Page 14 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“That’s—” I swallow thickly. “That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is!”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
Sliding off the seat to stand, I want to tell himhe’sthe asshole, but all I can manage is “I’ll see you around.”
After I leaveRiley to wallow in his misery—or to pick on some other poor passenger—I explore the ship, book some shore excursions, and sign up to do a behind-the-scenes tour. It’s a first come, first served basis, and despite Riley being an inconsiderate jerk in the bar, I sign him up for the tour as well. He could’ve refused outright to share the cabin, potentially forcing me off the ship, but he didn’t, and I can’t ignore that.
The app has both of our accounts listed for the same cabin, which I suppose would be super convenient for a family or friends who want to book things to do together. I mean it’s convenient for me to book him on the tour too, so I can’t complain. Plus, he seems the type who’d enjoy the tour and would be disappointed he missed out because he chose to get drunk instead of seizing the opportunity. If I’m wrong, he can cancel and offer his spot to someone else. No harm done. Especially since I scored us unlimited excursions at no extra cost.
A mild breeze whisps across my face as two glass doors part, allowing me to step outside onto the fourteenth deck. Island-themed music blasts from speakers surrounding the pool, kids excitedly chase one another, and parents relax on sun lounges, brightly colored cocktails in hand. I weave in and out of the chaos and take a seat under the shade of a cabana, when I’m instantly approached by a waitress.
“Can I get you a drink, ma’am?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
She nods and moves on to the next passenger until someone accepts her offer, so I set my bag down and take out my laptop, when another waiter approaches.
“Can I get you a drink, ma’am?”
Holy alcoholism!Do they want everyone drunk on this cruise?
Feeling obligated to say yes, I order a Cosmopolitan, hoping it will deter any more waiters from bothering me when they see it on my table. We’re due to set sail at any moment, and since the Wi-Fi connection is strong while we’re still in port, I need to check my emails. Georgia hasn’t texted or called, which is unusual, given her penchant to dismiss personal time and space, so when I open my laptop and find a message from her flaggedUrgent, I’m not at all surprised.
Of course, it’s urgent. Everything to do with her is urgent.
Slumping back in my seat, I click on it to find two attached manuscripts with a request for me to give them a “quick read-through” while I’m gone.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I spit out, glaring at the screen.
It all makes sense now. The Wicked Witch of the East has already given me two submissions to read through, hence why she was atypically accommodating of my leave. But it turns out she plans to work me just as hard, whether I’m in the office or not.
Stabbing my finger on the touchpad, I open the first attachment, taking note of the word count.
One hundred and thirty-eight thousand words?
“Peanut butter!” I curse under my breath, already fearing that pacing will be an issue.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?”
Blinking, I snap my attention to the waiter standing beside me, serving tray in hand, my Cosmo balanced on top of it. “Pardon?”
“You said peanut butter. Did you want that cocktail instead?”
“No, no.” I swish my hand at him. “I’m just cussing,” I explain.
Momma hated the F-word, so she taught me to swap “motherfucker” for “peanut butter.”
“Wait a minute! There’s a peanut butter cocktail?” I ask.
“Yes.”
My tummy twirls with excitement as I stare at him in awe at the possibility.
“Would you like one, ma’am?” he prompts.
