Chapter one
Leah | Three Years Ago
“Surprise!”
I flinch from the collective shout, my grip tightening on the handrail. Forcing a smile, I climb the last few risers of the narrow, steep staircase to the boat’s second-floor deck. Half-empty cocktail glasses litter the table where my friends are gathered, clearly having launched into full party mode without me.
Which is fine. Good actually.
But when I spy the obnoxious, glittery “Birthday Girl” sash Cora holds poised and ready to slip over my head like some sort of festive noose, my smile falters. And my growling stomach drops.
I suppose, in some alternate universe, there could be worse ways to spend your twenty-fifth birthday than being ambushed by well-meaning besties on a sunset dinner cruise. Though, at the moment, I’m struggling to think of what those worse ways might be.
“Sorry,” Tabitha murmurs, emerging from the stairwell behind me in time to help adjust the sash across my shoulder. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble, turning to flash a tight smile at my boss and best friend, who I have no doubt is telling the truth. “Really.”
Even if I’d been looking forward to a quiet evening at home. A night that included a large glass of wine, a warm bubble bath, and the zip of pleasure from selecting another novel off my TBR pile and flipping to chapter one.
But it’s my birthday eve, so when Tabitha sprung this whole dinner cruise idea on me only hours ago, I reluctantly agreed. After all, I suggested this supposedly romantic experience to my ex at least a dozen times over the years. And, true to form, he always agreed it was a good idea then never actually followed through. Which, in hindsight, was a red flag that should have tipped me off to where the relationship was headed.
But now, I’m surrounded by the cheerful chaos of surprise party attendees who are thrilled they “got me” and the growing realization I’ll have to be “on” for the next few hours when I’d likely be lights out by nine, if left to my own devices.
But the thing is, I promised myself this summer would be different. After getting dumped over Memorial Day weekend, I made a resolution to break out of my carefully constructed routine of daytime shifts atHigh Tide Talesand evening reading or writing sessions.
To say yes more often than no.
To actually go on adventures or hell, maybe even some first dates.
To have personal experiences that would inspire my stories, rather than living vicariously through my fearless friends. Not that I’ve kept that resolution. Or the one I made about eating more vegetables. So far, my track record has been abysmal, and I’ve only been to the farmer’s market once all summer.
But now, glancing around the table, my lips curve into a smile. These women, care enough about me to coordinate schedules and purchase tickets and keep secrets. The least I can do is appreciate the gesture, even if my idea of a perfect birthday involves significantly less social interaction and considerably more solitude.
“Rocking heels tonight?” My book club friend, Sarah, pulls me in for a hug. “This cruise is amazing. You’re going to love it. The sunset views are incredible. Bryce brought me as a surprise last month, and it was so romantic.”
I ignore the pang of jealousy that hits the back of my throat. I should be happy for her and her new, perfectly thoughtful boyfriend. “I can’t wait for the sunset.”
“How about a cheers for the birthday girl?” Cora suggests, lifting her glass.
I’d love to enjoy the toast, except Tabitha and I are without a colorful cocktail in hand as the other girls clink glasses.
“Can I get you a drink?” Tabitha’s super power has always been reading minds, or at least mine.
“Let me go,” I insist. “I could use a minute.” And a rum and Coke. Some hard liquor mixed with sugary caffeine is the only way I’ll make it through the evening. Unless I jump overboard and swim for it, which would definitely qualify as a personal adventure that could find its way into a storyline.
“Okay, yeah. If you’re sure.”
The others raise their half-empty glasses in my direction as I head off, carefully descending the stairs down to the bar we passed earlier. I make my way across the dining area, squeezing between chairs and weaving past tables full of passengers who seem far more prepared for maritime socializing than I am.
There are couples sharing appetizers and families with children whose little faces are smashed against the windows. In the corner, a rather boisterous fiftieth anniversary party,complete with oversized gold numerical balloons, has already reached the loud-laughter stage of their evening.
Perhaps, Tabitha was right to spring this evening on me. I’ve hidden behind my books and writing and pints of mint chocolate chip all summer. But there’s no way I’ll become a published author without putting in the hours needed to actually finish a novel. Lately, though, writing has felt like chiseling granite with a plastic spoon.
The aromatic scent of whatever gourmet deliciousness they’re preparing in the galley wafts this way. My stomach rumbles even though I had a late lunch. If a sad homemade turkey and cheese on wheat, scarfed down in the stockroom at two this afternoon when I was ravenous enough to gnaw off my arm, can legitimately be considered a meal.
I beeline toward the bar. Its polished wood and gleaming brass fixtures catch the long rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows, but there isn’t a single bottle of alcohol in sight. I sure hope that’s because we’re on a moving—soon, hopefully—boat rather than because the bar isn’t well-stocked.
A man leaning casually against the end of the bar is impossible to miss. Tall, with broad shoulders, and a well-defined ass, he’s rocking a hot pink polo so bright it could guide ships to shore. Even from behind, his relaxed posture suggests a man comfortable in his own skin, a state both enviable and mildly irritating.
