Page 19 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

Stars dot the inky blackness above while the waves below reflect their glimmer, creating the illusion that we’re suspended in a sphere of twinkle lights.

It’s dimly lit, the music is perfectly soft, and the scent of all things delicious makes my stomach rage with hunger. Suffice it to say, I don’t do well having to wait for my meal. I’m much better suited for the buffet.

The Sky Lounge is a study in understated elegance with crisp white tablecloths, silver candelabras with dancing flames, and discreet Christmas touches in the form of tasteful evergreen arrangements with hints of gold and burgundy.

Across from me, Wes looks transformed in his perfectly tailored suit, a far cry from his usual captain’s whites.

I, meanwhile, am doing my best impression of a holiday ornament in a glittering gold gown that arrived mysteriously at my cabin door this afternoon, courtesy of Elodie.

The troublemaker included a note that read, If you’re going to have an affair with the captain, you may as well do it with style.

Ransom found this amusing, which is the only reason I’m wearing the dress and not throwing it overboard.

A server appears with our entrées—butter-poached lobster tail arranged like a work of art beside prime rib that practically dares you not to swoon. The aroma is intoxicating, rich with garlic, herbs, and the promise of calories well spent.

“I have to say,” I remark, taking in our surroundings, “Tinsley didn’t exaggerate about this place.”

“A rare occurrence,” Wes agrees with a smile, raising his champagne flute. “To unexpected victories and their rewards.”

I clink my glass against his. “And to marshmallow marksmanship. Who knew it was in your skill set?”

“The Naval Academy,” he says with mock seriousness. “Semester three is nothing but confectionery projectiles.”

“That explains why you’re so sweet under pressure.”

He laughs, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget we’re on a ship with a murder to solve. The lobster melts on my tongue, and I close my eyes briefly to savor it.

“So,” I ask after a blissful moment of culinary euphoria, “how are you enjoying having your classmates aboard? Murder notwithstanding, of course.”

Wes considers this while cutting into his prime rib with surgical precision.

“Let’s just say it’s been illuminating. Sometimes people change so much you hardly recognize them, and other times it’s like we never left Carrington.

” He shakes his head. “And how I wish there wasn’t a killer among them. Missy was polarizing, but...”

“But murder is an extreme reaction to annoying personality traits,” I finish for him.

“Precisely.” He takes a thoughtful sip of his champagne. “However, I must admit, I’m not entirely surprised.”

“Oh?” My detective antenna perks up like a cat spotting a laser pointer.

“Missy had a talent for discovering the most destructive secrets and using them for maximum effect. She once revealed an affair between our Latin teacher and the headmaster’s wife—at the school’s Christmas fundraiser, no less.”

“ Ooh ,” I wince. “Spreading holiday cheer, one scandal at a time.”

“You jest, but she truly thought she was performing a public service. And given the facts, she might have been.” He shakes his head. “She brought that same moral certainty to her adult life. Take her situation with Theo, for instance.”

“What situation?”

“Missy wanted him—badly—but Theo only had eyes for Ginger. Always has, since we were teenagers. His obsession knew no bounds.” Wes gives a mournful smile as he picks up my hand from across the table.

“Some might say it’s sort of like my obsession with you,” he teases then winces immediately. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m forever flattered,” I say with a laugh.

“I’ll admit,” he continues with a sheepish wince. “I wish it had been me on that altar with you that day. And that it was Ransom marrying us instead of the other way around.”

“He would have landed a bullet in your chest,” I assure him, although I can’t help but smile at the image.

Wes nods. “You’re worth a bullet or two.”

Someone clears their throat from behind me. “I’m still packing heat.”

I’m about to jump right out of my body. But thankfully, I don’t.

Instead, I turn to find Ransom standing there in his own body—in a well-tailored Italian suit, no less, looking unreasonably handsome and just a touch wicked.

My heart does a little somersault that has nothing to do with the champagne.

Wes laughs without a trace of embarrassment on his face. “And that’s exactly why I asked you to show up,” he says to Ransom before nodding my way. “Now that we’ve had dinner, I’m bowing out. Ransom, you can have my dessert.”

With that, Wes rises, squeezes my shoulder, and claps Ransom on the back as he passes. “Enjoy the view,” he says, and I’m not entirely sure he’s talking about the stars.

Ransom slides into the vacated seat, his eyes never leaving mine. “You look sparkling tonight.”

“It’s the dress,” I deflect, feeling my cheeks heat under his gaze.

“I can promise it’s not the dress.”

The server appears with dessert—a chocolate mousse cake so decadent it probably violates several international treaties. Two spoons are placed on the table, along with a fresh glass of champagne for Ransom.

“So,” Ransom says, lifting his glass, “should I be jealous?”

“Of Wes or this cake? Because the cake is giving you some serious competition.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He offers me a bite from his spoon, a gesture so unexpectedly intimate that I feel a blush creeping up my neck.

“I can’t believe you knew about this.” I nod toward his perfectly timed appearance.

“Wes and I might have come to an arrangement.” His smile turns slightly predatory. “He gets the dinner; I get the dessert. And the dancing. And the girl.”

“Sneaky.”

“Strategic,” he corrects, rising and extending his hand. “Speaking of which, may I have this dance?”

The small dance floor is empty. It’s a private stage with the stars as our only audience. A soft jazz melody plays from hidden speakers as Ransom pulls me into his arms, with one hand at the small of my back and the other clasping mine.

“You’re wearing the gown,” he observes as we sway to the music.

“Elodie made a compelling case.”

“Remind me to thank her.” His lips brush my ear. “You are stunning.”

“You’re just saying that because you like gold—and how this gown looks on the floor of our cabin.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he counters. “Although I might like it better in a puddle on the floor. This floor would do nicely.”

“Ransom!” I laugh. “As much as I’d love to oblige you, there are probably security cameras in here.”

“I’m head of security,” he reminds me. “I know exactly where the blind spots are.”

“Well, when you put it that way...” I murmur. “I’ll let you guide me toward a shadowy corner. For security purposes, of course.”

He lifts a brow. “Of course.”

We do just that, and then we dance under the Irish stars, the sea stretching endlessly around us, creating the illusion that we’re floating through the cosmos itself. For a moment, there are no murders to solve, no ghosts with unfinished business, or matchmaking spirits.

Just us, suspended in time.

When the music ends, Ransom doesn’t let go. “What do you say we take this party back to our cabin? I plan to worship you properly this time.”

“Is that a euphemism, Mr. Baxter?”

“It’s a promise.”

The walk back to our cabin takes approximately three eternities, although my watch insists it’s only four minutes. Ransom’s hand never leaves the small of my back, a possessive heat that makes every step feel like foreplay.

And once our door clicks shut behind us, his lips claim mine with the hunger of a man who’s been denied the real dessert he’s been craving all evening.

“Dessert, part two?” I murmur against his mouth.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a feast,” he replies, his fingers already finding the zipper of my dress. “And I intend to savor every... last... bite.”

My gold gown pools at my feet like champagne spilled on the floor—expensive, sparkly, and about to be completely forgotten for the next few hours.

“I should warn you,” I say as his lips trail down my neck. “I’ve been told I’m quite the acquired taste.”

“Lucky for you”—he whispers, lifting me into his arms and carrying me toward the bed—“I’ve always had a sophisticated palate.”

As it turns out, the dessert in the Sky Lounge was just the appetizer. The main course is considerably more satisfying, and unlike the chocolate mousse, there’s always room for seconds.

And thirds.

And just as we’re contemplating fourths, the ship’s alarm blares through the night.

Because nothing says romance interrupted quite like a seaside emergency.

And something tells me this isn’t just a drill.