“Not a line!” he protests. “A nice peppermint tea is good for the stomach. But if that’s a no, I’ll walk you back to your room.”
“It’s a yes.”
We take the elevators up to the Penthouse level.
“This is me,” he says, pointing at a door a few away from my room.
“We’re neighbors,” I say.
“I know. I figured out where you were staying and requested a room nearby so I could run into you.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“You didn’t need to. I would have found you anyway.”
He grins at me. “Come in.”
His suite is so neat that were it not for his copy ofMiddlemarchsitting on the dining table, I would think no one was occupying it. But then, all our rooms are cleaned twice a day, so I’m not sure if this is a sign of his habits or just the strength of theRomance of the Sea’s housekeeping department. I’m tempted to pretend I need to pee so that I can go into his bathroom and examine his toiletries.
It’s not that I want to snoop. But it’s odd to meet someone on vacation, out of their usual context. Were we in New York I’d be able to infer things about him based on what neighborhood he lives in, or where he suggests meeting, or what restaurants he likes. But knowing he “lives” on the Penthouse Deck and “dines” at the ship buffet doesn’t give me much to work with.
I want to know everything about him.
“Mint is okay?” Felix asks, filling an electric kettle. “There’s also chamomile.”
We don’t have a kettle in our room—just a Nespresso machine.
“Mint is good,” I say. “Did you bring that from home?”
“What, the tea? No. Came free with the cruise. Though I did stash some PG Tips in my bag if you prefer.”
“The kettle.”
“Oh. Well, yes.”
“You were worried the ship wouldn’t provide hot water?”
“Not all hot water is created equally, dear Hope. My kettle here has temperature controls. You’ll be getting an herbal tea brewed to exactly eighty-five degrees Celsius, like nature intended.”
“And that would be different from a tea brewed to, let’s say, ninety degrees Celsius?”
“Herbal teas become bitter at too high a temp. Now, for a black tea, you’ll want to nudge it up to ninety-five. Same for oolong.”
“Ah,” I say.
“I can go on,” he offers, pouring hot water into our cups. “Green? White? Tisane of lemon and turmeric?”
The ship rolls, and he curses sharply.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Burned my hand,” he says.
“You’re rather clumsy in the kitchen for a man who makes his living in one,” I say.
“Pretty girls make my hands shake.”
