Page 77 of Revenge Honeymoon

The server gave a nod and disappeared.

“So,” Max began and reached for her hand under the table, “I hope that was okay in the elevator. Your dress.” His gaze dipped to her neckline and back up again. “And you in it. Did I tell you how beautiful you look?”

The warmth of his fingers interlaced with hers caused goose bumps to rise. “I don’t usually wear—it’s Ruby’s dress.” The outfit was doing exactly what she wanted it to do. Better than she thought possible when she’d thrown it on in the cabin. But now that they were here in the restaurant and after what happened in the elevator, a twinge of guilt hit. She had a plan in mind, and he thought she was on the date solely because of her interest in him. “I wasn’t sure if it was my style.”

“If I didn’t know every other man in the room was on his honeymoon, I’d be worried.” He stroked her arm.

“Worried?” Why couldn’t she seem to breathe properly?

“Worried I might not be the only one who can’t keep his eyes off of you.”

“Oh.”

Max said every word she’d fantasized hearing from him, and yet she couldn’t believe it. How could a man like him desire a woman like her? Now her plans to deceive him and use him to access his laptop seemed wrong. She averted her gaze. Her appetite fled. She couldn’t focus on anything else but the deceit.

The sommelier sailed over to their table to deliver their wine glasses and pour the wine.

Emily wanted it all. She wanted to be able to delete those photos to make Ruby happy, and she wanted to be able to follow this budding and unexpected romance wherever it might be going. Even if it was only a cruise affair. But how to achieve both goals without hurting him?

Why did he have to kiss her like that in the elevator?

Damn.

He’d been hurt by that Penelope woman who stood him up, and now she was set to do the same.

Max lifted his glass for a toast. “May the most you wish for be the least you get.”

Emily touched her glass to his, pondering the meaning. “What are you wishing for, Max?”

He licked his lips, slid his hand toward her shoulder, and leaned in. “You.”

* * *

Somehow Emily had managed to eat some of her meal, Confit de Canard, a delicious duck dish in a rich sauce made with red wine. After their meal had arrived, the conversation had flowed away from their mutual attraction and toward the more every day. Their likes and dislikes. Their worst first dates. Their parents.

By the end of the meal, that super-hot kiss in the elevator was a distant memory, and they were chatting about boring non-sexy things like how to clean a blood stain out of a white shirt and how often to water an African violet.

How did that happen?

How could she steer things back to where they were at the beginning of the meal when he was complimenting her outfit and calling her beautiful? Suddenly, she was no longer confident wearing a dress built for Megan Fox. She was a fraud.

The server brought Max the bill, and he added his cabin number and signed his name.

This time, when they entered the elevator, two honeymooning couples joined them. The intimacy they shared only ninety minutes earlier had worn off. One of the newlywed husbands engaged Max in a conversation about the Miami Dolphins and their likelihood of making it to the playoffs. Emily fixated on her chipping manicure.

How was she going to swing this date back to the topic at the beginning of the night—that kiss? And then work her way into his cabin, hopefully into his bed—even though she was trying not to focus too much on how that part was going to happen—and then get a shot at his laptop?

Now the idea she’d shared with Ruby—her crazy plan—seemed nearly impossible. How was she going to transition from dinner date to secretly deleting photos from his laptop? Did she think she could force her way into his cabin, take off the plastic wrap dress, blow his mind with some kind of Kama Sutra-style position or whatever, and wait for him to fall asleep? Why didn’t she think this through a little better?

The elevator opened at Deck Eleven. They stepped out together, but this time they weren’t holding hands.

Max walked her silently back to her cabin.

Was he nervous? Did he think she wasn’t interested? Had he forgotten how she kissed him back in the elevator?

“Thanks for dinner,” she said. Someone had to break the ice. “That was really good.”

“Yep.” He scraped a hand through that glorious wavy hair.

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