hurriedly circles around, some of them still holding bottles of glass cleaner and rags.

  “So who’s the lucky winner from last week?” says Charlie, crossing his arms with a smirk. He won the past two cruises, so I’m sure he’s hoping for lucky number three.

  I glance at the numbers again. My sales competition isn’t a company-mandated thing, just a game I thought up to get everyone to work harder. Our numbers have been decent on the last several cruises, and I had been pleased to see a slight bump in revenue with every trip. But on these last two cruises it’s trended the other way. Partly because of Danny, who I had to fire—he was a train wreck, and drunk half the time. Without him we’ve been down a team member and our revenue showed it. I’ve got a full staff again now, but one member is new and untrained.

  At my meeting tomorrow, however, Randall Cunningham isn’t going to want to hear excuses.

  “Paolo won,” I say. He’s a high-energy guy from Brazil, and passengers can’t help but return his wide smile. Crowing with victory, Paolo does a little dance that has everyone cracking up except for me.

  “Congrats, man,” I say to him. “You get the next port day off.”

  The guys clap Paolo on the back, but I make everyone quiet down. “Listen up! I’m not finished. We really need to ramp up our sales on this next leg. That means if we have to work fourteen-hour days, then we work fourteen-hour days.” I ignore the wave of grumbling. “If sales don’t improve by five percent at least, corporate is going to start breathing down our necks.”

  “Eh, I say to hell with corporate,” Charlie pipes up, making a face. The others laugh, but I can’t laugh along with them.

  “Look, guys, the last thing we want to hear is that corporate is cutting commissions because our revenues are down. So we need to work our butts off this week. Don’t just meet your daily photo quota, exceed it. Target parents by getting photos of their kids. Push framing packages and digital slideshows. Got it?”

  The shop has fallen silent.

  “All right. Get back to work,” I say.

  Murmurs ripple through the shop as everyone returns to their duties. It sucks that I can’t be the nice, joke-y sort of boss everyone likes, but I’m not here to make friends.

  I save the sales files, then head over to inspect one of the wall display monitors. It was acting wonky all morning.

  “Some pep talk,” Yasmin mutters to Camelia as they wipe down a countertop. Her back is to me. Camelia, noticing me, gives a small shake of her head, but Yasmin doesn’t appear to recognize the warning. “I mean, he sounded more uptight than my old history professor.”

  Irritation slides through me. “Yasmin. Can I have a word?”

  Yasmin whirls, eyes widening. Her cheeks flush, but she nods. “Sure.”

  Gesturing for her to follow me to the storeroom, I silently swear at HR for giving me such a raw recruit. One who not only doesn’t know which way is forward, but who can’t seem to keep her mouth shut while at work.

  Closing the door behind me, I get straight to the point.

  “Are you at all trained?” I ask, rubbing my forehead. I got probably ninety minutes of sleep last night, and if I can get a spare moment I want to swing by the ship clinic for a seasickness patch. Out at sea we can usually route around rain, but we had to come in to Miami to dock.

  “Of course I’m trained,” Yasmin says, frowning.

  “Exactly what kind of training have you had?” I’ve come across way too many “photographers” who claim taking Polaroids as a résumé builder. “I know you went to the orientation seminar Star Heart sends everyone to, but do you have any other photography experience?”

  “I took a class last semester—“

  “Let me guess. They hired you because you own your camera and know what a flash is.” Once upon a time, cruise lines only hired professional photographers, but in the days of digital photography, they lowered their standards along with their pay. Nowadays, the pros are hired alongside amateurs who happen to have a full frame DSLR and who just want to sail the seas and goof off for a couple years. “Do you ever take your camera off automatic?”

  Yasmin’s eyes go wide. “Wow, is that an option?”

  I almost groan, then realize through my tired haze that she’s kidding. Okay, she’s feisty. I knew that earlier when she glared at me in the I-95 hallway—the main corridor the crew uses—not backing down though she’s probably a hundred pounds soaking wet. And she had been soaking wet, her long black hair an inky, dripping mess around her face.

  Her hair’s nearly dry now, but her polo and shorts are still damp, and I find myself glancing at the way they cling to her body. She’s hot enough to rival any of the production dancers on the ship, and I can’t help picturing her in a bikini. Or naked.

  I shake my head to clear it. Focus.

  “I haven’t done anything professionally—yet,” Yasmin is saying, “but I’ve set up studio backdrops, and I’ve been shooting manual for a couple years. I’m a quick study.”

  “We’ll see,” I say doubtfully. Photography is different on a cruise ship, even for a seasoned pro. I’m never going to win my corporate escape if I can’t get her up to speed fast. “How much can you lift?”

  “What?”

  “Some of our equipment is heavy, and you’ve got to do your own carrying.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than I look.”

  I snort. “You couldn’t even lift a box of paper earlier.”

  Yasmin crosses her arms, a motion that makes it impossible not to check out her chest. I force my gaze to a spot above her forehead.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Yasmin starts.

  “Speaking of feet, I hope you’ve got other shoes,” I say. “You spend most of your day standing and walking around the ship, and heels aren’t really going to cut it.”

  By the way Yasmin flips her hair, I’ve definitely annoyed her now. “They’re wedges, actually, and they’re comfortable. Trust me.”

  “You were tripping in them earlier,” I say sourly. If I sound like I haven’t forgiven her, it’s because I’m still annoyed that she all but ruined a ream of paper. We can’t print photos on bent and stained sheets. It’s not that much money wasted, I’ll admit, but the cost comes out of my numbers. Every bit counts. I hate that I have to pinch pennies and be a tightwad, but I won’t let anything get in the way of my promotion. This girl, with her sexy tousled hair and a body that felt soft in all the right places when she fell on me earlier, isn’t going to change that.

  Yasmin’s cheeks redden, and I wait, already mentally preparing a citation if she curses me out the way it looks like she’s going to. But instead of laying into me, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath.

  “I apologize for getting in the way earlier. I was new, and lost. It was a total accident, but I understand how unprofessional it seemed.”

  “Not as unprofessional as calling me an asshole,” I observe. If she’s going to throw a tantrum, I want to know now rather than finding out at sea, so I deliberately try to provoke her. “Does your diva card come with a foul mouth, or was that something extra just for me?”

  Yasmin’s mouth flattens, but she doesn’t take the bait, instead saying evenly, “I apologize for that too. How can I make it up to you?”

  I study her, letting my doubt about her competence show plainly on my face, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. Yasmin meets my gaze calmly, without fidgeting.

  All right, she might make it here afte
r all. If her pride can handle the next few hours, that is. I grab a big pile of foam and fabric from the corner of the storeroom. Hiding my grin, I press the costume into Yasmin’s arms.

  “Here. Put this on,” I say.

  Chapter 3

  Yasmin

  I am wearing a giant heart.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter as I survey myself in the storeroom’s mirror. Apparently, the costume is the cruise line’s mascot, a big fuzzy red heart—the Valentine’s Day kind, not the anatomical kind—with white and yellow stars scattered across its abdomen. Do hearts even have abdomens?

  Basically, I look ridiculous. On top of that, I can hardly move. My arms stick out to the sides, and my limbs are covered in gaudy red fabric. Through the mask’s face screen I can dimly see that my own smile—or scowl, in this case—has been replaced by the mascot’s manic grin.

  “I have a freaking bachelor’s degree,” I say in protest to my reflection.

  “News flash,” West says, appearing at my shoulder. “No one cares out here.”

  Crap, I hadn’t realized he was within earshot. The damned costume doesn’t give me any peripheral vision. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t fired me yet, especially since I called him an asshole earlier. Now he probably thinks I consider myself too good to wear a silly uniform. Well, he’s wrong. I’ve done dumber things for my sorority. Plus, in middle school one year I wore a carrot suit for Halloween so that Sofia could be a bunny. I’d figured nothing could be less flattering than dressing like a vegetable, but this heart mascot somehow manages the impossible.

  “Welcome to the photography team,” West says somewhere behind me. I turn toward him and cross my arms. Try, anyway. The costume doesn’t let me do much aside from sticking my hands straight out, like I’m about to give everyone a giant hug.

  “Is this a joke?” I say.

  “Nope.”

  “Then you’re doing this to punish me.”

  “Wrong again.”

  I can sort of see him through the face-screen. Is he grinning? Can’t be. West is, as far as I can tell, the kind of boss who’s a humorless pain in the ass—and I’m stuck with him for the next eight months. I don’t mind working long hours or hauling my equipment or even dealing with picky customers—I’m not afraid of hard work—but getting humiliated by my manager?