Page 9 of Caribbean Crush

Sienna glances over to me. “Well, go on, then.”

All of a sudden, I find it hard to move my feet. It’s like I’ve accidentally stepped in a patch of superglue. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“You can! Be brave. He wants to chat. Why else would he have invited press on board?”

She makes a good point.

Giving in to these nerves is silly. Beyond the fact that he’s invited us on board, there’s absolutely no way he will recognize me. I’m worrying over nothing. We knew each other briefly, years ago. I look like any other journalist. In fact, compared to the glitzy glam of some of the influencers in the room, I could be a veritable wallflower, easily forgettable. I’ll use that to my advantage.

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Yes, go!”

She pats me on the shoulder, and I adjust my clutch beneath my arm.

I start to walk on unsteady legs across the parquet floor in the center of the room, not because it’s the fastest route to get to him but because it’s the path of least resistance. Everyone’s hanging around the periphery of the room or mingling at the tables. The center of the room, for some reason, has turned into no-man’s-land.

I’m alone there, dead center and midstep, when Phillip strides purposefully to the edge of the parquet floor before us all as if he’d like to address the room. He doesn’t need to hush the small crowd as he slides his black-framed glasses off his face and folds them in his strong, tanned hand. We’re rendered mute at the sheer sight of him. This is not the boy I remember from my time at Fairview Prep.

I freeze, unsure of how to proceed. I should scoot back and join the others, but just like before, my legs feel like jelly, all thanks to this man.

Phillip looks out toward the crowd, his gaze sweeping across the amassed group waiting with bated breath to hear what he’s about to say. He could read through his grocery list, and we would all lean in, wanting more.

When his gaze passes over me, I swear I can feel it like a feather across my skin. My stomach squeezes tight with anticipation, but he doesn’t stall, doesn’t linger at all. I’m barely there.

I ignore the initial pang of rejection because this is what I wanted! Anonymity is better!

Though to intrigue a man like him, to catch his attention—god, what would that be like?

I need to edge back into the crowd, but it feels disrespectful, like shuffling around during the playing of the national anthem. Everyone is stock still, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I also don’t want to hover alone in the center of the room any longer either ...

Quickly, with my breath sucked in, I scurry back to the line of people, scooting in alongside a group and blending in with the crowd just as Phillip smiles out at us.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Phillip Woodmont, group president at Woodmont Overseas International.” His voice is just deep enough to command respect. You could hear a pin drop in the room as he continues, “It’s a pleasure to stand before you all today, on board Aurelia, a ship that for many years was considered a hopeless pipe dream. For those who are unfamiliar with Woodmont Overseas, we’re a transportation and logistics company facilitating services between international and domestic ports. But more than that, my father, Captain Nathaniel Woodmont, built this business on a genuine passion for the sea and an unwavering commitment to serving people and communities.”

He’s clearly an experienced orator. There’s no rush to his words, no wobble in his voice. If I were speaking in front of this group, my hands would be shaking so badly I’d have to hide them behind my back.

“When I was first brought on in the company, I knew my focus would be on our cruise lines. Though they functioned well and proved lucrative enough, the fact remained that they were lagging behind our company mission to protect the seas we claimed to covet. Cruise ships, in general, are notoriously high producers of black carbon and are disproportionately bad for the environment, even compared to bulk carriers and oil tankers. As part of the leadership team, I felt a sense of obligation to bring them into the twenty-first century. I saw it as a black-and-white problem. Innovate or die. We have to be bold. No more polluting our oceans in the name of leisure travel. This world is moving so fast, baby steps won’t suffice. The cruise industry can do better, and at Woodmont, we have. Aurelia is our pride and joy—proof of what can be. Most other major players in the cruise industry have promised carbon neutrality by 2050.” His jaw tenses as he shakes his head. His passion is pervasive, infecting us all. “At Woodmont, we don’t feel that’s good enough. Aurelia features a closed glass façade, urban gardening areas, and drone landing pads. We rely on harvested wave energy, solar power, fuel cells, and wind energy to eliminate the need for fossil fuels. More than that, we’ve made it clear we’re willing to share these technologies with our competitors in the hopes that in the coming years, we can all become greener. Rather than innovating and bolting closed the door behind us, we’ve paved the way for others to come with us. Hand in hand.”

Throughout his speech, he’s worn a fierce expression so compellingly handsome that I’ve found I’ve somehow gone too long without blinking. Now, though, the tension in his features eases. A hint of a smile plays across his lips as he continues, “I know many of you might be worried that with these new changes, we’ve prioritized efficiency and economy over guest experience, but I assure you, that’s not the case. With the help of Biron Design Group, Aurelia boasts luxury accommodations on a scale that could rival any five-star hotel the globe over.” He presents the woman standing at his left. She’s wearing a black pantsuit and a statement necklace that looks like a piece of modern art, along with a warm, welcoming smile. Her black hair is trimmed in a face-framing pixie cut that accentuates her high cheekbones. “I’ll allow Ms. Patel, our head of interiors, to walk you through a tour of the vessel before we convene here again for cocktails and light bites. Ms. Patel ...”

She steps forward and invites us all to join her.

Everyone else follows after her right away, eager for a good spot during the tour, but I take advantage of the opportunity laid before me. Phillip is momentarily alone, a king without his royal entourage. I doubt I have long. If I hope to get a private word with him this afternoon, this will likely be my only opportunity. It’s a stroke of luck I seize upon quickly, weaving through bodies, beelining straight for Phillip, ignoring the bite of pain as someone accidentally steps on my toes. They apologize, but I throw my own “Sorry!” over my shoulder without breaking stride. Phillip doesn’t see me until I’m upon him, cutting straight into his path, forcing him to stop abruptly before he runs into me.

We’re close. Too close. I’m inches away from his broad chest, and I have to tip my head back to get a good look at him. With a timid laugh of apology, I take a half step back.

His expression doesn’t soften. It’s as if I’m still breaking some kind of social code merely by existing. And I guess I am. Marching over to him was a little uncouth even for me, but there’s no room for social courtesies in journalism. Not if you want to get the story.

I really booked it over here. I’m breathing slightly harder than normal. Also I’m meant to do something. I’ve stalled him; I don’t want it to be in vain.

“Hello, Mr. Woodmont,” I blurt. “I’m Casey Hughes from Bon Voyage magazine. It’s a pleasure to be here, meeting you.”

I stretch out a confident hand, hoping to make the best introduction, or technically reintroduction I possibly can. My smile couldn’t be wider. My eyes shine with hope and opportunity.

His wonderfully spiced cologne is distracting, but then so is everything else about him, specifically his size. He’s not overly bullish or anything, not like a hulking beast. Rather, he’s tall and broad shouldered, and he has a sort of lean stealth to him, a layer of muscle merely hinted at beneath his well-cut suit.

My, my, someone really had a growth spurt ...

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