As they headed back down to Maureen’s suite, they passed through a large, open kitchen. It was spotless, even though Maureen knew Joe had just been in here cooking a feast for her lunch.
“Where’s Joe from?” Maureen had asked Ginny, almost running now as the tour wound down.
“Haiti,” said Ginny. “He’s worked here for five years since the first sailing. His wife and kids are back in Haiti. He’s like Uncle Steve’s best friend.”
“Uncle Steve?”
“Oh, sorry, I meant First Mate Stephen Caldwell.” She rolled her eyes again as she pushed open the door to what must have been Maureen’s suite, but which looked like a suite at the Plaza.
As if I have any idea what a suite at the Plaza looks like, Maureen thought.
“Stephen is your uncle?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Fortunately, he did get me out of a summer of waiting tables at Daddy’s country club. Although, why having my hands constantly in a bucket of water is better than having my hands burned by hot plates of crap food is a better choice, I don’t know. I didn’t know—obviously.”
So, Ginny didn't like Stephen. Well, that's what you got for being so grumpy, she thought. Wait, why was this guy, Stephen, even taking up a moment in her head? She turned to Ginny and changed the subject. “So… Brad. When do you expect him to be back?”
Maureen wouldn't have believed Ginny could get even more pissed off than she already was, but she did. “He isn’t around the boat much, and when he’s here, he’s very busy with work. How do you know him, again?”
“Oh,” Maureen blushed, “I don’t, really. We have mutual friends. He invited me to come along when we met at dinner last week.”
“You just met last week?” She nodded. “Hmm,” Ginny said, before turning on her heel and leaving.
Now, as Maureen stood in front of the mirror, she considered Ginny’s attitude. Was she allowed to talk to guests the way she had talked to her? How would she know? Captain Don had assured her they were all here to serve her, but since she had never had anyone serving her, she wasn’t quite sure what that meant. She vowed to avoid Ginny as much as she could. She just made her nervous.
Captain Don had been very attentive and concerned. Joe and the deckhands, excluding Ginny, had been lovely. Stephen had remained as grumpy as he had been on their drive from the airport, and the last man, Marshall Brook, who had introduced himself as the junior captain, terrified her. He had the sternest face she had ever seen: his dark, wolf eyes had peered from beneath huge, bushy eyebrows. She wasn’t sure he had a mouth—his perfectly groomed beard just wiggled when he spoke—and she never caught a glimpse of lips or teeth. An angry wolf, then—he looked like an angry wolf.
Stephen had stopped in a few minutes ago, and she had managed to embarrass herself yet again because she had no clue how to act in this new role as girl on a yacht. Surprisingly, although he had snapped at her earlier, he had been quite nice the second time. As he apologized for snapping at her, she watched his entire face change from pinched and stressed to open and kind. If she had been Sally, she would have told him that, if he wasn't such a grump, he would be a real hottie. She wasn't Sally, though. Sally would've taken this whole situation in hand, already, and would probably have been hosting a dinner party tonight with new acquaintances she had just picked up off the street.
Just as she was considering lying down for a nap to escape her stress, she heard a commotion from above, footsteps, and then a brisk knock on her door. Ginny poked her head inside, and Maureen was surprised to see a bright smile on her face.
“Brad’s here!” she trilled and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.
Maureen took another look in the mirror and shook her head at her reflection. She wasn’t ready for this. Okay, remember the article. Remember what worked. Make eye contact, make physical contact, and be interested. She splashed water on her face, stood as tall as she could, and made a vow: Never let Brad see the Mouse. Always be Magnificent Mo in his presence.
It had to work.
22
Past Life
Now he was super pissed. He had just lay down to cure his thumping head with a nice, long nap, when there was a brisk knock on the door. Before he could answer, it swung open and Ginny poked her body into the cabin. She was flushed pink and had a grin on her face.
“Brad’s back!” She ran her free hand through her hair and tucked the fancy extensions behind her ear.
He knew they were extensions, because he had sat through a boring conversation with his sister about the very subject. Apparently, Ginny had made a terrible, horrible life-altering mistake when she went for the trendy bob that all of her friends were getting. Although she had been so brave to try the bob, his sister was going to fork out five hundred bucks for extensions to “make her comfortable.” He’d suffered through this dismal conversation at a cocktail party at Sara’s house, unable to escape because Lulu had been in the other room with her new husband. He hadn't known she had been invited until he arrived at the party, and he had been furious with Sara for not giving him a warning.
“What was I supposed to do? She’s my sister-in-law,” Sara had whined when he’d told her he was leaving.
A thundercloud of memories rolled in with the thought of his ex-wife, and he shook his head violently to clear them. Ginny was still standing there.
“And…” he said, motioning for her to continue.
“And… nothing. Don’t you think you should be out there? You are first mate, you know.”
“I know I’m first mate, Ginny, but that doesn’t mean I have to be around all the time.” It was too late now, anyway—there was no way he would be able to sleep. He supposed he had better get out there and do as he was told. “Get out of here. I’ll be right there.”
After she slammed his door, Stephen got out of bed, struggling with his covers and feeling that familiar grip of frustration overwhelming him once again. Would he ever feel normal? It had been two years since his entire world had come crashing down around him. At first, he had tried to smother his anger and pain by working, but the problem with working at his other job, was that he had to be around Paul all the time. Being in such close proximity to his ex-best friend had crushed his soul, so he had taken to working from home. That had been an even bigger mistake, though. Alone with his thoughts, regrets, and self-recrimination, he had started swirling downward into a pit of self-pity and abject despair.
It was Don who had saved him. He’d been his roommate at Stanford. A well-traveled, sophisticated, trust fund genius. Stephen had been a scholarship kid from Michigan with a mind built for coding and a heart craving adventure. They had hit it off instantly.
When Don introduced Stephen to his boarding school buddy, Paul, who was also a code head, exciting things had happened. They had both dropped out of school to launch their new app company, which, thanks to an addictive game Stephen had been imagining since he was eighteen, got funded by some angel investors. Stephen had then met Lulu at his sister’s wedding, and it had felt like the universe was magic, conjuring every dream he’d ever had and laying them gently at his feet. That was, until two years ago.
Stephen pulled his crisp, white polo off the hanger and pulled it over his head.
This job had been Don’s idea. “Come on Stephen,” he had begged, “you need this. You need to get away from California, get your mind off things, and have an adventure. We can do it together. I miss you, buddy, and I can’t leave you here on your own. I don’t trust where I see this going.”
Stephen had agreed in the end. To be honest, he wasn't working much anymore, anyway, and that had scared him more than anything. For the first year, the company and his need to create had been the rock to which he had clung, knowing it would keep his head above the raging waters of his anger. Even that creative spark and desire had faded, though.
Once the app had been developed and the investor funding had come through, they’d hired a gaggle of smart, hungry millennials. At first, they’d l
ooked to Stephen as a kind of father figure, but once he had disappeared from the office, he had seemed to disappear from their awareness, as well. Stephen had found that it was incredibly easy to let go of his rock and slip slowly under the waves, and then one day, Don had called him for their weekly chat, only this time he wasn't calling from a job in some exotic locale, but from Stephen's doorstep.
Now here he was, about to go out to the deck to kiss the ass of a rich, obnoxious kid and watch him greet his weird, little, shy mistress. At least he had that mystery to occupy his thoughts. Who was this girl, Maureen? He felt that unfamiliar tug in his gut again when he pictured her soft, brown eyes and easy blush. Maybe he should avoid her.
23
Mo
Maureen took a few minutes to make sure she was as put together as she had been on the first night she had met her angel. It took an awful lot of concealer for the dark circles she had acquired on the plane and a sneaky sip from a miniature bottle of vodka she found in the minibar, but she deemed herself ready.
She gripped the shiny, brass door handle to exit the quiet suite and imagined slipping on the Mo persona, like sliding a new dress over her head. Shoulders back, boobs out, she thought. Be confident, relaxed, and funny. I am Magnificent Mo. She strode toward the back deck with purpose.
Brad lounged on the thick, comfy cushions, as though he owned the joint. Whose boat was this, anyway? She made a note to ask him about the friend who had lent him this piece of heaven. Hopefully, it wasn’t a woman. His right arm was thrown across the back of the wicker couch and the left held a phone to his ear. She couldn't help comparing that slim, tanned arm to her glimpse of the bulging biceps of the mysterious Stephen earlier that day. Regardless, Brad looked delicious.
His green eyes flashed as he winked at Ginny, who was flitting around him to top up his glass of champagne. Apart from the wink, Brad was essentially disinterested in Ginny's presence. That meant his phone call must be important, because if Maureen was being honest, Ginny was gorgeous and she knew it.
She felt her Mo persona wilting a little. How could she possibly compete with Ginny? She had it all: youth, confidence, and hair to die for. She felt her own crazed curls bouncing around her head like many a Slinky on her sweaty neck and tried to smooth them down. Ginny’s long, blond locks swung in a mirrored sheet across her back, as if she were currently starring in a chewing gum commercial.
Mo had deserted her and Maureen was just about to give up, go inside, and pack her things when Brad noticed her. He held up a finger, pointed to the phone in his ear, and then motioned her over as he grabbed a champagne flute and started pouring her a drink. Ginny’s dark glance in her direction gave her just enough mojo to grab at her swiftly retreating Mo persona and reel her back in. I need you now, honey! She lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and sashayed toward Brad, swinging her hips just like she had practiced.
“Okay, Walter, I’m sorry I have to go, but remember that distraction I told you about?” He paused and then laughed at the response, “No, I'm still working on that project. Cross your fingers. Anyway, this guest has just arrived, so allow me to greet her and I will speak to you later tonight about the deal.” He paused and laughed again. “Yes, it is a beautiful painting, Walter. You just keep it in your head and we’ll have you taken care of before you know it.”
Brad stood, smiling at Maureen distractedly. She couldn't help the kick of disappointment in her gut when he reached out for a handshake, but she felt a bit better when he squeezed her hand and gave her a quick smile.
"Welcome to the Lauren Belle. Please, have a seat." Brad reached over to hand her the champagne he had just poured. Even though she was exploding with nerves, she forced herself to let her fingers linger on his as the glass moved between them. He rewarded her with another smile.
“So, how was your flight?” He settled back into the couch and gave her the once-over. His face was blank and bored, so she couldn’t tell if she had passed muster. Don’t dwell on it, Maureen. Plow forward!
“My flight was just perfect, thank you,” she gulped down some very expensive liquid courage and steeled herself for her big move, “but the arrival is even better.” She put a hand on his knee and felt the heat through his gray, linen trousers.
He looked at her, his raised eyebrows wiping away his mask of boredom, and she chickened out, lifting her hand from his knee quickly and waving it in the air for a few seconds before realizing she had better do something with it. She stopped the fluttering, stared at her hand now hanging in midair like a dying wave, and then used it to smooth her hair down, pretending that had been her intention from the start. Great, she thought, my best interpretative representation of a drunk butterfly.
Brad gave her confused look, but then seemed to recover. “Is your cabin acceptable?” He reached over and pulled the dripping bottle of champagne from the ice bucket to top up both of their glasses. Maureen was surprised to see hers had been empty. She vowed to slow down before she found herself engaged in full-on interpretative dancing across the deck. She imagined Brad calling his friend, Walter, later today and saying, "Most girls I meet fall into nervous laughter or nervous talking, but this one is a nervous dancer." Now she had to get this picture of her floating around the back deck in a bikini and a huge rainbow scarf, arms waving, out of her head.
“Oh, it’s lovely! I love how they make these suites so spacious. It’s almost as roomy as my last gorgeous room at the Plaza.” Now, why did she say that? She was about to giggle and pretend she was joking, but Brad brightened noticeably.
“Ah, the Plaza,” he checked his watch and sipped his champagne, “such a timeless elegance, don’t you think?” She flushed and nodded, and he seemed to go still for a minute and examine her carefully. She blushed under his gaze. “Glad to hear you have such good taste, Mo. Are you in New York often?”
Maureen’s trips to the city had been limited to school trips to Broadway, a trip with her parents to see the Radio City Christmas Special, and a disastrous work night out. She had driven in with a member of the Bitch Clique who had then proceeded to get so drunk that she’d decided to stay the night with a dodgy, tattooed guy who had bought her a drink in the final bar of the long, boring, bitchy evening.
She had found herself on the A train going in the wrong direction and was all the way down to Fulton Street before she realized her error, which meant a thirty-minute ride back up to Port Authority. Maureen had discovered that Port Authority at 11:45 pm was not a desirable location in which to find yourself. She had spent a scary ten minutes waiting for the last bus out to Jersey under the gaze of a homeless woman muttering to herself about flying cheese and knife attacks.
When Claire and Sally had begged her to move to Hoboken from her hometown of Kendall Park, she had felt incredibly brave and cosmopolitan. She had fallen madly in love with Hoboken and decided it was about as much city as she could handle, thank you very much.
Magnificent Mo would be a city girl, though—no question. She took a deep breath and another drink. “Oh, I absolutely adore the city! I try to go at least one weekend a month. I have to be in Jersey for my work, but I would much rather be in the city.”
Brad gave her a huge grin. “Me too! I travel quite frequently now, with my work, but my dream is to have a kick-ass penthouse above a gallery somewhere in the West Village. I love what Tod’s done with his space, but Hoboken, seriously? You’re a five-minute drive from the greatest city in the world!”
“Exactly,” Maureen felt empowered by that grin, so she moved her hand to his knee again. This time, Mo was in charge, and she left that hand where it was. “Would you like to live in New York permanently?”
Brad shook his head, “My work would never allow me to be a full-time city guy. I need to find myself a beautiful wife, like Sally, who could hold down the fort while I travel to keep my company earning. I would reward her with luxurious trips on yachts, of course.” He smiled at Maureen and tipped his glass in her direction.
She felt both
cemented to her spot and floating ten feet above her head at the same time. It didn’t seem real that she, Mousy Maureen, could be experiencing this insanely magical moment. That’s because you aren’t Mousy Maureen, whispered a voice in her head, you are Magnificent Mo. Brad put his hand on hers. He was touching her!
“So, what do you think of the Bahamas?”
“Oh, I love the Bahamas,” Maureen said, “but does it compare to the magnificent, rocky beaches of the Mediterranean? I often consider how the two compare. The last time I was…” She stopped short. Just as she spoke, Stephen had emerged from the glass sliding doors that separated the interior of the yacht from the outdoor deck and cleared his throat loudly. Surely he had heard every word she had said, but he pointedly ignored her and headed toward Brad.
“Ah, Stevie boy!” Stephen winced as Brad stood to greet him. “I’m glad to see you are taking care of my lovely guest, here. You’ll make sure she enjoys her time with us, I hope.” Brad put down his glass and brushed bruschetta crumbs off his pants. “To that end, it’s back to work for me. I may not be back for dinner tonight, so make sure Joe feeds her well. I want to her to have the best of everything.”
Maureen jumped up from the couch in surprise. “You’re leaving? You just got here.”
“Sorry, work responsibilities call. Wealthy people don’t collect art during business hours, you know—they are too busy raking in the dough. I have a few people to visit in Lyford Cay, and it’s a long drive from here on these roads. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow for sure.” Brad patted her shoulder. "How's Nandita, by the way?"
Unstoppable: A Sweet Romance (Jersey Girls Book 2) Page 8