Page 26 of Ship Happens

The chef greets us as we approach, outlining a menu focusing on sustainable local seafood and island-grown produce. Harper listens as he explains the sourcing for each ingredient.

“Everything within fifty miles of the island,” he concludes. “Mr. Cole insisted on zero carbon footprint for tonight’s meal.”

Harper looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You arranged this?”

“I know what matters to you.”

“Sustainable food matters to everyone. The planet?—”

“Harper,” I interrupt, “can we just enjoy dinner without turning it into a debate? You’ve confirmed I’m not evil, I’ve provided the research data I promised. Let’s call it a win for both sides.”

She considers this, then nods. “Alright. Temporary truce.”

“I’ll take it.”

We sit across from each other at the candlelit table. The setting is undeniably romantic—waves lapping at the shore, stars emerging in the darkening sky, lanterns casting a warm glow over the sand. Under different circumstances, with a different woman, I might have orchestrated this exact scene as a seduction.

But with Harper, I am focusing less on the romantic potential and more on her genuine reactions. The way her eyes light up when the first course arrives—locally caught ceviche with island herbs. How she asks the chef detailed questions about his sourcing. The small sounds of appreciation she makes with each bite.

“This is incredible,” she admits after tasting the main course, a grilled fish with coconut-lime sauce.

“Better than the ship’s buffet?”

“Marginally.” She smiles. “Thank you for arranging this. And for the research access. I... misjudged your intentions.”

“Only partially. I did want positive PR.”

“But you care about the conservation work.”

I nod, taking a sip of wine. “My family built its fortune on industries that damaged the oceans. I can’t undo that history, but I can try to change our legacy in the future.”

“That’s... admirable.”

“Now you’re just being nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She says. I doubt she will ever let anyone off easily.

As we finish our meal, the chef serves dessert—a passion fruit tart with honey from hives kept on the island—then retreats to the far end of the beach, giving us privacy.

The night is dark now, the stars brilliant above us, the only sounds the gentle crash of waves and distant island insects. Harper leans back in her chair, looking relaxed.

“This was supposed to be our romantic grand finale for the guests watching at home,” I observe. “But there’s no audience here.”

She considers this. “No cameras, no performance.”

“Just us.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts in the air between us. Without the pretense of our fake relationship,without the antagonism of our professional positions, we’re just a man and a woman on a beautiful beach under the stars.

“Walk with me?” I ask, standing and offering my hand.

She hesitates only briefly before taking it. “Okay.”

We leave our shoes at the table and walk barefoot down the beach. I don’t let go of her hand, and she doesn’t pull away. The sand is still warm from the day’s sun, the water cool as it rushes over our feet.

“I didn’t expect this,” Harper says after we’ve walked in comfortable silence for a while.

“The dinner?”

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