Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
She turned then, smiling at me. “I know you’re probably anxious to take a look around. A guided tour of the boat will take place this afternoon. We’ll meet on deck nine in the observation lounge. Mr. Woodmont will be there along with the captain.”
She noticed my startled reaction at the mention of Mr. Woodmont, and she beamed with pride. “Yes. It will be so exciting. I’m sure you’re all eager to get a moment with him. I know I shouldn’t be gossiping, but he truly is as handsome as everyone claims him to be.”
I swallowed down that bit of news and stayed completely silent. I didn’t want to encourage the topic of Mr. Woodmont for one more second.
“I’ll leave you to it. I know you must be anxious to freshen up.”
What gave me away? The stink lines coming off me? The dried sweat on my face?
She shut the door behind her, and that’s when the doom and gloom set in, the reality of where I was and what I’d done to get here.
The British stranger in my suite points back to the Dramamine, forcing me back to my uncomfortable present.
“I thought about just tossing it over to you, but my aim is shite, and I didn’t want to lose all my pills. Here. Take two. Or three. I doubt you can overdose on something like this. It’s probably just B12 and beeswax or something. Do you know?”
The chemical makeup of Dramamine?
No, I’m afraid not.
I swallow down a pill and then pass her back the box with a thanks, scrutinizing her now that she’s made herself at home in my suite.
“Who—who are you?” I ask with a curious lilt.
The girl laughs and tosses her shiny tresses over her shoulder. “Sienna Thompson. British lifestyle blogger.” She eyes me skeptically. “You really don’t know?”
I cringe with guilt. “Should I?”
She laughs. “Oh my god, how stuck up did I just sound? ‘You really don’t know,’” she mimics herself. “I’m so embarrassed! It’s just that . . . yeah, I’ve got quite a large social media following. A bit like the it girl of London. I’m so used to getting recognized everywhere I go.” She rolls her eyes. “See? There I go again, sounding like a right idiot. How stuck up can one person be? I’m working on it, I swear.”
I can’t help but smile. She might be a tiny bit full of herself, but it’s clear she’s not a total snob. “I feel bad. I’m sure you are really popular. I’m just not on social media all that much. Kind of late to the game.”
Sienna’s pretty green eyes narrow with suspicion. “What are you doing on board, then? I thought this was a brand trip for media and influencers. A huge push to get the word out on social media.”
“Well, I’m a journalist.”
My voice wavers a little as I say it, and I feel like a phony. Am I allowed to call myself a journalist if I’ve never actually been published and don’t actually get paid to write?
Don’t ask my title. Dear god, please don’t make me cop to being a fact-checker. I only just regained the ability to breathe without an ache in my stomach.
Her sleek eyebrows waggle. “A journalist? Fancy that. I bet you’ve got a lot of brains, then. Not that you need them with a face like that. Shame you aren’t on social media. You’d build quite the following in no time. You’re practically wasting away behind the screen.”
I bristle at her derogatory assessment of my chosen field.
“Working as a travel journalist has always been my dream.”
It’s only after I finish saying this that I realize she was trying to pay me a compliment of sorts.
She smiles, unperturbed by my harsh tone. “Well, good for you, then! You’re doing it. What did you say your name was? Maybe I’ve caught one of your articles online somewhere.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her she definitely has not.
She’d need to have private access to my laptop to find all the articles I’ve written over the years. The ones that have never—likely will never—see the light of day.
“Casey Hughes.”
She nods. “American?”
“From White Plains, near New York City.”
“Very cool. Right near the Statue of Liberty?”
That’s like asking if her flat abuts Buckingham Palace, but I just nod. “Sure, yeah.”
She tilts her head, giving me a quick once-over. “Well, listen, I think we’ve lucked out here. These ten days will be loads more fun if I have someone to pal around with. What do you say?”
A friend.
I would absolutely love to have someone by my side for this trip, but I feel like I won’t live up to Sienna’s expectations. She’s dressed in this fancy coordinating silk set. The cami is sexy yet demure—meant to look a little like lingerie—and the shorts take inspiration from men’s tailored trousers. It’s the kind of thing I’d pass in Zara and wonder who the hell could pull it off. Sienna, that’s who.