Page 17 of Ship Happens

This is strategic, not romantic. The flutter in my chest when she almost smiled just now. Pure satisfaction at my plan working.

Nothing more.

Harper emerges from the changing room, back in her regular clothes, all business once again. “I’ll see you at eight. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She walks away without looking back, but there’s a new bounce in her stride—she less rigid, more fluid. The yoga did its job.

I change back into my regular clothes, I’m looking forward to tonight’s interview with an enthusiasm that has worryingly little to do with public relations.

Chapter Five

HARPER

TRUTH OR DISASTER?

“This is a nightmare,” I mutter, studying my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The makeup artist the cruise provided has disappeared, leaving me alone to contemplate what I’ve become.

My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders that the wind will wreck the minute I get out on the deck. My eyes are dramatically lined in a way I’d never manage on my own, if I attempted this look, I’d be able to join an emo band. My lips painted a deep rose color that is way too provocative for a scientific discussion about ocean conservation.

The dress they’ve given me to wear is worse—a sea-foam green silk that hugs my curves and dips low in the back. It’s beautiful, but it’s not me. Alos not very ethical or environmentally friendly. I’m a scientist who spends most days in rash guards and wetsuits, not... whatever this flowy fuss-up is.

I snap a selfie and text it to my best friend Zoe with the caption:

SOS. I’ve been kidnapped by a luxury cruise and forced into formal wear.

She responds:

WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HARPER?

Followed by:

Also, you look HOT. Is this for Billionaire Boy?

I grimace at her nickname for Ethan. After the yoga session this afternoon, I’d made the mistake of calling Zoe to vent about the situation. She’d been way too delighted by the entire saga, particularly the part where I’d been tangled up with Ethan for an hour.

It’s for a broadcasted interview, I text back.

About environmental issues.

Sure it is. That’s why they glammed you up like a Bond girl.

I put the phone down before her comments make me change my mind about the whole thing. I’ve spent the hours since yoga trying to forget the unsettling experience—not because it was awful, but because it wasn’t.

There’d been a rhythm to our movements, a synchronicity I hadn’t expected. And that final pose, our foreheads touching, breathing in unison... it had felt intimate.

Which is precisely why I need to get my head on straight before this interview. Ethan Cole is manipulating me, using my need forenvironmental data to boost his public image. The fact that he smells good and has gentle hands doesn’t change that.

A knock at the cabin door pulls me from my thoughts. I open it to find Ethan standing there in a tailored navy suit that costs more than my years research grant. His eyes widen slightly as they travel from my face down to my dress and back.

“You look...” He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. “Different.”

I cross my arms. “Is that your version of a compliment?”

“No, my idea of a compliment would be that you look stunning, but I wasn’t sure that would go over well given our current dynamic.”

I blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “Oh.”

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