Page 45 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“That’s quite the tip for a routine test,” he says.

“Trust me, there’s nothing routine about this.” I drum my fingers on the counter as I try to come up with something, anything that might spur this little medical predicament of mine along. “Look, I just realized that my ex might have been more generous with his affections than I knew, and I happen to be on my honeymoon with my new husband who I’d really like to, you know...” I wave my hands in what I hope is a very clear but not too graphic gesture.

He cringes slightly, although for the most part, he manages to keep a straight face. “Get biblically acquainted with?”

“Yes! That! I’d like to do that without wondering if I’m giving him any unexpected wedding presents,” I say, clapping my hands despite the fact I’ve wandered into a full-blown lie. Ransom and I are more than acquainted with one another in the biblical senses—and, well, therein lies the real problem. I may have already inadvertently offloaded something to poor Ransom without meaning to.

Who knows what the medical implications might be.

Sure, Stanton’s joy stick didn’t fall off, but will Ransom’s?

“I’m so sorry.” The man tries to hide a smile but fails by a smiling mile. “The doctor usually handles?—”

“Please?” I’m not above begging or throwing my weight around. Butwhat weightis the question. I don’t dare drag Wes or Ransom into this. A thought comes to me. “In fact, I’m sort of a celebrity writer. I pen a blog about the ship. Maybe you’ve seen it?” I can’t believe I’m going to try to throw around my weight as ablogger. Oh well, desperate STD results call for desperate measures. By no stretch of the imagination am I a celebrity, but if it yields the results I want, then I’m all in. And the results I want arenegativeall across the board.

He shakes his head and looks rather bored by my antics. “I’m sorry. I don’t read blogs. I read books.”

Drats.

“Oh well, actually”—oh good heavens, Lord forgive me— “I’m actually thinking of penning a novel.”

“Oh really?” He looks less than amused and a full-on frown is taking over his face.

Hey.I take umbrage with that look. Doesn’t he think I’m intelligent enough to pull off a one-million-word book? Wait, how many words are in your average-size novel, anyway? Oh, never mind.

I clear my throat. “Yes,really,” I say a little too curt. “I’m outlining a cozy mystery as we speak. If you hurry, I’ll throw in a signed copy of my new book. You can be a minor character in it. I’ll even let you solve a small crime.”

His mouth falls open at the thought. “Make it a medium-sized crime and you’ve got a deal.” He starts pulling out forms. “I can have your results within the hour.”

“You’re a saint,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “A potentially crime-solving saint.”

“Just fill these out, then we’ll get started.” He slides over a clipboard. “And please use your real name, not your pen name. We’ve had issues with that before.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m alone in the waiting room, having provided more bodily samples than I care to think about when familiar voices drift down the hallway. My heart stops cold because I happen to recognize both of those baritone voices.

Sure enough, Ransom and Wes walk in, deep in conversation about something probably very important. But I can’t focus on that right now because the level of panic I’m experiencing is all but ensuring that I’m about to have a cardiac event.

At least I’m in the right place for it.

They both spot me at once and all conversation ceases.

Ransom inches back and his lips give a delicious curve.

“You look familiar,” Ransom teases, opening his arms and I practically leap into them on cue.

“You look a little familiar yourself,” I manage, accepting a quick kiss that reminds me of exactly why I’m here having various fluids tested.

“Trixie?” Wes inches back and his eyebrows draw close. “What in the world brings you to our lovely infirmary?” He rocks back on his heels, teasing as well, but the concern building on his face lets me know he’s also interested in my answer.

I open my mouth, not sure what to say, just as Marcus, the physician assistant, bursts through the door with all the enthusiasm of someone who has just solved a medium-sized crime.

“Great news, Mrs. Troublefield Baxter,” he announces with a touch of pride. “You’re completely STD-free!”

A thick silence follows and it’s enough for me to wish for a rather convenient ocean to throw myself into.

Wes and Ransom turn my way and their eyebrows rise in perfect synchronization.

I press my lips tight before clearing my throat. “Would you believe this is research for a book I’m thinking of writing?”

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