Seashells & Mistletoe (Hawaiian Holiday Book 2) Page 3

  This. Is. A. Kid. From. My. Third. Grade. Class.

  I set my face in granite stone and pronounce, “Whatever Jade told you, this thing between us has to stay platonic. I’ve been burned by the entire Stephen Sommers fiasco. No hanky-panky.”

  As if in a million years I’d ever find Jerky Jordan Reed attractive. I desperately try to superimpose the boyish curls, the mischievous gap-toothed mouth, the smudge on his nose, his ripped-at-the-knee jeans, and the grubby fingers stuffing a toad into his pocket.

  Instead, Mr. Tall Dark and Devilish slides a suave grin my way.

  “My condolences and full agreement.” His voice is honeyed and deep, the kind that melts bones, incinerates panties, and degenerates brain cells. Occupational hazard of a voice-over artist. I’m very sensitive to sound, timbre, and tone. “I’m only here to cheer you up, not get set up with you.”

  Somehow, I expected him to argue, not give in so easily. He has to be getting something other than a free holiday cruise. Most men would be hitting on me by now, especially since I dolled myself up to upstage the beautiful Jade.

  Oops! He may very well be not attracted to me.

  “Right.” I puff myself up to keep from sputtering. “I can’t believe she thought we’d be so stupid to fall in love or anything.”

  “That’s entirely ridiculous.” His voice is still so slow and seductive, not matching his words. “Preposterous. Just because I agreed to substitute for my cousin doesn’t mean this will go anywhere. I apologize for calling you my wife, but that was for the benefit of those old fogies who can’t believe a man and a woman could share a room without being involved.”

  “Exactly. In their day, they didn’t have coed dorm rooms. Did you ever have a female roommate in college?”

  “I did, and nothing happened. Just like nothing’s going to happen between us.” He drawls out the last few words, winks. “You’re completely safe with me.”

  I should be smiling. Right?

  Chapter 4

  I’m dressed to kill.

  Skimpy, red cocktail dress. Check.

  Bright-red stiletto heels. Check.

  Eye makeup for the evening. Check.

  Phone. No check, but who cares?

  The entire point of this getaway is to go incognito.

  “Jordan,” I say as we walk side by side through the promenade area decked out with a huge, several-story-tall Christmas tree. “You know what would really freak Jade out?”

  “What?” He touches the small of my back to guide me around a tour group taking pictures with Santa Claus.

  “If we both pretend nothing’s happening. She’s expecting me to text her and be upset about the arrangement.”

  He lifts a bushy eyebrow and the mischievous smirk crinkles his face. “You mean you’re no longer upset?”

  “I’m still upset, but I refuse to let Jade get the satisfaction of putting me in a tight spot.”

  “Hmmm, I myself prefer tight,” he says. “The tighter, the better.”

  “Ahem.” I turn away from him at his obvious innuendo. How would he know I’m going through a two-year dry spell unless Jade briefed him? “The point is, let’s play a prank on her.”

  “Sure, we’re all about pranks here.” His eyes glitter as we stroll underneath candy cane arches. “What do you have in mind?”

  “No contact,” I say. “I know my phone’s missing, but Jade doesn’t have a clue. I’m not answering email, voicemail, and not posting updates.”

  “Same here. I’m entirely off social media.” He stops underneath a glittery Christmas garland with a huge sprig of mistletoe. “Since no one will ever know, will you?”

  “Will I what?” I blink at the greenery tied with a red ribbon hovering above our heads. What could I possibly lose?

  “Seal our deal,” he says. “What happens on board stays on board. My lips are sealed.”

  He leans toward me, taking up all the space under the Christmas display, and all I can see, taste, and feel is this toxic and heady cloud of masculinity engulfing me, drawing me into a vortex of temporary, or maybe permanent, insanity.

  Forget who he was.

  Forget who I am.

  Forget the world.

  Forget it all.

  “As are mine,” I mutter and let our lips touch.

  His mouth is soft but firm. Strong and gentle, and I’m shocked at the sizzling sensation, the sparkly effervescence, the electricity in the air.

  Is this for real?

  I’ve narrated this exact situation so many times. The sparks. The excitement. The tingling, hair-raising, fluttery and churning sensations. I’ve spoken breathless words describing in detail the feels and tastes and the crashing together of lips, hearts, and souls.

  I let my mind wander, loose of the moorings, out to sea. My brain cells don’t want to function, not when all my blood surges to more carnal regions of my body.

  I sigh into his mouth and let my arms go around this man’s solid, sturdy waist. My lips keep in cadence with his, but we keep our tongues to ourselves.

  After who knows how many moments, he draws back, his eyes steady on me, checking my response.

  I stare straight into his hypnotic eyes, immediately missing the contact, the validation of being kissed as if I were the center of one man’s universe.

  Did I rock his world the way he just rocked mine?

  Or is he pulling a prank on me?

  Playing with my vulnerable feelings?

  He blinks, looking as shocked as I feel, or so I wishfully think.

  “Was that okay with you?” he asks.

  I can only nod. It was more than okay, but why should I admit that I might have experienced something significant?

  I could be overimagining it, given the many kissing scenes I portrayed in the hundreds of romance audiobooks I gave voice to.

  “Good. Because this entire ship is covered with mistletoe.” His voice is deep, like dark chocolate and mellifluous enough to melt me faster than a witch and a bucket of water.

  A giggle titters from my nervous self. “Then it’s lucky we’re so good at it.”

  He cocks his bushy eyebrow, looking quite smug. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

  “Cocky, much?”

  “Cocked and loaded.”

  I don’t know whether to slap him or myself or slap my two brain cells for letting me cave so easily. But then again, who cares?

  There’s no scorecard.

  Nobody watching over me.

  No judge.

  No jury.

  No cell phone towers.

  I lunge toward him, more aggressive than I’ve ever been, and claim his tasty lips. It doesn’t mean we like each other, and I still haven’t forgotten what he did to me in third grade.

  But for now, he’s Adam and I’m Eve, and there’s no serpent on the S.S. Bird of Paradise.

  Christmas music is piped into the atrium, and the ship’s crew wears Santa hats. Everything on board is festive, and we walk through a casino to a bar reminiscent of one from the mid-twentieth century. A live band plays big band and swing music, and the servers are dressed in the old-time white sailor suit with the square collar in back and a bandana tied around the neck.

  Uncle Sam posters, along with Rosie the Riveter, and an entire side of a propeller airplane decorate the wall over the bar counter.

  I need a stiff drink after all the kissing I indulged in. The entire path leading up to the bar and casino is lined with mistletoe as friendly reminders.

  After freshening up in the restroom and reapplying lipstick, I glide into the bar and spot Jordan waiting for me underneath a jutting airplane wing.

  I know I look like a million bucks because men, young and old, turn their heads and follow me.

  Forgive me for needing the ego boost, but I went from bride of the year to discarded stripper with cake frosting on my face.

  I don’t know why I thought it was a smart idea to take the place of the hired stripper, but Jade says it’s because I subconsciousl
y did not want to be Mrs. Stephen Sommers the Third.

  “The most beautiful woman on board,” Jordan says, taking my hand and helping me slide onto the barstool. I doubt he means anything he says. Just doing his job to help cheer me up.

  “The only one younger than fifty in this crowd.” I frown at an elderly man who has his phone pointed our direction. Is he struggling to text or is he surreptitiously taking my picture?

  “Not so,” he says, gesturing with his chin at the corner where a group of people sit staring at their smartphones. “Millennials. They must be paying an arm and leg to use the ship’s internet service.”

  I spot quite a few attractive women, and my crest falls a little. But then again, some of the men could give Jordan a run on looks. Just because Jade put us together in a room doesn’t mean we’re meant for each other.

  “Any you find attractive?” I ask to let Jordan know that despite the earlier kissing, I’m still very much a free agent.

  “I’m partial to Asian women,” he says, and there goes the last dregs of my confidence. He doesn’t even like my type, brown-haired, brown-eyed, non-exotic American white bread without a fleck of whole grain.

  “I happen to like blond men,” I counter. “Dark and handsome is overrated.”

  “Then you’re in luck. I believe a team of Swedish water polo players is on board.”

  Sure enough, Nordic male gods are gathered around a pool table. All they’re missing are the horns of mead, the battle helmets, and a horde of Valkyries ready to do their bidding.

  Correction. Instead of Valkyries, a group of young, Asian women are taking selfies against the backdrop of blond, buff muscles while pretending to gawk at the half-an-airplane body riveted onto the wall above them.

  “Oh, look over there.” I nudge Jordan in the direction of the giggling gaggle.

  “Sweet!” His eyes light up as he takes in their slim, petite shapes and silky, straight hair. “Let’s get you a date first.”

  “I don’t need you to get me a date.” I’m frankly shocked he’s giving me up so easily. But then again, I may have only imagined the sparks flying between us.

  Yep. Definitely imagined it due to all the romance manuscripts saturating my brain.

  “Jade told me to give you a good time,” he says, signaling the bartender. “Maybe a drink will help.”

  After we order whiskey sours, I challenge him. “Did Jade instruct you to have a good time too?”

  He shrugs. “I might as well. No home to go to for Christmas. No Christmas sweetheart to share a snuggle with. No children waiting for me to play Santa under the chimney.”

  “Ah …” I play a mini-violin with my thumb and index finger. “At least you didn’t have a Christmas wedding and honeymoon cancelled.”

  “I never got to first base,” he says as his gaze drifts to my lips, the ones that are still tingling with that long march under the mistletoe through the center courtyard. “Although you can help.”

  If he’s angling for another make-out session, too bad. I just fixed my lipstick, and I can’t be having these confusing feelings about a guy who’s going to be sleeping on the bunk next to me for the next eleven nights.

  Unless he’s sleeping elsewhere.

  “Remember our rules. If you want to sleep with a woman, you have to go to her cabin. I refuse to be locked out of ours, and I definitely don’t want to smell any perfume other than mine.”

  “Same rules apply to you. No other man in our cabin.”

  “Now that we agree, how about we play a game?” I accept my whiskey sour from the bartender while Jordan pays for our drinks. “I find you a date for the night.”

  “Deal.” He lifts his tumbler and taps it against mine. “I’ll do the same for you.”

  It shouldn’t matter that he accepted my offer so easily. Just because he kisses were hot and tingly shouldn’t mean anything. Besides, it might be good for me to spread my wings.

  “Okay.” I take a sip of my drink. “But you have to take whoever I find. No being picky or choosy.”

  “Same for you.”

  I hesitate a split second, but it’s only a dumb date to pass the time and keep my mind off the horrid Jordan Reed—he of the spit wads, paper airplanes, and gum in my hair.

  “Hit me up with your best shot.” I down the rest of my drink, letting it burn through my gut. “You go first. Remember, the blonder the better. I go for the lab rat look.”

  It’s not true, but Jordan doesn’t know. The lab rat look rightly describes my ex. It’s also the reason I have never slept with him, although everyone believes it’s because of his political aspirations and him not wanting to rack up anything scandalous that could be used against him when he runs for president.

  “Oh no, we go at the same time.” Jordan firmly puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me toward the Asian women. “Get me one of those cuties. Any one will do. I’m not picky.”

  “But I am.” I grit my teeth.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. It won’t be easy finding a date for you. When I return, you’d better have mine all ready for me.” He flips his hand and struts toward the exit, walking right by the team of blond men.

  I wad up a cocktail napkin and stuff it in my mouth to keep from screaming.

  Does this guy have no filter? Says whatever insulting thing he can think of?

  Since he agreed to any date I can dig up for him, I also exit the bar and head for the shuffleboard deck in search of a date for the boy I love to hate.

  Chapter 5

  Playing shuffleboard is a lot harder than it looks.

  My play partners, a tour group of Chinese-American senior citizens from Texas, can be considered semi-pros.

  They’re limber and flexible, able to judge angles, distances, the friction on the waxed court, and most importantly, the trajectory of knocking an opponent’s disc out of the scoring area.

  “No, no, no,” my partner, a seventy-year-old man named Sylvester, yells from the other side of the court. “You need to keep your arm down and relax. Glide the disc by taking a step and letting your arm flow smoothly.”

  Easier said than done.

  Did I mention I’m wearing stiletto heels with at least five inches of spike?

  I totter forward and jab the stick at the disc. It misses and the bracket snaps. The disc barely moves, and the man’s sister, who’s on the opposing team but standing next to me, snickers.

  Her name’s Alice, and she’s a retired rocket scientist. The reason I’m playing with them is that she’s not wearing a wedding ring. When it’s her turn, she executes a perfect shot to the highest scoring triangle.

  Sylvester yells out, “Dani, you have to knock her disc out. You can do it.”

  The rocket scientist snickers. Has anyone told her how utterly annoying snickers are? It’s worse than fingernails on a chalkboard or Styrofoam squeaks while unboxing a flat-panel TV.

  “I’m trying,” I say. This time, I use less force and the bracket actually contacts the disc—barely.

  It sputters forward a few feet, not even crossing the line to the other side of the court.

  Snicker.

  “You might try lowering your angle of attack,” Alice says, adding a snicker for emphasis.

  I’ll lower my angle of attack all right, by shoving her snickering butt across the board.

  But no, I need to make nice with her and set her up with my enemy roommate. I tamp down my psychopathic thoughts and grit my teeth into a semblance of a smile. “You must have been good in physics.”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re dressed entirely wrong for shuffleboarding.” Her tiny eyes behind thick glasses dart over my skimpy dress which barely clings over my breasts and butt. “If you think you’re going to hook up with my brother, you’ll have to go through me first.”

  “Actually, I’m more interested in you.”

  Alice raises her almost nonexistent eyebrows. “I’m definitely not your type.”

  “Not mine either.” The only
poke she’d get from me is a shish-kabobbing with the shuffleboard stick. “But I have a wonderful young man who’s in need of a date.”

  “Right, and I’m not buying any essential oils, vitamins, or cleaning products from you.” She returns her attention to the shuffleboard discs, brushing them back and forth to test their coefficient of friction.

  “No catch, no obligation,” I continue my sales pitch. “He’s a totally normal young man, a relative of my best friend. Completely honorable and respectful of parents. He’s good at physics too, things like trajectories, stickiness of materials, elasticity, and the mechanics of flight. I’m sure you’ll have a fab time with him.”

  Alice ignores me and places her shot.

  “Time out,” Sylvester calls from across the court. “I need to confer with my beautiful teammate.”

  “And I need a lobotomy from watching you two,” Alice says, picking up the discs and polishing the bottoms with her shirtsleeve.

  I turn away from Jordan’s upcoming date and smile at Sylvester as he saunters toward me.

  Like an old pro, or a fatherly figure, he puts his arm around my shoulders and proceeds to give me the secrets to shuffleboarding prowess. “The key to shuffleboard is …”

  I tune him out, not in the least bit interested in his strategy and correction of my shooting skills.

  Meanwhile, I can feel the darts his possessive sister shoots in my back. It gives me an advantage, a hook to get her compliance to dating Jordan.

  I turn on the charm and wink at my partner. “If you could maybe show me by helping me shoot a practice disc. You know, hold the stick with me and guide me through the motions.”

  “Certainly. I should have thought of that before we started to play.” He clears his throat and adjusts the grip of the stick while positioning the cupped area against a disc.

  I giggle and fling my hair and wiggle my butt and then laugh some more as I pretend to “get the hang of it.”

  “That’s enough time out.” Alice juts herself between me and her entirely too charming brother. “You two lost, so get over it. Dinner’s starting soon, and this game is boring. Wish we could find better partners.”