Sawyer never did answer the nipple question, but Zoe wasn’t too concerned. She tried to remind herself that Mrs. Michaelson was a high-powered political operative on her honeymoon with her handsome husband. Mrs. Michaelson had a bold and daring sense of style. And, most of all, Mrs. Michaelson was hungry.
But as they walked toward the dining room, Sawyer’s thumb made slow circles on her back and Zoe felt her skin come alive. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Mr. Michaelson also had money and taste, but the sleeves of his expensive blazer were a little too short and the shoulders were a little too narrow, but Zoe told herself that no one would notice—not with her boobs in the vicinity.
“What?” he asked when he caught her looking.
She wanted to tell him he looked nice. She wanted to ask again about the nipples. She wanted to run onto the deck and hurl herself into the water because that had to be better than admitting what she was thinking: that he was handsome. And sexy. And hot. Too hot. And she didn’t remember how to talk to hot guys. In her whole life, she’d probably never spoken to a single man who looked as good as—
“Mr. Michaelson! Mrs. Michaelson!” The voice was very loud and the accent was very French and the man at the front of the restaurant was wearing a tuxedo and smiling like he was about to break into a song accompanied by dancing dishes. “The lovebirds! We’ve been expecting you!”
“Table for—” Sawyer started, but the man was already turning and leading them through the opulent room. They’d probably gone ten steps when Sawyer stopped and blurted, “No.”
“Pardon?” the man asked, clearly confused.
Even Zoe wasn’t sure what the problem was until Sawyer said, “We’ll need a table for two.”
Then she realized the only empty chairs were at a table where six other people were already seated.
The maître d’ looked confused. “But Mr. Michaelson . . . On the Shimmering Sea there are no private tables. That way our guests can form lifelong friendships that—”
“We’re on our honeymoon,” Sawyer said flatly.
“Well . . . if you would like . . . eh . . . priv-a-cy,” he said with a lascivious and very French emphasis on the last word, “we offer twenty-four-hour room service.”
Sawyer looked like that was the greatest news he’d ever heard, but something was coming over Zoe. She didn’t know what or how or why but, suddenly, she felt herself striding toward their new tablemates, calling out, “Hi, y’all! We’re the Michaelsons!”
Suddenly, the hand was on her back again and lips brushed against her ear. “Did you just become spontaneously southern?”
“I think I did!” she whispered back, her accent even stronger. “But who’s to say I wasn’t already?”
“Me. I say—”
“So sorry we’re late!” Zoe exclaimed as they reached the table. “I don’t know what came over us. Jet lag, I suppose. And, well, we are on our honeymoon and we only have eyes for each other. Isn’t that right, honeybunch?”
Sawyer missed his cue so she pinched his butt, which, fun fact, was like a gently rounded piece of granite.
“Yes . . . sweetheart?”
There were six other people at the table. The Fitzpatricks—two brothers in their eighties who were from Edinburgh and had been on thirty-seven cruises in the past nine years. Retirement, eh! The world is our backyard!
There was a couple in their sixties, Thomas (call me Thomas) and Tammy. They’d been married for forty-five years and had apparently been miserable for forty-four of them. Her eyes are on her head, darling.
Marc and Anthony (no Cleopatra jokes, ha ha) were also on their honeymoon. “Just five years too late.” Marc might have sounded just a tiny bit bitter.
“I’m in construction,” Anthony explained.
“He’s a workaholic,” Marc clarified.
“Well, some of us can’t do our jobs anywhere there’s Wi-Fi,” Anthony shot back.
“I’m in tech,” Marc added.
“It’s not like I can pack up the bridge and move it. It stretches between two countries!”
“Not again with the bridge . . .” Marc mumbled.
“I’m building the world’s longest high-altitude glass-bottomed bridge,” Anthony explained.
“Well, that’s a mouthful,” Zoe murmured.
“It’s not technically glass,” Marc confided. “Some kind of polymer something something—”
“Do you know how few people can work at that altitude?” Anthony stared icily at his husband and Sawyer leaned closer to Zoe.
“So glad we left our room for this,” he whispered just as a series of waiters approached the table. “Actually . . .” His tone changed considerably when a waiter slid a perfectly cooked filet in front of Zoe.
Her mouth watered. Her hands shook. She thought she might weep in appreciation until she heard, “What the hell is that?” and glanced over at Sawyer, who was staring at a plate of . . . well . . . Zoe wasn’t exactly sure what it was.
Something white. And green. And kind of clumpy.
“Your entrée, sir,” the very confused waiter said.
“That’s not what she . . .” Sawyer turned and Zoe froze, a big chunk of filet hanging in midair. He was glaring, so she plopped the steak into her mouth before he could stop her.
Then she moaned because she couldn’t help herself. “Oh, that’s so good.”
“For the love of—” Sawyer was grinding his teeth, which couldn’t be good for oral health. And possibly spying.
“Is something not to your liking, Mr. Michaelson?” the waiter asked, confused. The entire table was watching, as if this was the most exciting part of the cruise so far. “You did request the vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free, lactose-free, low-sodium option, is that correct, sir?”
Zoe had a brief moment of panic, wondering exactly how many guns Sawyer might have stashed under Mr. Michaelson’s suitcoat.
“Oh!” she exclaimed with her mouth full. “Trust me, y’all. You do not want to see this man on gluten!”
He looked like he had other uses for her steak knife, but Sawyer managed to grin and hand the plate back to the waiter. “It’s a special occasion. Just bring me what she’s having.”
“Right away, sir,” the waiter said as Sawyer grabbed a piece of asparagus off Zoe’s plate, and she couldn’t help but look up at him, savoring the warmth and comfort and safety of being Mrs. Michaelson, wondering if it might be better than being herself.
