Page 63 of Ship Wrecked

The tips of Carl’s ears turned ruddy. “Thank you so much, Ms. Ivarsson.”

“Please call me Maria,” she told him, and he beamed back at her.

Peter was pretty sure Carl would now kill for Maria if necessary, or at least provide a solid alibi while she did the deed herself.

“Um...” The blogger glanced down at his notebook. “I have quite a few questions. Hopefully we can get through most of them.”

Peter gulped down some ice water and waited for it.

“As you may have seen, the two of you came in first and second in our recent reader poll.” When Maria gave him a blank look, he hurried to explain. “It was a fun break from our more serious coverage. The poll asked:If you had to choose, which one actor would you most want guardingyourspecial gate?”

“My gate really is quite special,” Maria murmured. “Everyone says so.”

Peter choked on his water, and she thumped his back while he coughed and tried not to consider the implications of her statement.

He couldn’t argue her point, though. Her particular gatewasthe best he’d ever guarded. By far.

Having apparently missed Maria’s interjection, Carl was still talking when Peter managed to catch his breath and degutter his mind once more.

“—reluctant consensus in the comments was that whether you were straight or not didn’t really matter.” The blogger peered atthem over the top of his glasses, cheeks dimpled in a knowing grin. “Because you’re secretly a couple and off the market anyway.”

Here it came at last, inevitable as death, taxes, and the fridging of female characters in action films.

“Are you two dating one another? If not, have you ever dated in the past?”

At that fraught moment, as Peter attempted to muster the energy necessary to answer the question pleasantly and with sufficient verve, Maria—damn her—wigglewigglewiggled.

Her thigh rubbed against his, and her dress hitched upward again, to the point where he could easily see that little constellation of freckles he’d licked long ago, mere moments before he’d licked her very special, very slippery gate.

He remembered those freckles fondly. Too fondly. So fondly, his dick tried its very hardest to merge with the zipper of his jeans.

And that was when he knew for certain: He wouldn’t survive this.

The coroner would declare Death by Press Junket. At the funeral, his father would note that Peter’s tragic death would never have occurred if he’d attended business school, as was expected of him, instead of becoming a theater major. By his graveside, his castmates would toss roses upon his casket, sniff back tears, and tell each other, “He’s in a better place now.”

And by God, they wouldn’t be wrong.

Texts with Maria: Two Years Ago

Peter:What’s wrong?

Maria:???

Maria:Nothing’s wrong

Maria:I’m fine

Peter:That’s a lie

Peter:You haven’t been yourself all day

Peter:I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once

Peter:You don’t have your usual shine

Maria:My usual... shine?

Peter:Did I do something that upset you or made you uncomfortable?

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