My eyes snap open. Damn it, what the hell is the matter with me?
I grab Camelia’s hand to stop her.
“We’re not doing this,” I say, despite the protests of my body. Maybe I’ll regret not letting this happen, but even I’m not enough of an ass as to sleep with a drunk girl while fantasizing about her roommate.
“But I—” Then Camelia breaks off, and in the glow of the alarm clock I see her expression turn. She mutters something in Romanian, lurches off me and flees into the bathroom. I hear her retch into the toilet.
I get dressed, and when Camelia’s done, though she insists she’s fine, I help her put her dress back on and walk her back to her cabin. She rarely seems to remember drunken antics the morning after, so hopefully we’ll just be able to pretend this never happened.
“You have your room key?” I ask when we reach her cabin. She gives me a sultry smirk, marred only slightly by her rumpled hair.
“It’s in my dress somewhere,” she says challengingly. “Try to find it.”
I sigh, reaching past her to knock on the cabin door. Camelia pouts, then tilts sideways, and I put an arm around her shoulders to keep her upright. I’m about to knock on the door again when it opens.
“Do you know what time …” Yasmin trails off, blinking at us.
She’s wearing silky pajama pants and a tank top that leaves her shoulders bare. The fabric falls lovingly across her curves, and when I see the hint of a nipple I silently curse, because I’m getting hard again.
Yasmin’s eyes narrow.
“You’re not the kind of guy who lets his conquests stay the night?” she mutters. “Why am I not surprised?”
My jaw drops, but as Camelia nuzzles me I realize what this must look like. “Hey, she was the one who—” I start, but Yasmin cuts me off.
“None of my business. Thanks for bringing her home, at least.” She slips out of her room, slides an arm around Camelia’s waist, and maneuvers her through the door. “I’ll take it from here,” she calls, and nudges the door shut with her foot.
I stare at their room number, annoyance washing over me. For some reason it bugs me that Yasmin thinks I hooked up with Camelia and then kicked her out. It shouldn’t—why should I care about my new hire’s opinion?
Turning, I stalk back to my stateroom. I make sure that my door is closed, and locked, before I fall back onto bed.
Jesus, what a night.
I stare up at the blank ceiling, wishing for sleep to overtake me, but now I’m wide awake. It also doesn’t help that I’m still as hard as a rock. Rolling onto my side, I run over my agenda for tomorrow and think about on how much we need to bring in at Formal Night. Soon enough, I start to relax. The numbers are like an antidote against the heat pulsing through me. Numbers make sense, unlike women. They’re predictable, unlike car accidents.
Numbers are cold. Calculating. Unemotional.
Tonight, that’s exactly what I need.
Chapter 6
West
“You need to fire someone,” I hear behind me as I lower my camera.
I turn to see Randall Cunningham, the ship’s Hotel Director, sitting on a bench twenty feet away. He’s wearing a crisp suit and his graying hair has been neatly parted to one side.
Checking my watch, I realize it’s still pretty early. I never did get back to sleep last night. I tossed and turned until five, then gave up and went to the gym. After a shower, I grabbed my camera bag and came up to the Lido Deck before another busy workday began. I hadn’t expected to see anyone else out here this early, especially not Randall.
Did he just say I had to fire someone?
“Good morning, sir,” I say, hoping I heard him wrong.
“I know we were scheduled to meet at nine, but I was making my rounds and figured you’d be here,” Randall says with a smile. He knows I like to photograph the dawn. I’m glad he held off talking to me until the sun freed itself from the horizon. The small windows of time in which I can take my own personal photos are what keep me sane on this ship.
And dawn is one of my favorites. I love the fresh breeze, the emptiness of the ship since everyone’s still asleep. The moment when the rays of the sun first break over the open sea, filling the world with light. My mother loved painting the dawn, and I love to capture it on film. Well, digital film. Sometimes the sky is hazy and I can’t get a good photo, but today it’s clear. Clouds dot the horizon, though. That makes for stunning shots, the clouds drenched in shades of scarlet and pink, but doesn’t bode well for later today.
Randall nods to the clouds. “Red sky in the morning,” he says.
“Sailors take warning,” I finish glumly.
“Captain De Luca is going to try and route us around the storm, but it looks like we’ll still get the edges of it,” Randall says. He gestures for me to join him on the bench, and we watch the sun rise higher in the sky.
“Sir, did you say—”
“You need to fire someone,” he repeats, and my stomach sinks.
“It’s going to be difficult to meet our photo and sales marks without all ten of us working,” I say. I’ve learned that I have to phrase things in business-speak for Randall to hear me. “My photographers are assets, and each has met the minimum requirements set by—”
“We need to cut spending to fit next year’s budget, and every department has to do its share.” Randall’s expression is sympathetic but firm. “Pick someone. Find a reason. You’ve got some time, but I want a name by the end of August.”
That’s six weeks away. And it makes no sense—they just gave me Yasmin to fill out the ranks and now they want me to fire someone? How are the rest of us expected to meet ever-higher sales marks with fewer resources?
But the person who snags the corporate position will be the person who gets the job done without complaining, not the guy who cringes at a hard decision, so I nod grimly.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him, like the good worker bee I’ve forced myself to become.
Randall claps me on the shoulder.
“It’s tough to fire someone, West. I know that better than anyone. But you need to put the good of the company first. Plus, this will be excellent practice for your future.”
At that I sit up straighter. Does he mean I’m still his pick for the position? The Hotel Director of each Star Heart Cruises ship will recommend one of his or her people for the corporate job, so Randall is the guy I need on my side if I’m to have even a chance.
“I won’t let you down, sir,” I say.
He studies me, then stands. I stand with him.
“See that you don’t.” He heads off to finish his rounds.
I stare at the ocean, at the sun rising in the sky the way I want to rise in this company. Maybe that’s why my mom liked the dawn, because it is the time of day most full of possibility. Even when we lived in Section 8 housing and had to give plasma to earn enough money for ramen noodles, she always felt the dawn held promise. The promise that today would be better.
It never wound up fulfilling that promise for her. Each dawn she’d hope that she’d sell a painting, and maybe she would, but she never made it into the big leagues, and never sold consistently enough to get us off of food stamps. My dad wasn’t much help; he had a janitorial job at a local school, so we always had a roof over his head, but not much more than that. Certainly not a car with working brakes.
There’s an ache in my chest, but it’s time to get to the photo room and meet with the team. I stare at the dawn a moment longer, then set my jaw and head inside.
~ ~ ~
The second night of the cruise is Formal Night. Since we’re at sea, it’s a way for the Cruise Director, who’s in charge of entertainment, to keep passengers smiling instead of bored. They dress in gowns and suits, and pretend they’re high society or something. It’s kind of silly, but people seem to have fun. It’s also our best time for photographs, because everyone wants pictures of themselves dressed to the nines.
“Each photographer has a
station,” I tell Yasmin. “You can pick where you want to set up, but it’s your job to make the background something a passenger gets excited about.”
“Camelia told me her station is by the aquarium in the atrium, and that if I try to move in on it she’d murder me in my sleep,” Yasmin says, not meeting my eyes. She hasn’t really looked at me all day. “She’s joking, right?”
I tense at the mention of Camelia but manage to shrug. “Most of the team feels that way about their spots. Some places are more popular than others. Charlie has an angle on the promenade that gets the grand chandelier right behind the passengers. They love that.”
“So what are we doing here?” She surveys the hallway that leads to the Abalone Dining Room. “There’s nothing cool here.”
“That’s why we have our canvas backgrounds. This is the last time to snag people before dinner, since they all funnel through this hallway. You mentioned that you’d done studio set-ups, right?”
A flash of something I can’t interpret crosses Yasmin’s face before she ducks her head. “Yeah,” she says softly.
I wonder what that look in her eye means, but bite my tongue instead of asking. We don’t have much time to prep, and besides, after last night I doubt she wants to chat with the guy she thinks used and discarded her roommate. It still irks me that she assumed the worst, but even starting that conversation is too awkward to consider.
“Let’s set up over here,” I say, and we get to work.
Despite my initial impression of her yesterday, Yasmin did pretty well today. She showed up on time this morning, and though she looked tired, her dark eyes were clear as I’d explained our routine. There’s always a team of photographers in the sales room helping passengers pick out photographs and buy packages; the others rove the ship, filling a photo quota of smiling pool-goers and mini golfers.
The ship lurches slightly, listing to starboard, and my stomach turns. The edges of the storm caught up to us mid-afternoon, and it’s been rough seas ever since. Even my trusty seasickness patch is starting to fail me. But Formal Nights are big for the photography team, so I ignore my nausea the best I can.
Yasmin drops one of the poles holding up the canvas, and I mutter a curse as I help her right it. “Careful,” I say. “That equipment costs more than we get paid in a month.” And if she breaks it, my revenue gets clobbered by expenses, and my dreams of the corporate job on land, where the ground doesn’t freaking move beneath me, get shredded.
“Sorry,” Yasmin says, flushing. “I swear I’m not actually clumsy.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I mutter that beneath my breath, because she really has been a quick study today. She’s even wearing tennis shoes. But stormy seas make me grouchy.
Yasmin must have heard me, because her head comes up and her dark eyes flash.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just be careful, please,” I say, dialing back my tone. “If you can.”
“If I can?” Now Yasmin looks even more pissed off.
“That came out wrong,” I say. The ship lurches again, and I grit my teeth against the urge to hurl into the nearest trash bin. I should smooth things over with Yasmin, but we’ve only got a couple minutes before passengers start flowing into the dining room, and if we’re not ready for them we’ll lose the chance for photos. “Set up that light, okay?”
“Fine,” Yasmin snaps.
As fast as we can, we set up two bright standing lights, pointing them at the canvas background that’s set up against the wall and draped on the floor. The image is of a dark but starry night and a crescent moon, and passengers say they love how elegant they look in the photos.
We turn on the lights just as a couple comes down the hallway. They’re in their sixties and dressed like they’re attending an inauguration ball, the man in a tuxedo and the woman sporting a beaded gold gown. Both of them are frowning.
“The weather has been awful. Just awful!” says the wife. “Nothing at all like the cruise we took last fall.”
“If it’s like this the entire trip,” her husband adds, “I’m demanding a refund.”
“Well, of course, dear. Of course.”
Great. Coaxing unhappy passengers to smile is tough in weather like this, but before I can summon the energy to try, Yasmin steps forward with a smile and compliments the woman on her gown.
“I love that beading,” she says. “You look wonderful. Can I get you two over here for a moment?”
The woman, smiling now, swans over with her husband. Yasmin poses them in front of the canvas so I can take a few shots, and once the couple heads into the dining room I check their photos. I sigh when I notice a big wrinkle at the couple’s feet. They might not notice it when they buy their photo, but I do.
“Can you fix that wrinkle?” I ask Yasmin as I fiddle with my tripod.
She steps onto the canvas to tweak the way it drapes onto the floor, then staggers as the port side of the ship dips and the starboard side rises in a sickening swell. The floor tilts several degrees, and in the dining room I hear dishes crash to the floor. There’s a scream, and someone yells.
Yasmin’s right underneath one of our standing lights, and it teeters dangerously over her head. It’s going to fall on her, I realize, and that’s when instinct takes over. I leap across the canvas, grab her by her shoulders, and put myself between her and the light. Then we’re falling, everything is falling.
We crash to the ground, and another scream rings in my ears as the framework crashes down on top of us.
Chapter 7
Yasmin
I land hard on the canvas, the breath knocked out of me. My head spins, and I’m barely able to process what has happened before West and the cameras topple over me in a giant crash.
Nausea weaves through my stomach, but it ebbs once the ship halts its tilt and eases back the other way. In another few seconds, we’re back to normal. Sweet Jesus, that was scary. What happened?
Blinking away my dizziness, I realize that West is laying on top of me, our legs tangled, our chests pressed together, so close that I feel his breath on my cheek.
“West?” I whisper. Is he unconscious?
He groans, and I sigh in relief.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Over in the dining room, I can hear the waiters asking each other and the few passengers if they’re all right. West twists to wrestle the standing light, which has come unplugged from the wall, so it’s not across us. I try to sit up, but West shakes his head.
“Don’t move just yet. Are you hurt?” His eyes search my face. He pushes himself up onto his elbows so I can breathe, but our faces remain only inches apart.
“I don’t think so,” I say shakily. “How about you?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he brushes the hair from my face and runs his fingers over the back of my head.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Shh.” His own blue eyes look a little dazed. And worried. He’s almost a different person right now, with concern pulling the edges of his mouth down. His fingers are gentle. The West I thought I’d figured out would be telling me to brush myself off and get back to work. But this West has curled his hand around my cheek, every bit of his attention focused on me.
Finally, he nods. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion.”
That’s when I realize that West has seriously saved my butt. Those lights are super heavy, and I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened if one of them had hit me on my head.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“You know, catching my fall.”
“It was nothing,” he says, meeting my gaze. Our bodies are still pushed against each other, and his warmth radiates into me more with every second. His muscled arms bracket my torso, making me feel safe. Alive. I’m not sure I want him to move. Realizing that one hand is clutching his shirt, I make my fingers relax. Of their own accord, they flatten on his
chest, reveling in the feel of him.
Something hot and bright flares to life in West’s blue eyes, almost like he knows what I’m thinking. His body tenses against mine—and then he mumbles something and pushes himself into a sitting position.
“What happened with the ship?” I ask, sitting up too and feeling embarrassed about my reaction to the guy who hooked up with my roommate last night. Are he and Camelia a thing now? Or does he sleep with lots of shipmates?
Either way, it’s so not my concern, I remind myself, and focus on the ship and the alarming lurch that started this whole thing. Could it have been the storm? But the Radiant Star is so big that I’d figured it would be immune to anything but a hurricane.
“Not sure. I should find out.”
We stand up, leaning on each other, and an announcement comes on over the speakers. The captain, in a thick Italian accent, explains that the ship’s motion was the result of a rogue wave, and that anyone injured or seasick should report to the ship’s clinic immediately.
“Rogue wave?” I say. “Is that even a thing?”
“It happens. First time for me, though.” West studies me again and starts running his hands over my arms. “Hold on. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
“What?” I say. His touch is distracting.
“You’re bleeding,” West says.
I look down to see blood on my shirt. West lifts the hem to look at my waist, but there’s no injury.
I realize West has a gash on the outside of his left bicep, and that’s where the blood is coming from. “I’m not hurt. You’re the one who’s bleeding.”
West twists his head to look at his arm and mutters a curse. “Great.” It’s not serious, though, and he returns to studying me. “You sure you’re okay?”
It’s strange that he’s fretting over me, especially with how gruffly he’s treated me since I got here. “Yeah. Maybe bruised a little.”
“Sorry about that.”
He turns before I can tell him not to apologize; after all, he was protecting me. Shielding me from the light that nearly fell on my head, which might have—
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