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)
Sienna picks hers up and meets my gaze with a mischievous smile.
“To new mates.”
I smile and clink my glass with hers. “To new mates.”
Just before I tip it back, I add, “Why does this feel so ominous?”
She laughs and shakes her head after downing her shot. “Don’t worry. This’ll be the easiest ten days of work ever. Now, should we mingle? Or take pics? I need to get some content. Help a girl out?”
I expect her to shove her phone in my hand while she poses, directing my every move, trying for the best lighting, best angle. I can see it now. I’ll be playing the part of her begrudging Instagram husband for the remainder of our trip. But instead, she turns the tables on me. With her camera in selfie mode, she presses her face up against mine so that we’re cheek to cheek and smiles for the camera. I can’t help but do the same.
We look cute.
Better than cute, actually.
Our features complement each other. My rich brown hair seems all the more alluring next to her bright-blonde shade, and though my eyes are deep blue while hers are pale green, we’re both tan and happy and smiling. We look beautiful and carefree. We could be an advertisement for summer.
Well, false advertising.
I’m anything but carefree.
Now that I’m here, it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. I have to find Phillip Woodmont.
Sienna turns her attention to her phone and starts typing a million miles a minute. “What’s your handle? I’ll tag you.”
“I don’t have one.”
Her wide eyes fly up to me. “Oh wow. You really weren’t kidding about not being on social media. How do you survive?”
“I manage . . . somehow.”
I’m distracted. Already, I’m looking around the room, searching for Phillip. I’d prefer to avoid him at all costs, but I don’t have the luxury. Not if I want to complete my assignment for Bon Voyage.
To earn my exclusive ticket aboard Aurelia’s maiden voyage, I’ve been tasked with writing a comprehensive review of the ship and all its offered amenities. I’ll need to create teasers and sidebars, bite-size content they can share online and in the magazine. Most importantly of all, though, the real reason I’m specifically here on the ship is because Bon Voyage wants an exclusive interview with Phillip Woodmont himself.
And I promised I could get it.
That was my big bad crime.
I completely lied at the all-staff meeting last month. It sort of just happened. I was in the back of the room, leaning up against the wall, trying to keep my personal life together while I tuned out the people around me. My phone was buzzing in my pocket, but I was too scared to check it. No one good had called me in months. Every time I answered, it was a new problem. My life had become so complicated that I was relieved every time an unknown number turned out to be a good old-fashioned scam call; a Nigerian prince asking me to wire him money was the least of my problems since my grandmother had passed away.
I’d been so focused on my phone’s incessant vibrating, counting the rings, that I’d missed the first half of the discussion about Aurelia.
Gwen Levis, my boss and the editor in chief at Bon Voyage, sat at the head of the conference table with her oat milk latte and her Hermès scarf knotted around her neck, her cool white-blonde bob and her vintage glasses. She started giving details about the trip, and it seemed like a done deal that the assignment would be handed off to Gabriel Rousteing, the most seasoned writer at Bon Voyage and a bit of a celebrity within our niche world of travel journalism.
I held back an eye roll. What did Gabriel need with another illustrious assignment? He wasn’t at the meeting! He wasn’t even in the country! He was in Dubai, covering a food-and-wine festival and partying with Bono. I mean, honestly . . .
I was bitter about it, already starting my private pity party, when Gwen mentioned the possibility of trying something slightly different and moving beyond our standard coverage of the cruise. She wanted an exclusive with Phillip Woodmont.
The moment she said the name, it felt like someone sent a thousand volts of electricity through me. Phillip Woodmont?
It couldn’t be.
She answered my question for me.
“Phillip is heir to one of the United States’ oldest shipping dynasties. He moves in exclusive social circles, and he’s notoriously tight lipped when it comes to speaking to the press. It’s why most of you have never even heard of him. I’m desperate to change that. Our readers would devour an exclusive. I want to cover—”
“The man behind the mast.”
She looked up, confused about who’d spoken. Fair, given the fact that I don’t think I’d said a single word in the last thirty consecutive all-staff meetings. I might as well have been part of the wallpaper, an inanimate object people confused for furniture. Oh, sorry, Casey, didn’t mean to set my coffee down on you.