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“Scooped.” Mia’s neighbor polished off the remainder of her margarita. She didn’t sound particularly forlorn. “I need another round.”
It was hard to imagine needing more tequila and salt, but Mia signaled for the waiter anyhow. Her role on this cruise appeared to be that of designated party planner, probably because she wasn’t any good at having fun herself, or so she suspected. Checking the waiter out visually for suspicious bulges and concealed weapons when he came over to take their order for refills was a case in point.
“Is he taken?” Bridesmaid number two—so much for keeping her vow to learn their names before the cruise ship reached international waters tomorrow—scooted closer and looked hopefully toward the water’s edge.
“We could send him a drink.”
“Two.”
“Or bring the drinks ourselves.”
“A long, slow screw against the wall.” Mia zoned out during the animated discussion of drinks that followed, which was probably why she missed the right turn the conversation took somewhere between wall and Mia. Her name. Five heads swiveled her way. Hell. She must not have blacked out or had a flashback, because no one looked worried.
“What?” she asked Laurel, who was bouncing up and down in her seat. If Mia closed her eyes, she could imagine they were kids again. Laurel, who had always hated her name, had been an only child three years younger than Mia and they’d quickly become inseparable. Since her cousin lived less than a half mile away from Mia’s family, there had been plenty of zipping back and forth on their bikes.
Laurel had emailed daily when Mia was deployed, sharing all the small-town news and celebrity gossip. She’d also sent care packages, which had been a mixed blessing, albeit always good for a laugh. Laurel’s definition of essentials didn’t match Mia’s, but they’d agreed on chocolate and Cheetos. The random gag gifts in the box had been another matter, but explained why Mia’s unit had the best supply of whoopee cushions in the sandbox...and why Mia was now sporting a hot pink bikini bottom with rhinestones. And a tiara.
Laurel had a devilish sense of humor and a contagious laugh. And since making Laurel happy made Mia happy, a little public humiliation in the wardrobe department was a small price to pay.
Laurel elbowed her. “He’s wearing dog tags.”
“And?”
“And so he’s military, right? Maybe you know him.”
Of course, because the number of soldiers serving Uncle Sam was so small that they were all on a first name basis. In the last six months she’d served in Afghanistan, she hadn’t met every serviceman stationed at her base. Many of them, certainly, but not all of them. So the odds of her knowing the guy working on the boat were miniscule. Mia sighed. Sure, she could march over there and introduce herself, but she doubted he’d be interested in a glassful of vodka and gin. Sex, on the other hand, was a definite maybe if he was anything like the soldiers with whom she’d served.
Stall.
“I doubt we’ve crossed paths,” she said, fishing an ice cube out of her glass. If she mainlined enough sweet tea, she might not fall asleep tonight, and avoiding the nightmares ranked higher on her list of things to be desired than hot men working on boats. “Afghanistan wasn’t that small.”
“Go over and ask him to join us,” Laurel urged.
“Why me?”
Her cousin’s impish smile reminded Mia she wasn’t the only person here used to giving orders.
“I’m the bride,” Laurel reminded her. As if Mia could possibly forget, given the group’s collective outfits. “I’m off-limits. Taken.” Another round of giggles ensued. “Someone available should go.”
It was true. Mia did want to be available. It was part of her whole act normal, feel normal plan. Laurel, on the other hand, was unabashedly girly. She loved glitter and pink—and her husband-to-be, Jack. Laurel was the kind of happy that made others smile. She didn’t forget a promise, and she’d waited almost a year for her wedding date to make sure that Mia would be home. In turn, Mia would walk through fire for her baby cousin—and up the aisle in the satin monstrosity Laurel had chosen for the bridesmaids.
All of which made walking across the beach to the hottie on the boat a no-brainer.
Since she wasn’t drinking—thank you, accidentally detonated concussion grenade—she’d nominated herself to be in charge of organizing the day’s festivities—kind of like a designated tour guide instead of a designated driver. They’d hit the water for some snorkeling and devoured a lunch that had somehow morphed into the current cocktails. Next up was the zip line and ATV tour, followed by a sunset beach walk. While she couldn’t guarantee the bridal party’s continued good behavior, she could guarantee they slept like babies tonight. Apparently, she could also add procurer of hot men to her mental résumé.
