Page 7 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Can’t say I blame you. Manhattan is many things, but environmentally friendly isn’t one of them.” She enters the death box and then pokes her head back out when I don’t follow. “You coming?”
“Yep,” I mutter, pushing off the wall.
Riley squints at the buttons on the panel. “What deck is Guest Services on? I don’t know which deck we actually boarded the ship on.”
Not wanting to be in here longer than I have to, I lean across her and press the button for Deck 4, and she gasps when my arm brushes her bag.
“Whoa, you got a bomb in there?” I joke, even though bombs—especially in elevators on a ship—are no joking matter.
“No! Of course not.” She steps back. “Just something very precious and… delicate.”
I eye her suspiciously.
By the looks of her non-vacation-type clothing—white blouse and tailored gray pants—I suspect her “precious and delicate” thing is an expensive pair of shoes, like the ones on her feet, orperhaps something from that Tiffany store. Krystal, my ex, often came home from weekends in Manhattan with one of those bank-breaking blue bags.
“Fair enough,” I say, letting it go. “So long as it’s not a bomb.”
“It’s not.” She laughs the kind of laugh that isn’t convincing, then asks, “So why are you on a cruise?”
My face scrunches with confusion. “Huh?”
“You just said you like peace and quiet and fewer people, yet you’re about to embark on a journey with a lot of people.”
Yeah. Three and a half thousand, or thereabouts.
“I need to get away,” I explain.
She nods, as if she needs to get away as well, and I’m curious as to why, but the elevator doors open, and my speedy exit takes priority.
“After you,” I say, holding my arm across the door.
“Thank you.” She goes to exit but stops, unintentionally holding me prisoner as she studies my ink. “I like your tattoo. The font is beautiful. Is it a name?”
My chest tightens, and I retract my arm. “Yes,” I snap.
Riley startles at my harsh tone, her cheeks flushing pink before she frowns and scurries ahead.
Goddamn it.
I clench my fists, because I didn’t mean to be a jerk. This trip across the Atlantic is supposed to help ease my anger and resentment, and I’m certainly not off to a good start.
Knowing I should apologize—or make up a ridiculous excuse—I choose to bite my tongue instead, keeping a safe distance until we reach Guest Services, where a guy in a suit kindly greets us.
“Welcome aboard. How can I assist you today?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Riley beats me to it, which is fine. She seems like the type who can adequately explain our dilemma.
“You’ve made an epic mistake,” she blurts, finger pointing, eyes menacing. “Epic!”
The guy inches back, clearly alarmed, and I press my lipstogether to prevent myself from laughing. Maybe I should’ve handled this.
“I’m sorry,” she inserts, splaying her hands apologetically. “What I mean is, both of us—” She gestures to me, and I offer a polite wave before resting my arms on the counter. “—have accidentally been booked into the same cabin.”
“Oh dear.” The guy pouts as if we’re two lost puppies looking for our owner. “That can’t be right. Let me look up your details.” He holds out his hand. “Can I have your sailing cards please?”
We lift our lanyards from around our necks and hand them over to him. He scans them into his computer, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “They both say Riley Wilson.”
“Correct,” I say, tapping the counter. “That’s our name.”
