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There’s always a foolish sense of arrogance when you leave a trail of exhausted, irritated people behind you in a line you just crossed to the freedom of post-check-in, and in that moment, I felt it.
“Wanna stop somewhere, so you can put your sandals back on before we find our families?” Cruz’s thick eyebrows furled, his chivalry, in that moment, trumping his hatred toward me.
I shook my head. “At this point, putting anything on is only going to make my feet feel worse.”
“There’s a temporary solution for that.” He stared at me flatly.
Oh yeah.
That nonsense he’d been spewing back when we were still by his car.
“If I let you carry me, your reek of toxic masculinity will rub off.”
“How’d you guess?” He looked genuinely surprised and shocked. “That’s my favorite cologne.”
So. Dr. Costello had jokes.
Yay me and the ten days I was supposed to spend with him.
Three minutes of jumping from foot to foot had passed before I realized I was punishing myself, not him.
“Fine,” I said, resisting the urge to remind him it was his fault for choosing the parking garage so far from the port. “You can carry me.”
“Are you sure you’ll survive my stench?”
“I’ll hold my breath. But no copping a feel.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Don’t try, promise.”
“Do I look that desperate to you?”
I gave it some genuine thought. He was, after all, dating one of the best-looking women in Fairhope.
“Not particularly, but that ’stache gives you a flasher’s vibe. Better be safe than sorry.”
He scooped me up with such ease, an indolent purr escaped me. I let my arms flap aimlessly beside my body, because holding onto his neck seemed too damsel in distress for my taste.
Still, it felt divine, borderline euphoric, when he carried me honeymoon-style in front of dozens of people who boarded the ship and were now aww-ing and ooo-ing, smiling at us with open admiration.
Look at that couple. They’re like Gisele and Tom Brady, but sufferable.
He must give her oral sex all the time, they probably thought. Not just on weekends and after a few drinks.
If only they knew there was nothing Cruz wanted more than to hurl me overboard like an anchor and watch me get dismembered by an angry mob of seals.
One woman elbowed her husband and asked why he couldn’t be that romantic, and another man put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Yeah, baby. That’s how you get some.” Which, naturally, earned him a slap on the head from his partner.
“They said they were by the upper deck’s waterpark, drinking at the bar,” I supplied.
Cruz made his way to the stairway because the cruise would be over before the line to the elevators emptied. I decided that he was my favorite form of transportation.
And also that he had extremely strong biceps.
I tried not to think of other ways he could give me a ride.
“Call them,” Cruz instructed.
