Page 19 of The Vacation Mix-Up
Unable to tell which one she suspects I may be, I help her steady herself and quickly let her go. “Sorry.”
She puffs out a breath. “I nearly fell off the ship.”
I chuckle. “You can’t.”
“What do you mean I can’t?”
“It’s impossible tofalloff the ship.”
“No, it’s not. People go overboard all the time.”
“Unless you climb the rails, someone throws you over, or you step onto a chair or some stupid shit like that, you can’t just accidentally fall overboard.”
She blinks as if what I’m saying is a bunch of baloney.
It’s not.
“I’m serious,” I say. “You can’t.”
Placing her now-empty glass on a nearby table, she reaches into her bag, and I get ready for her to pull out whatever it is she’s hiding in there—a taser, perhaps. But she pulls out a tissue instead.
My anticipation deflates.
“Should I be worried you know so much about falling off the ship?” she asks, side-eyeing me suspiciously while wiping her hands and legs.
“Should I be worried you might test out my theory?”
“So it is a theory then?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
Riley laughs, then tosses her tissue in a nearby trash can. “Feeling better, are we?”
I run my hand through my hair, readying my apology. “About before, I?—”
“It’s fine. I get it. Neither of us planned for our vacation to be the way it’s shaping up to be. I was mad; you were mad. It is what it is.”
Shocked, I press my lips together, a grin spreading across my face. I’d expected her to force me to my knees, to grovel and beg for her forgiveness. And hell, I might’ve done it for the sake of peace.
“Okay then,” I choke out. “Truce?”
She holds out her hand. “Truce.”
We shake.
“You look nice,” she says, eyeing me from top to toe. “Where are you off to?”
“We’regoing to dinner,” I say as if she doesn’t have a choice.
“We’re?As in you and me?” She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, cookie, but we have a reservation in the main dining room.”
Her head tilts with confusion, and I get the impression sheknows nothing about the sailaway dinner, which strikes me as odd. She seems the type who would carry an hourly planner with scheduled bathroom breaks.
“A reservation?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “What are you talking about?”
“The sailaway dinner.”
