Page 3 of Caribbean Crush

Already, a strong hand was lifting my duffel bag and suitcases away from me. Panic spiked my blood. “Oh! My laptop’s in there!”

Ingrid smiled in understanding. “Jacques will be along shortly. Have no fear.”

It’s a rich-person thing to lose sight of your valuable belongings. I can’t easily afford to replace my laptop, so, therefore, I don’t make a habit of parting with it very often. Still, it felt silly to argue with her in front of everyone, so I swallowed down my resignation and handed off my bags to the capable-looking Jacques before allowing Ingrid to lead me on board.

On the way to my suite, I barely had time to register the overwhelming opulence of the ship. Ingrid was walking too fast. I’d take note of a painting—Could that really be a Picasso?—or a gargantuan crystal chandelier that seemed to be levitating midair, and then we’d curve around another corner or wind up another flight of stairs, making our way to deck seven. We talked on the way—well, she talked. She let me know how excited she was about her new position on board Aurelia and that she was a mom of two teenage boys, and when I seemed shocked by that, she whispered her age. I couldn’t believe it. She looked so young!

This immediately put me in her good graces. “I avoid the sun at all costs,” she explained with a wink.

Outside room 602, she scanned a thin silver key card and pushed open the door to allow me to walk in before her.

My jaw dropped, and I blacked out a little as she droned on about the suite’s accommodations: “innovative curved windows surround the living areas, giving the effect of indoor-outdoor living”; “one of the largest balconies on board”; “separate bedroom and bathroom”; “walk-in shower and whirlpool bath”; “writing desk”; “complimentary laundry, pressing, and wet cleaning.”

And what about dry cleaning? I almost asked, just to poke fun at the absurdity.

I just stood there, unmoving, trying to find the breath that had suddenly vacated my lungs.

She wasn’t even done yet. She was explaining the Wi-Fi access to me when I cut her off.

“Are you sure you have it right?” I asked her with a funny little laugh. “This room is probably for dignitaries or ... or presidents. Have you mixed me up with a celebrity or something?”

People sometimes think I look like a mixture of Emma Watson and Emilia Clarke. It’s the catlike curve of my blue eyes and my pronounced cheekbones. They want to belong on a more notable face. Maybe Ingrid was confused.

I expected her to smack herself on the forehead and apologize for the blunder before shoving me belowdecks, to a cramped cabin stuffed between the boiler room and the communal toilet. I’d get a squeaky cot and a scratchy blanket.

Instead, she grinned. “These are your accommodations for the duration of your stay on board Aurelia, Ms. Hughes. Jacques will be up shortly with your bags. If you should need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact me. There’s a button beside the phone in the living room as well as one on the nightstand in your bedroom. Think of it as a butler’s bell. Just press it, and I’ll be here in the blink of an eye.”

She walked over to the long console table in the foyer and started to neatly arrange items from inside the folder she brought along with her. “Here is your key card along with your press packet. Inside, you’ll find a badge and detailed itinerary, map of the ship, and most importantly, your emergency protocols. You can access the muster drill on your suite’s television. It needs to be viewed within the next hour, prior to our departure.”

She turned then, smiling at me. “I know you’re probably anxious to take a look around. A guided tour of the boat will take place this afternoon. We’ll meet on deck nine in the observation lounge. Mr. Woodmont will be there along with the captain.”

She noticed my startled reaction at the mention of Mr. Woodmont, and she beamed with pride. “Yes. It will be so exciting. I’m sure you’re all eager to get a moment with him. I know I shouldn’t be gossiping, but he truly is as handsome as everyone claims him to be.”

I swallowed down that bit of news and stayed completely silent. I didn’t want to encourage the topic of Mr. Woodmont for one more second.

“I’ll leave you to it. I know you must be anxious to freshen up.”

What gave me away? The stink lines coming off me? The dried sweat on my face?

She shut the door behind her, and that’s when the doom and gloom set in, the reality of where I was and what I’d done to get here.

The British stranger in my suite points back to the Dramamine, forcing me back to my uncomfortable present.

“I thought about just tossing it over to you, but my aim is shite, and I didn’t want to lose all my pills. Here. Take two. Or three. I doubt you can overdose on something like this. It’s probably just B12 and beeswax or something. Do you know?”

The chemical makeup of Dramamine?

No, I’m afraid not.

I swallow down a pill and then pass her back the box with a thanks, scrutinizing her now that she’s made herself at home in my suite.

“Who—who are you?” I ask with a curious lilt.

The girl laughs and tosses her shiny tresses over her shoulder. “Sienna Thompson. British lifestyle blogger.” She eyes me skeptically. “You really don’t know?”

I cringe with guilt. “Should I?”

She laughs. “Oh my god, how stuck up did I just sound? ‘You really don’t know,’” she mimics herself. “I’m so embarrassed! It’s just that ... yeah, I’ve got quite a large social media following. A bit like the it girl of London. I’m so used to getting recognized everywhere I go.” She rolls her eyes. “See? There I go again, sounding like a right idiot. How stuck up can one person be? I’m working on it, I swear.”

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