by Demi Alex
“Not fair. Maybe it’s been bad timing for me. I really haven’t tried too hard. It’s been difficult to trust anyone since my divorce, so maybe I’m the problem and the scene is just fine.”
Paul cleared his throat and held up a hand. “You’re not the problem, Charlie,” he said, covering her hand with his own. “Your asshole ex is. So let’s take jerks like him out of the equation for the benefit of this piece.”
Whatever. She needed to relax. And just flirt. Like Kat and Paul were doing.
“This is a very incestuous organization,” Charlie said, pointing from Paul to Kathryn to the door. “Between you two and the accounting department, a tree house should be the official headquarters of City Wings. You’re all too tight.”
The conference room filled with laughter. Paul and Kathryn had known each other forever, so they had no problem teasing or hitting below the belt. When it came to Charlie, they treated her with kid gloves. As if her divorce had been the end of her life. It hadn’t. It had actually opened her eyes to what she really wanted. More than anything, she was so over the money-grubbing scumbags of the world.
Charlie was ready to move on from sitting-duck status. She was doubly ready for a real sex life—something she hadn’t had with the ex—but she needed to learn how to compartmentalize physical and emotional.
Shit. Shit. Triple shit. She had to stop thinking so hard. Everything she wanted would come, after she had her byline. First, she had to prove herself as a competent and successful writer to her family. It was a matter of professional and personal honor.
“We’re looking for love, not sexy interludes,” Charlie said, an idea sparking in her mind. “Sexy interludes. But. Fine. Okay. Got it.” She placed her palms flat on the table and stood. “If we’re really looking for the perfect place to find love, why not a cruise ship? It’s textbook romance. What about one designated for singles? Passengers board with an agenda. Just think how much fun we’ll have writing about a cruise, Kathryn.”
“Nope. There is no ‘we.’ You can sail away on a Love Boat, and Kathryn will fly off and take her chances in Paris,” Paul announced. Kathryn tried to argue he reverse the assignments because she was nervous about running into a past fling, but thankfully he didn’t budge. Charlie got the cruise. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. She didn’t need the added stress of flying if she was going to concentrate on her feature.
“Good,” Paul said. “Time for you ladies to bring out the claws and get down to work. You each have your assignment. Your expense accounts will be adjusted and ready to go by noon. See Justin for the details. Get me your stories by next Wednesday. I’ll decide which one gets published in the Valentine’s issue.”
“On what criteria will the winner be chosen?” Kathryn asked.
“Whatever I want,” he said with a devilish grin. “I’m the boss.”
* * *
Two thousand dollars was more than enough money for roundtrip bus or train fare and a reservation on Lovers Sail Tours. Just over a day on the bus, then she’d sail out from Miami on Thursday. Then off to romantic Cozumel. Add the singles on board and she was sure to get enough material for a winning feature.
Charlie reserved an inside cabin on the sixth deck and booked an excursion port. Lovers Sail recommended the “romantic” experiences, and was even willing to pair them up if needed. Partners would be determined once on board.
Clearing her immediate departure from the office with Paul, Charlie went home to pack.
* * *
With her expandable carry-on-size suitcase and leather backpack ready by the door, Charlie grabbed her cell and called for dinner. She ordered shrimp pad Thai, red curry beef, and two orders of the crab Rangoon appetizer, hanging up just as the front door crashed open.
“Charlie, I’m home,” Kathryn called, her forehead wrinkling as she took in the packed bags.
“Aowww.” Charlie pretended to rush and hide the luggage in the closet. Relieving her friend of the large brown bag, she peaked inside and squealed. “Fuck-me boots! Way to go, babe.”
“Got you something, too.” Her friend dangled a smaller bag, stuffed with tissue paper, and dropped onto the couch. Kathryn patted the cushion at her side.
Charlie sat and clasped her hands between her knees. She watched her roommate pluck tissue after tissue from the bag and fling them extravagantly over her shoulder. Amused with Katherine’s stripper imitation, Charlie covered her mouth with her hand and made her eyes extra big with excitement. “Should I blush before or after the big reveal?”
“I’m sure you blushed enough while you were packing,” Kathryn said, pulling out a package of batteries and waving them in the air.
Charlie burst out laughing and grabbed the batteries. “Thank you. These are much appreciated and will be put to good use.”
“I hope not,” Kathryn said, lifting a red lace thong from the bag. “I think you should get more use out of these.” Next came the black lace and, lastly, the silk.
“You’re too much,” Charlie said. “You do know this is a work trip?”
“So what?” Kathryn replied, shaking her head. “A good reporter explores all avenues. All. Figured you could wear the granny panties the first night, but you’ll need these for the next three.”
Kathryn had assumed correctly. She had packed nothing but cotton underwear. Shaking her head, she stood and reached for the new lingerie. “For your information, I don’t wear granny panties. They’re cotton bikini panties. Practical. Pretty and sexy, too.”
“Sure. If you’re in high school.” Kathryn scrunched her nose. “I take that back. Have you seen what those girls wear?”
“These are adorable,” Charlie said. “Thank you.” She walked the few steps to her suitcase and folded the new underwear into the outside pocket.
“Wait. One more thing,” Kathryn said, dangling a skimpy pink string bikini from her fingers as she walked toward closet. “Pack this.”
“No way,” Charlie protested, sliding palms over hips. “Have you seen these?”
“I certainly have. You have a rockin’ bod. You’re not covering it with that stuffy one-piece you’ve had forever.” She fit the bikini into the same pocket Charlie had placed the underwear in, then propped one hand on her hip and held out the other. “Give me that fugly suit.”
“I like my fugly suit,” Charlie replied, laughing and waving a dismissive hand through the air. The intercom buzzed. “Saved by food delivery. If you want dinner, you’d best be nice to me.”
“I am nice,” Kathryn insisted. “Didn’t I just give you a sexy bikini and killer panties? Do I need to deliver a ripped man to your bed?”
“That would work,” Charlie answered, plucking a five from her wallet for a tip and sashaying to the door.
Once they’d devoured the appetizers, finished half of each entrée, and switched dinners, Charlie confessed to packing mostly conservative outfits.
“My cruise-appropriate clothing is pre-divorce,” she explained. “They’re a little traditional, considering my mother had a hand in selecting my honeymoon trousseau, but it’s fine. I’m not cruising as a participant. I’m cruising as a professional observer.”
“Seriously? You packed those clothes?” Kathryn placed the red curry beef on the coffee table and stood. She disappeared into the bedroom, clearly on a mission, leaving Charlie cringing on the couch from the noise of the massive storage bins being dragged out of the closet.
“I can’t fit into your clothes,” Charlie called, imagining her friend tossing short and skimpy dresses over her shoulder. “Don’t bother. Even if I could get your miniskirts over my hips, they’d reach my knees.”
“I’ll admit we have different shapes. You’re blessed with knockout curves, I have more height, but we’re almost the same size,” Kathryn said, emerging with her arms full of casual, bright-colored clothes.
“They still have tags on them,” Charlie said.
“I picked them off the clearance racks at the end of the season and have
n’t had a chance to wear them yet.” Kathryn held up a neon-green tank top that said something about giving her coffee before speaking. “These will help with getting people to talk openly with you. They invite conversation.” She placed a pink one over her chest. It read, Ask Me. “If being a non-intimidating professional is your goal, these will work in a casual setting. You could wear them by the pool bar.”
“Yes,” Charlie conceded, reaching for the tanks. “They’re good, non-intimidating, and cute. If you don’t mind me being the first to wear them, I’ll take them.”
“I don’t mind,” Kathryn replied, holding the bright-colored shirts high. “On the condition that you agree to take these dresses with you.” She held up a barely there little black number. The plunging halter matched the nonexistent back, which matched the tiny skirt.
“That’s not enough material to cover my hips.” Charlie held up a hand in protest. “Even if I’m five inches shorter than you, it’s barely going to reach past my underwear.”
“Don’t wear any.” Kat handed her the items in order. Colorful tanks. Miniskirts. Skimpy and fun sun dresses.
Letting out a long sigh, Charlie stuffed them in her case and returned to the couch. “You need to look at it from my point of view, Kat. This assignment means something different to me than it does to you.”
“What are you talking about?” Her friend gave her a sobering look and sat beside her. “It means a byline to me and to you. We’ve worked hard for our own features. Plus, it’s an opportunity to break out of our loveless ruts.”
“Kind of.” Charlie reached for the e-cig and took a long drag. “I’ll admit that what you’re saying is mostly on target. However, there’s never been a doubt in your ability to make it as a writer. Your parents supported your career goals—maybe not financially so much, because they couldn’t, but they always cheered you on. Paul hired you because he knew you were a capable writer. He had proof from your school days.” She puffed on the pink stick and chased the vanilla-scented vapor with a waving hand.
“You’re a great writer,” Kathryn insisted.
“Thank you,” Charlie said, folding her hands between her knees. “I like to believe that, but my family doesn’t. According to them, the only reason for me to attend Columbia Journalism School was to find the right husband, which I recklessly overlooked during my undergraduate education. I was there for my M-R-S degree.”
“You are so much more than pretty wifey material,” Kathryn said, her pitch a bit higher than typical. “You’re such a talented writer, not to mention someone that I would always want at my side. Dependable, smart, hardworking, stable—”
“It doesn’t matter. None of that matters to my family. From the time I was in sixth grade, my parents made my life’s ambition very clear. My only job was to find the proper husband I was bred for, blend the families, and bow my head as he grew my inheritance.” Her shoulders dropped in defeat, but her determination rose in opposition. “I can grow my own fortune. I don’t need an inheritance and a man to validate me.”
“You don’t touch your trust account.”
“No. I don’t,” Charlie agreed. “There are too many conditions and repercussions. I don’t want to be played like a marionette. I’d rather live within the means I earn.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about how this week will make a difference.” Kathryn covered Charlie’s hand and squeezed in support. “I’m here for you. Let’s brainstorm the best avenues to proving that you are more than a pretty face.”
Relief and gratitude flooded Charlie. She was so lucky to have a friend who believed in her. “I’m going back to the basics. Starting with the five W’s every investigative reporter asks. Who, what, when, where, why . . . I’m going forward with my intentions from the moment I embark. I’m going to interview all of my fellow passengers that are willing to share.”
“Don’t forget the how,” Kathryn added, folding her feet under her bum. “I got it. Let’s brainstorm all your key questions over a bottle of wine. That way, you’re guaranteed not to miss anything you could use.”
“Can’t,” Charlie said, checking the time on her phone. “I need to get to the Port Authority. My bus leaves in a little over an hour.”
“Bus?” Kat shrieked. “Are you out of your mind? That’s going to take forever.”
“Twenty-six hours, to be exact. The same amount of time you’ll have on the ground in Paris.” Charlie winked and stood. She carried the dinner containers to the kitchen and set them on the counter. “If I take a flight, I’ll arrive totally wrecked and the first two days of the cruise will be ruined. I hate flying and need loads of meds to get my butt on a plane. It would take a huge toll on my body. I’ll bus it.”
Shaking her head, Kat gazed at the floor. “You’re going to regret getting stuck—wait!” She looked up, excitement playing in her eyes.
Charlie looked at her friend, wondering what exactly the massive brainstorm was. “You know I’m on a tight schedule, right?”
“I got it,” Kat said, holding an index finger in the air. “I have twenty-six hours in Paris. You have twenty-six hours on the bus. So you need twenty-six interview questions for the cruisers.” She clasped her hands together and rolled her shoulders. “Trust me. It’s our lucky number. Twenty-six! Everything twenty-six.”
“Okay. If you insist.” Charlie stretched up and wrapped her arms around Kat’s shoulders. “I really have to go. I’ll work on the questions while someone else drives. You never know who may be on that bus.”
“You never know,” Kat agreed.
About the Author
Demi Alex writes steamy romances, blending emotional fulfillments of the heart and carnal desires in her work. Born in Athens, Greece, and raised in her own version of a big fat Greek life in New York, Demi was infected with book and travel bugs early, and currently admits the only therapy for this condition is to combine the two in fictional stories that allow her characters to let loose and experience all they crave. She attended SUNY at Stony Brook, and after changing her major numerous times, graduated with a degree in public policy and international studies. Her characters are loosely inspired by people she encounters while she travels or during the time she spends matching homes to owners as a Realtor. She simply has a passion for matchmaking that can’t be put to rest. Readers can visit her online at www.demialex.com, on Facebook, and at @DemiAlex2U on Twitter.