Page 32 of The Blonde Identity

That time, the zipper slid smoothly into place, but the room must have been way too cold because, when she felt his knuckle run between her shoulder blades, she shivered. And when she turned, he was looking at her oddly—like there was something on her lips.

“Just tell me the truth.”

For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her because it seemed to take forever for Sawyer to shake himself free of some thought and say, “I’m sorry. What?”

“Can you see my nipples?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Her

Sawyer never did answer the nipple question, but Zoe wasn’t too concerned. She tried to remind herself that Mrs. Michaelson was a high-powered political operative on her honeymoon with her handsome husband. Mrs. Michaelson had a bold and daring sense of style. And, most of all, Mrs. Michaelson was hungry.

But as they walked toward the dining room, Sawyer’s thumb made slow circles on her back and Zoe felt her skin come alive. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Mr. Michaelson also had money and taste, but the sleeves of his expensive blazer were a little too short and the shoulders were a little too narrow, but Zoe told herself that no one would notice—not with her boobs in the vicinity.

“What?” he asked when he caught her looking.

She wanted to tell him he looked nice. She wanted to ask again about the nipples. She wanted to run onto the deck and hurl herself into the water because that had to be better than admitting what she was thinking: that he was handsome. And sexy. And hot. Too hot. And she didn’t remember how to talk to hot guys. In her whole life, she’d probably never spoken to a single man who looked as good as—

“Mr. Michaelson! Mrs. Michaelson!” The voice was very loud and the accent was very French and the man at the front of the restaurant was wearing a tuxedo and smiling like he was about to break into a song accompanied by dancing dishes. “The lovebirds!We’ve been expecting you!”

“Table for—” Sawyer started, but the man was already turningand leading them through the opulent room. They’d probably gone ten steps when Sawyer stopped and blurted, “No.”

“Pardon?” the man asked, clearly confused.

Even Zoe wasn’t sure what the problem was until Sawyer said, “We’ll need a table for two.”

Then she realized the only empty chairs were at a table where six other people were already seated.

The maître d’ looked confused. “But Mr. Michaelson... On theShimmering Seathere are no private tables. That way our guests can form lifelong friendships that—”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Sawyer said flatly.

“Well... if you would like... eh...priv-a-cy,” he said with a lascivious and very French emphasis on the last word, “we offer twenty-four-hour room service.”

Sawyer looked like that was the greatest news he’d ever heard, but something was coming over Zoe. She didn’t know what or how or why but, suddenly, she felt herself striding toward their new tablemates, calling out, “Hi, y’all! We’re the Michaelsons!”

Suddenly, the hand was on her back again and lips brushed against her ear. “Did you just become spontaneously southern?”

“I think I did!” she whispered back, her accent even stronger. “But who’s to say I wasn’t already?”

“Me. I say—”

“So sorry we’re late!” Zoe exclaimed as they reached the table. “I don’t know what came over us. Jet lag, I suppose. And, well, we are on our honeymoon and we only have eyes for each other. Isn’t that right, honeybunch?”

Sawyer missed his cue so she pinched his butt, which, fun fact, was like a gently rounded piece of granite.

“Yes... sweetheart?”

There were six other people at the table. The Fitzpatricks—two brothers in their eighties who were from Edinburgh and had been on thirty-seven cruises in the past nine years.Retirement, eh! The world is our backyard!

There was a couple in their sixties, Thomas (call me Thomas) and Tammy. They’d been married for forty-five years and had apparently been miserable for forty-four of them.Her eyes are on her head, darling.

Marc and Anthony (no Cleopatra jokes, ha ha) were also on their honeymoon. “Just five years too late.” Marc might have sounded just a tiny bit bitter.

“I’m in construction,” Anthony explained.

“He’s a workaholic,” Marc clarified.

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