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"My goodness, there's tension between you two." Rose peeks over her shoulder at Dane as he disappears through the kitchen door. "And you only met him yesterday?"
"Yes, at a pharmacy. Dane was getting something for a headache."
I can see the disbelief in Rose's expression. Looking around the table, I see it on the other ladies' faces, too. I don't blame them. My conversations with Dane—as short as they are—flip back and forth from overly sweet to stilted to mild aggression.And I can't help it. Besides the fact I still don't know why he told me he was British, he clearly lied to me about his occupation, which pisses me off. Obviously, something is going on between him and me, but I'm not about to explain it to these ladies, especially the part about my having sex with him.
I take another sip of wine and listen to the ladies gossip about the residents in their 55+ community in Henderson, Nevada. Some of the stories are hilarious, like the one about the lady who drives around their neighborhood in a bright pink golf cart wearing a pink tutu and a crown. Others are odd, like the gentleman living down the street from Dahlia who likes to tend to his yard in tighty whities. They switch to talking about one of the ship's passengers who has already gained a reputation as a chronic complainer when Luka returns with my soup and the ladies' salads.
The flavor of my soup is outstanding with just the right amount of ginger, and I make a mental note that I should include a blurb about some of the dishes in my article. The ladies and I finish, and Luka clears our dishes. I look for Dane a few moments later and spot him approaching our table with two plates in his hands. I watch as he carefully sets Rose's Norwegian salmon on the table in front of her and then steps toward me with my plate of pesto chicken rigatoni. He's getting ready to set my plate down when Luka walks behind him and trips on a fork another waiter had dropped on the carpet.
Luka bumps into Dane.
I squeal as several pieces of rigatoni and sautéed squash fly off my plate.
Dane and Luka appear horrified, and the ladies gape at the scene straight out of a comedy skit.
I sit frozen in my chair, feeling warm pesto sauce drip between my breasts.
Dane sets my dish down and scans the table and my lap, the skid marks on my plate indicating that some of my food went flying.
"Where'd it go?" Luka asks, looking perplexed as he searches the floor.
"Down my dress," I snap, my voice tight.
The table goes silent.
Hands cover mouths in shock.
Then I hear a giggle, followed by another.
"Excuse me." I place my napkin on the table and get up from my chair. "I need to go to my cabin and retrieve my dinner."
I turn to leave as Dane starts to say something. I hold my hand up to stop him.
"Don't say a word. Please." I walk away with my head held high as rigatoni jiggles between my boobs.
Back in my cabin, I clean up and wash my bra in the bathroom sink, wondering why it's always me. Why am I the one that the most ridiculous, far-fetched, and highly embarrassing stuff always happens to?
Letting out a frustrated breath, I slip into the robe I found hanging in the closet, a Twizzler protruding from my mouth as I chew on the end. I'm about to kick back on the bed to watch television when there's a knock on my door.
I open it and stare at Dane.
"Hi. I thought I'd check on you. You okay?"
I nod, the rope of licorice wildly bobbing up and down.
"Twizzler?"
I nod again.
"That's probably not good."
I shake my head.
"Okay…well, then. I, um…I guess I should go."
The Twizzler bobs.
"I'll leave you this before I go." Dane pulls his arm from behind his back and holds out a dish of crème brûlée. "I thought I'd bring your dessert."
