Page 9 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“That’s just your opinion.”

“It’s also everyone’s opinion.”

“I’m choosing not to hear that.”

Marina laughs, a genuine sound that lights up her whole face. She’s changed into a simple emerald sheath dress that brings out the red in her hair, paired with nude heels and minimal jewelry. She’s a stunner. And yet, her superficial qualities are all I know about her as of yet.

“You two are so warm and funny.” She dabs at the corner of her eye. “I can’t thank you all enough for welcoming me into the fold.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” I say, adjusting the neckline of my deep blue wrap dress. It’s one of my favorites—the kind that makes me feel put-together without trying too hard. Or without trying too hard to look like I tried too hard. “I’m so glad we happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

Marina nods. “That was quite the lucky coincidence for me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe in coincidences. For some reason, the universe led us to that bar this afternoon.”

“The universe, and possibly a shared love of afternoon cocktails,” Nettie adds.

“And fried herring,” Bess mutters. “Don’t forget the fried herring.”

Nettie nods. “Nobody forgets the fried herring, Bess. Fried herring is a lifestyle.”

A loud crash echoes across the room, and we all turn toward the noise.

Nicolette stands near the champagne tower with a shattered flute glittering at her feet while two servers scramble to pick up the pieces. She’s hissing something at Gideon, the leader of this second act pack, and her burgundy cocktail dress catches the light as she gestures sharply. The asymmetrical neckline shows off her collarbones, and her dark bob doesn’t move despite how animated she’s getting.

Gideon stands there in a tailored charcoal suit, completely unfazed. There’s a silk pocket square tucked into his breast pocket, and an exquisite paisley scarf draped around his neck in shades of teal and gold. His expression remains calm, almost amused, which only seems to infuriate Nicolette more.

“Someone needs a nap,” Nettie observes.

“Someone needs a new boyfriend,” I mutter.

“Or a muzzle,” Bess adds primly as Gideon starts to rant at the woman.

“Bess!”

“What? I’m eighty-something. They’re arguing, so I get to say it.”

Throngs of people fill the lounge—easily sixty or seventy passengers, all looking pretty great for being over the big hill. The crowd is dressed to impress, from sharp suits to elegant cocktail dresses, and there’s enough designer jewelry in this room to stock a small boutique.

Nicolette spins on her heel and takes off, weaving through the crowd with the grace of a woman who’s made many dramatic exits.

The buffet tables line the port side of the lounge, groaning under the weight of seafood towers, charcuterie boards, and enough international cuisine to satisfy any palate. But it’s the dessert buffet that makes me weak in the knees—chocolate fountains, fruit tarts, cream puffs stacked in pyramids, and what appears to be an entire cake shaped like the Emerald Queen herself.

Every guest looks polished to a shine, the put-together that comes from money, good tailors, and regular spa appointments.

I scan the crowd for familiar faces.

“Ransom and Wes should be along at any moment. Wes is at a briefing on the bridge, and Ransom is, well, he’s sort of at a briefing too.”

Marina raises an eyebrow. “Sort of?”

“He’s trying to convince the Maritime Security Department to beef up their presence.” I don’t mention the ghost. No need to alarm her on day one. Day two, maybe. I’ll pencil it in. “The stand-in Chief Security Officer is Quinn Riddle—she’s the one who investigated me after a minor incident and inadvertently had Ransom fired instead.”

I shoot Bess and Nettie the side-eye, should they decide to highlight the fact I just said the words minor incident when it comes to my body finding habit.

Bess averts her eyes and Nettie makes a zipping motion across her lips—then locks it, then tosses the invisible key into the air and now she’s trying her level best to catch it in her mouth.

“Yikes,” Marina says. “I’m sorry about that, Trixie.”