Page 50 of Ship Happens

OMG YOU SLEPT WITH HIM! I KNEW IT! Spill everything immediately! Size, stamina, style—I need details!

I laugh despite myself, almost relieved to have someone to confide in about the surreal turn my professional assignment has taken.

It’s complicated. He’s not what I expected. More tomorrow when I’m back on land. Promise.

You’re killing me, Bennett. At least tell me if the sex was good.

I think of this morning, of last night, of the shower—the way Ethan seems to approach my pleasure like a challenge he’s determined to master, his attention to detail, his responsiveness to my direction.

Better than good.

KNEW IT. Use protection and take photos for blackmail purposes. Call me the MINUTE you’re back on land.

Will do. Love you.

Love you too, you corporate-seducing hypocrite.

I smile at her teasing and return to my work, feeling lighter for having shared even that small bit of my confusing situation-ship with someone who knows me well.

The afternoon passes as I compile my data, review documentation, and organize my findings. By six, I’ve completed a solid draft of my preliminary findings—balanced, factual, acknowledging both commendable initiatives and areas requiring improvement. It’s not the scathing exposé my publisher wanted, but it’s honest, which matters more.

I close my laptop and get ready for dinner, a flutter of anticipation in my stomach that has nothing to do with work. Tonight is our last night at sea, our last night in this strange bubble where Ethan Cole isn’t my adversary.

I choose a simple black dress that I’d packed just in case I needed to look like belonged on this ship, more elegant than sexy but flattering. As I apply my makeup and arrange my hair in loose waves, I look at the woman in the mirror—a scientist who now knows exactly how Ethan Cole looks when he comes apart in her arms, who has shared not just her body but pieces of her life and dreams with a man she was supposed to hate.

At seven, a knock sounds at my door. I open it to Ethan in a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders, a bouquet of tropical flowers in his hand.

“You look beautiful,” he says, handing me the flowers. “These are from the ship’s sustainable garden. No rainforest destruction involved.”

I laugh, accepting the vibrant blooms. “You’ve learned all my triggers.”

“I pay attention to what matters to you.” His sincerity is disarming.

“Thank you. Let me put these in water before we go.”

As I arrange the flowers in the ice bucket (the only suitable container in my suite), Ethan watches me.

“What?” I ask, self-conscious.

“I was just thinking how strange it is that five days ago, you threw champagne at me, and now I’m bringing you flowers.”

“Life is full of plot twists,” I agree, smoothing my dress. “Ready for dinner?”

He offers his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. “Absolutely.”

The chef’s table is in a private dining room next to the main kitchen, an intimate space with just ten seats surrounding an elegantly set table. To my surprise, we’re the only guests.

“I may have reserved the entire experience,” Ethan admits when I comment on the empty seats. “I wanted you to myself tonight.”

“Extravagant,” I observe.

“Worth it.” His hand rests on my lower back as the maître d’ seats us side by side rather than across from each other, allowing us both to see the open kitchen area where the chef will prepare our meal.

The executive chef himself greets us, explaining that each course will showcase sustainable seafood and locally sourced ingredients from the islands we’ve visited. As he prepares the first course, Ethan’s hand holds mine beneath the table.

“Last night at sea,” he says quietly. “Any regrets?”

I consider the question. “About the job? No. I’ve documented what I found, good and bad.”

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