Page 20 of The Vacation Mix-Up
She slides her cell from her back pocket and checks the cruise app, as if to call my bluff. “Huh. You’re right. I must’ve missed that.”
“Yes, I know.”
Rolling her eyes at my audacity, she continues to scroll her screen. “What time is the reservation?”
“In an hour.”
“Oh. Okay. Perhaps I will go then. But I need to shower and get ready first.”
“I just had one, so knock yourself out.”
In keeping with our ceasefire theme, I could be honest and admit to using her shampoo. But she might try severing my head from my neck again, so I save that little mishap for another time.
“Thanks. I better head downstairs then.” She goes to turn but stops instead. “I take it there’s a dress code tonight?”
“Sure is. Smart casual.”
“Well—” She subtly rakes her eyes over my body. “—you’ve certainly nailed that.”
Blushing like a teenage boy on his first date, I slide my hands into my pant pockets and rock back on my heels.
She smiles. “See you there.”
I smile back. “You will.”
chapter five
Holy shit! Maybe hecouldbe Ralph Lauren billboard material.
The grumpy Gargamel certainly does clean up impeccably well: a crisp white shirt with navy buttons and stitching, collar up, cuffs rolled to his biceps, charcoal pants hugging his thighs and ass. I’m tempted to glance back for a second look but hurry to the cabin instead.
Freshly showered in reasonable time, I smooth my dress down my thighs while waiting in line outside the main dining room, then I stretch onto my tiptoes, trying to spot him. When he said he’d see me here, I assumed he’d wait for me and we would eat dinner together, get to know one another better, and then go over some more rules and boundaries. But maybe I got the wrong idea. Maybe he meant we’d see each other in passing, or maybe he only informed me of the sailaway dinner on the off chance I didn’t know about it, which, strangely enough, I did not.
When it comes to preparation, I’m methodical. Diligent. I have an annual subscription to Daily Planner, and I’m a seasoned color-coder and annotator, so I’m mystified at how I missed this “unmissable” event. Then again, my plan for the next eighteen days is to simply eat when I’m hungry and to orderroom service here and there. Mealtimes are never a priority, because I seldom have time. Eating is always an afterthought really.
Scanning the line again, I give up my search. The guy is certainly polarizing. Hot and cold. Engaging one minute, stand-offish the next. So I guess it’s no surprise he’s ditched me to eat alone… or with someone else.
He’s also grossly untidy.
When I returned to the room to get ready for dinner, his clothes and towel were on the floor, and the toilet seat was up. I slammed it down and then refolded a towel he rolled into a ball and had thrown into the sink as if it were a laundry hamper. And then I found my blouse tossed onto my bed, which sent my blood boiling… until I went to hang it back up, only to find I’d unintentionally taken up most of the hanging space.
Oops! My bad.
Most guys don’t need the space women do, but perhaps I’d been wrong about that as well.
What am I doing here, alone, waiting in a line for dinner I don’t particularly want to eat?
Contemplating leaving and grabbing a quick bite from the buffet on my way back to the room, I inch out of the line when the couple in front of me are escorted into the dining room.
“Next please,” the hostess says, waving me toward her.
I perform an impromptu what-do-I-do tap dance before abandoning my escape and shuffling forward.
“Hello, ma’am. Welcome. May I have your room number?” she asks.
“Uh, yes. Of course. It’s 10143.”
She scans her computer. “Ms. Wilson?”
