Page 2 of Caribbean Crush

“Blimey. Everything okay over there?”

My eyes fly open, and my head whips around as I search for the voice.

I look up to the balcony above mine, but there’s no one leaning over trying to talk to me. Then I check the balcony below mine to find it’s empty too. I look to the left ... and just when I start to worry the voice was in my head—that on top of everything else, I’m now hallucinating posh British accents—I turn to the right and see her. My neighbor, one balcony over.

She smiles like she’s a little wary of me. That’s fair. I can’t imagine what I look like right now. There’s no telling what this humidity has done to my already unruly hair.

It doesn’t seem to have affected her the same way, though. Her glossy blonde strands look to be at her beck and call. She’s likely just come from a salon, where they’ve added a little curl to her blowout, making it shiny and neat.

“You look a little peaked.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Are you seasick?”

“Uh, yeah ...,” I mutter, deciding that’s the best route forward. It’d be too complicated to get her up to speed on everything else. We’d be out here all morning. I’d get a sunburn.

“I have some Dramamine. Hold on.”

She disappears into her suite before I can tell her there’s no need. It won’t cure my real ailment.

I lean over and call out to her (“Uh ... lady?”)—trying to get her attention, to no avail—then I jump out of my skin when there’s a knock on my suite’s door.

“It’s me!” she says on the other side.

“What . . . ?”

Do I just—

Let her in?

I look around as if someone’s going to give me the answer.

In normal life, I would never let a veritable stranger into my home, but cruise ships don’t abide by standard rules. This ship doesn’t function like an apartment building so much as a jail or, better yet, an insane asylum. I’ve heard cruise mates bond fast, that relationships form overnight. Everything takes on a heightened importance. Maybe because we’ll all be a little dehydrated (from the heat) and a little drunk (from the free booze).

The woman knocks again, and I’m forced to abandon the balcony. I rush to the door, with the intention of accepting whatever she’s offering and then quickly shooing her away so I can continue my downward spiral. The Lamaze breathing did seem to be helping slightly ...

Instead, once I open the door, she waltzes past me like I’ve invited her in. A waft of her floral perfume tickles my nose as she slips across the foyer. She peruses the place, getting the lay of the land, dipping her head around the corner into the bedroom. I’m left speechless, staring back and forth between her and the open door leading back out into the ship’s hallway.

I know I’m emitting heavy doses of kindly-get-the-hell-out vibes, but she’s unbothered. She sets the small box of medicine beside the espresso machine on the long buffet and continues her perusal of my suite, with a whistle of appreciation.

“So then we’ve all got fancy digs. I was wondering about that. I think every suite on this floor is as big as an entire London flat. What do we need with a sitting room all to ourselves? And that balcony could host a whole bloody football team!” She whirls around to face me again. “Have you taken a look at your vanity in the little changing room outside the loo? All La Mer products.” Her green eyes widen with excitement. “Full-sized ones too. Not those dinky travel samples. I’ve already nicked mine and stowed them. With any luck, the cleaners will take pity on me and gift me replacements.”

I look to my bedroom door. The sleek paneling, the crystal knob.

“I had no idea,” I tell her. “I haven’t made it that far yet.”

I sound dumbstruck, or maybe just dumb. I’m still playing catch-up.

When I arrived at the dock this morning, I was a half hour late, and it took me another twenty minutes in the blazing heat to find where exactly I was supposed to board the ship.

“This entrance is for staff only.”

“Provisions unload here, dear; you need to head back that way.”

“Oh, sorry, you’ve gone too far.”

I was already sweating and anxious when I found the short line of invited press waiting to be checked in. Of course it annoyed me further that everyone else seemed to look as though they belonged. No nervous newbies in the bunch, just a bunch of old classmates and friends. Yay! Men clapped each other on the shoulders. Women smiled with ease. At the top of the gangway—just as a bead of sweat rolled down my chest beneath my bra—I was greeted by a dozen uniformed staff all in a line. A cheery blonde woman promptly stepped forward to greet me by name.

She introduced herself as Ingrid, and she explained she would serve as my butler for the duration of our ten-day cruise.

“Now, Ms. Hughes, if you’ll follow me, I’ll lead the way to your suite.” Ingrid’s accent was clipped and formal with a hint of what I suspected to be Scandinavian roots. “Jacques here will take care of your luggage.”

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