Page 49 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

I signed up for the couples massage workshop, but my husband is nervous about practicing on strangers. Are we making a mistake?

Massage Misgivings

My tense treasure,

First of all, there is nothing strange about the beautiful bodies you’ll meet in that workshop. Although some of the positions might raise an eyebrow or two. Think of it as a hands-on anatomy lesson with mood lighting.

The massage tables are surprisingly hearty (don’t ask how I know), and those privacy screens are more suggestions than barriers. I do recommend staying focused on your own partner. Last week’s “accidental” oil spill led to some very interesting partner-swapping discussions.

Pro tip: Request table number three in the back corner. It has the best angle for propertechnique. Plus, it’s conveniently close to the supply closet, which, by the way, locks from the inside. Not that I’ve verified this personally. Or at least recently.

Massaging minxishly,

XOXO Elodie

Trixie

It’s just beena few hours, but the memory of that yummy tryst I just shared with Ransom lingers over me like a plush, warm coat. A coat that has the power to send me to the moon and beyond and see stars at the very same time.

The fact that we’re both STD-free didn’t hurt either. Although I can’t say the same for Stanton. As far as I know, he’s acquired at least ten dicey social diseases in the time we’ve been apart. And knowing the fact he’s an overachiever, he’s probably invented a dozen of his own in addition to that.

But alas, afterward, Ransom and I made a beeline for the honeymoon suite. Ransom had to get back to work so we jumped into the shower—it was all suds, fun, and no duds—then he hopped in a suit and I hopped in—well, another formal gown no thanks to my rather bossy bestie.

The emerald green sequins of my new gown catch every light in the corridor as I make my way to first seating dinner to meet up with Bess and Nettie.

A thick crowd of passengers walks as a mob in the same direction, all dressed markedly more casual than myself.

I think I heard a few of them asking one another if tonight was a formal night—or adress your best nightas the ship likes to call them. And when someone in their party checked the online newsletter that keeps them abreast of the daily happenings, I even heard a few of them say things like,how embarrassing, poor thing, andshould we tell her?

I, however, am not in the least bit embarrassed. Compared to half the shenanigans I’ve been a part of over the past year, walking around dressed as a lime green disco ball is the least of my worries. But when your wardrobe choices are limited to fancy versusfancier, you work with what you’ve got.

At least the memories of this afternoon’s adventure in the crew lounge put an extra spring in my step.

TheEmerald Queenglitters herself as day turns into night and the excitement on the ship levels up more than a few notches. The brass seems to glow brighter, the endless walls of mirrors sparkle and shine, the scent of perfume collides with cologne, and there’s a waft of a fresh grilled steak calling in the distance. The sound of happy chatter fills the corridors, along with easy-listening music streaming from unseen speakers.

If there’s one thing I love about the ship, it’s the fact it feels as if I’m living in one long party that never really ends. Nor would I want it to.

However, there is one thing I’d love to bring to a conclusion posthaste. The murder investigation of Brad Whipple.

Bess and Nettie would love the very same thing, and that’s exactly why I’m sure I’ll have no trouble getting them to join me tomorrow afternoon for the big podcast meet and greet.

If by some miracle we can catch the killer tomorrow, then there will still be plenty of days left on our transatlantic voyage for Ransom and me to make up for some serious lost honeymoon time. Although let’s be real, I plan on turning the rest of my life into one long honeymoon with Ransom.

I come upon the casino where a cacophony of spinning slots and desperate hopes from the passengers enjoying, or rathersweating, over the tables and slot machines causes me to pause.

I was never one to run off to Vegas or Atlantic City way back when, but I’ll admit, there is something magical about the ship’s gambling hub that makes my heart beat a little faster each and every time I walk past it.

The whirling lights paint the passengers’ faces in bright vivid colors as people happily feed their retirement funds into machines that promise fortune but deliver mostly regret. The air might be thick with expensive perfume and even more expensive dreams, but the level of sheer excitement in the room is a high all to itself.

“Trixie Troublefield,” an all too familiar voice snips from behind and I freeze mid-step.

“Baxter,” I add, mostly to myself.

Within seconds, Tinsley appears before me, looking rather miffed—her go-to expression. At least it is around me.

Her chestnut locks are pulled back into a severe ponytail, but she looks chic in her navy pantsuit with a white blouse flowing beneath her blazer. Tinsley is a stunner. And if she were nice, she would be the whole package.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” she snips along with her signature snarl. Her hands are balled up into fists and firmly planted on her hips, and I’m guessing none of the above is a very good sign for me. “Two bones exactly,” she continues with the preamble to her irate tirade. “And don’t think I’m about to let you get away with either of these things.”

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