Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“So then what was she after?”
“She wanted to interview me, and I declined.”
He hums like he finds this particularly interesting.
I feel like I have no choice but to defend myself. “Every minute of my time during this cruise is accounted for. I think I’ll be giving enough of myself as it is.”
“Ah . . . and so you were telling her that—turning down an interview request with someone you invited on the ship for interviews—while actively checking her out?”
Instead of engaging, I turn my head to the side and address the captain. “Captain Neal, remind me of the maritime laws for murder in international waters?”
“Christ,” he curses. “Don’t bring me into this.”
Chapter Five
CASEY
Well . . . that went badly. I’m kind of shocked, actually. I supposed there could be some awkwardness between us if Phillip happened to remember who I was, but I was able to delude myself into thinking that was impossible. With everything he’s done since we last met—all the places he’s traveled, all the people he’s met—a lowly eighth-grade girl surely pales in comparison.
Well, lesson learned.
He not only remembers me, but he’s also still angry with me. Oh, I wish I’d never sabotaged his team!
I’m summarizing all this into a neat little paragraph in a Word document. It’s not what I’m supposed to be working on. My fingers should be flying a mile a minute on all sorts of exciting descriptions about my tour of Aurelia. I’m supposed to outline the various spa packages and the dining experiences—everything I just learned, everything that could fly out of my brain if I don’t carefully jot it down. I should not be fixating on my encounter with Phillip Woodmont.
What is Aurelia compared to its owner?
Its enigmatic, haughty, ARROGANT owner.
Phillip Woodmont is just as proud and spiteful as you would expect for someone in his position. I can’t get over how much he’s changed. Oh sure, he’s handsome. Aren’t they always? His good looks are probably a gift from the devil in exchange for the souls of a thousand suffering children or something equally horrible. How blasé. How CLICHÉ to be handsome when you also rule the world.
His suit was custom. His neat black glasses were probably designer too. His watch was expensive and heavy and actually very ostentatious. I can’t believe he has the nerve to walk around with something worth that much casually draped across his wrist when there are starving people in the world!
What else . . . ?
What else!
His hair! Oh god, the money he probably spends on haircuts.
The vanity of it all.
The blinking cursor taunts me. An entire blank page waiting to be filled with every detail of the tour I just completed with Ms. Patel. Instead, I can only focus on Phillip.
Dammit.
I push away from the desk in my suite and look around at all the pristine furnishings—luxurious jewel tones on the lamps and light fixtures, compelling artworks, subtle wallpaper, inviting furniture, and lots of natural light pouring in through the large windows.
My bags are still packed and sitting neatly by the door. I didn’t have time to unload everything before heading to the observation lounge earlier this afternoon. For one fleeting second, I contemplate leaving, but I can’t. I also contemplate working around my promise to Gwen. I could save face and give up on the interview with Phillip and just turn in a detailed report of my time aboard Aurelia. It’s tempting to throw in the towel, cobble together the last scraps of my dignity, and leave the Phillip issue well enough alone.
He doesn’t want to give me an interview. In any other circumstance, I’d accept that.
But not now.
The stakes are too high.
Everything—and I mean everything—rides on this assignment.
There are no two ways to slice it: my life is currently . . . in shambles.
Up until last year, I lived with my grandmother. We’d always been a team. My parents were what we in the biz call degenerates. It was my grandmother who raised me, who took on the role of mom, dad, uncle, aunt, sister—you name it. She’s all I had. The strongest woman I’ve ever known.
When cancer came calling a few years ago, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that she’d succumb to it. We’re talking about a lady who at sixty years old signed up to coach my Little League team when no one else would do it. A lady who once made a mechanic start crying when he tried to swindle her into getting unnecessary work done to her Pontiac Grand Prix. A lady so caustic and sassy, everyone in our town knew not to cross her. I mean, the cojones on the woman were something else.
Still, after the cancer diagnosis, I felt like it was prudent for me to move back in with her to help out. The arrangement worked well for the both of us, actually. I’d just graduated from college and was drowning in student loans while trying to make it as a fledgling journalist. Even after I got the job with Bon Voyage, I stayed with her because I wanted to be there to drive her to appointments, to hold her hand on the bad days. Whenever she grumbled about it, I told her it was me who needed her. It wasn’t even a lie. My pittance of a salary is not nearly enough to afford a decent apartment along with all of life’s other necessities.