Page 4 of Snatching Jackie (Wintermoon Shorts #5)

JACKIE

Wintermoon Cruise

I pull my four luggage bags down to the boarding area at the Detroit Riverfront, wondering if I’ve overpacked.

No, that’s impossible—there’s a bag for everything.

One for my underwear, one for my shoes, one for my clothing, and one for my toiletries and makeup.

There’s no such thing as overpacking when you’re going to be on a cruise for five days. A girl needs options.

Sweat beads along my hairline as I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. This Michigan summer heat is no joke—I’m practically melting. One thing about Michigan: sure, it gets all four seasons, but when summer hits, it hits hard, even if it’s just for a short time.

The breeze off the Detroit River offers a momentary reprieve. Through it drifts the distant moan of boat horns.

I finally join the line with the rest of the passengers, making sure my luggage is standing upright on its rolling wheels before smoothing down my cute summer dress.

I’ve paired it with comfortable flip flops, and my hair is pulled up into a high ponytail because in this summer heat, I’d be sweating buckets with it down.

The line stretches what seems like a half mile long, but thankfully, it’s moving quickly. I’m not surprised the ship is fully booked—these Wintermoon Cruises have become the hottest vacation trend for those who can’t afford the Tourist Island.

The annoyance of the radicals protesting several yards from us is something I’m trying hard to ignore.

They’re holding up signs with supernatural slurs—“FANGS GO HOME,” “SHIFTERS = ANIMALS NOT HUMANS,” “PROTECT HUMAN RIGHTS FROM MONSTER MENACE”—and chanting through megaphones for us not to board the ship.

One particularly vocal woman is screaming about how we’re “traitors to our own kind” for giving money to “those creatures.” The police are keeping them at a distance, but their hate-filled voices carry easily across the boarding line.

Directly in front of me stands a couple engaged in full PDA—kissing, laughing, hands roaming freely.

The man keeps grabbing the woman’s ass, and she giggles each time, playfully swatting at his chest. I frown in annoyance, not because they’re being inappropriate, but because I’m envious. They look happy.

And that’s when it hits me: when was the last time I knew love? Love? Never. I’ve been in two relationships in my lifetime, and both were absolute failures. Neither man truly appreciated me or understood my worth.

The couple looks like they stepped straight out of an Instagram ad for a cruise sponsorship.

She’s stunning, with flawless cocoa skin and box braids adorned with gold cuffs that fall neatly down her back.

Her matching two-piece set highlights her slim figure, and her makeup and manicure are both impeccable.

He’s tall and athletic, sporting a fresh fade, designer sunglasses, and an outfit that coordinates perfectly with hers.

I stare as the line inches forward, the couple moving in sync without ever breaking eye contact.

Damn. I haven’t even thought about love in the past two years, so why now?

Is it this couple? Or the fact that I’m in my mid-thirties without the so-called American dream—the husband, the home, and now my business might be failing if I can’t find another location.

The thought of reprinting business cards, updating my address everywhere. .. the whole thing grates on me.

I groan, and it’s that sound that catches the lovely couple’s attention. The woman turns, eyeing me up and down with narrowed eyes.

“Is there a problem?” she asks, her tone slightly defensive.

I give her my brightest smile. “Oh no, just thinking about my life is all.”

I can tell immediately that she’s a bit insecure, the way her eyes narrow signaling she’s ready to attack and probably make a mockery of me in this line. The last thing I want is beef with some influencers on a cruise ship. These days, people do the wildest shit for content and engagement.

Instead of escalating, I assess her outfit admiringly. “Those Louboutin sandals are everything. And is that a Cartier watch? Girl, your French square nails are giving me life—the whole look is so put together.”

Her frown suddenly transforms into a blush. “Thank you,” she says, her defensive posture softening. She slaps her man playfully on the chest. “I couldn’t even get him to notice or appreciate the work I put in.”

“Men don’t see things the way we do,” I reply with understanding. “But they show it in their actions. He may not have verbally showed his appreciation, but he’s definitely showing it.” I give a knowing smirk. “He can’t keep his hands off you.”

She blushes again as her man pulls her back into his arms, grabbing her ass unabashedly. She giggles, then looks back at me as the line moves forward.

“I like you,” she says, pulling away from him. “You’ve got a way with words.”

“I’m just a girl trying to enjoy my vacation after the week I’ve had,” I admit. “But sometimes the thoughts keep creeping in.”

“I know the feeling,” she says sympathetically, extending her hand. “I’m India.”

I let go of my luggage handle to greet her. “Jackie.”

“This is my boyfriend Kendrick,” she adds, smiling at the handsome man beside her.

“We’re just on a couples retreat,” India explains. “Trying to get away from work and social media for a few days.”

Just then, one of the protestors’ chants grows particularly loud. Kendrick turns his head toward them, nodding slightly.

“You know, they’re not wrong,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “These supernaturals think they can just take over everything. Look at what’s happening to Detroit.”

India shifts uncomfortably beside him, her eyes flicking to me as if gauging my reaction.

“Kendrick, please,” she whispers. “Not now.”

I keep my smile fixed in place, though inside I’m thinking, He’s a radical? What the hell is he doing boarding the ship then?

Kendrick notices my expression and shrugs, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal a holstered gun at his hip. My eyes widen, and he taps the weapon lightly.

“Michigan law,” he says simply. “I have a right to carry. They can’t deny me boarding just because I want to feel safe.”

“If you don’t like supernaturals,” I ask carefully, still maintaining my pleasant expression, “why visit their spaces at all?”

Kendrick’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because I have the same rights they do. They can’t stop me from enjoying myself.”

I keep smiling, determined not to engage further. Being labeled a supernatural lover is worse than any crime these days. I’m trying to enjoy my vacation, not get into an argument with someone who’s clearly looking for one.

I keep up small talk with the couple as the line progresses, steering the conversation away from politics and toward neutral topics.

This helps pass the time and manages the intrusive thoughts about my world being turned upside down.

It was so hard to smile and be supportive while I got Monet together for her birthday party yesterday.

“Fake it ’til you make it” was an understatement.

And I know Monet saw right through me because she kept asking what was wrong.

Finally, the line stops where two large shifters stand at what appears to be the outdoor cruise terminal—a series of white tents with check-in stations and luggage handling areas.

Kendrick and India turn in their luggage, but I notice that the shifters keep staring at me, grinning in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

I’m not sure if I should be flattered or irritated.

As I start pulling my bags forward, one of the shifters—a tall Black male with unusually bright brown eyes that practically glow—comes around and grabs my bags.

His Wintermoon Cruise uniform is crisp and professional, a navy blue suit with gold accents and the cruise logo embroidered on the breast pocket.

Despite his professional appearance, there’s something wild about him that no uniform can contain.

“I’ve got it, sister,” he says.

His partner, equally tall with silver eyes that mark him as supernatural, takes my boarding pass and information. They’re both fully human in appearance except for their height, size, and those distinctive eyes that are a dead giveaway that they aren’t human.

They tag my bags with the room number and add them to one of the luggage carts.

“Are you here for safe passage to Wintermoon?” the first shifter asks, his brown eyes studying me intently.

I furrow my brow at the question. “No, I thought they don’t dock on the tourist island. I’m just here for the cruise.”

The second shifter growls—actually growls—at his colleague. “Stop being weird. You know we can’t be pushy anymore. It has to be a choice.”

The first shifter growls back, a low, guttural sound that twists something deep in my gut.

The second shifter hands me my boarding pass. “Enjoy your trip, Ms. Murphy.”

I walk around them, looking back with confusion. “That was weird,” I mutter to myself.

Were they implying that I have the fated scent? I snort at the thought. No way. That’s just ridiculous.

I walk over to the boarding area where India and Kendrick have already disappeared inside. A human staff member in the same navy uniform scans my ticket, then gives me a small gift bag with the Wintermoon Cruise logo.

“Welcome to Wintermoon Cruise,” he says with a practiced smile. “Enjoy your journey.”

I thank the attendant and step onto the gangway, the metal structure vibrating slightly with each step. As I board the ship, the temperature immediately drops by several degrees thanks to the powerful air conditioning—a blessed relief from the summer heat.

The main atrium is huge. Crystal chandeliers hang from high ceilings, throwing light across polished floors. Smells like fresh paint, wood polish, and something sweet—honey maybe, or vanilla.

To my left and right, small luxury boutiques line the walkway—jewelry, designer clothing, and high-end souvenirs. Straight ahead, a grand staircase curves upward to the higher decks, and glass elevators glide silently up and down transparent shafts.

Signs and arrows point to various amenities: “Starlight Restaurant,” “Moonbeam Lounge,” “Crystal Spa,” “Wintermoon Theater.” A large digital map stands near the elevators, and I walk over to it immediately, searching for the pool.

I could have gotten my nails and feet done before the trip, but since it’s included in my package, why not get it here?

I’m all about that soft girl treatment for this entire trip.

Based on all the couples I saw boarding, I might be the only single woman on this ship. I place my hand on my hip, mentally planning out my trip before heading to my cabin. The keycode is on my boarding pass, and if I have trouble, I can visit the reception desk for help.

“Hey, Jackie.”

I turn to find Kendrick standing behind me, without India. I give him a brief look before returning my attention to the map.

“Hey, Kendrick. Where’s India?”

“She went to look for the café. She can’t function without an iced chai,” he says with a chuckle.

“That’s funny. And cute,” I reply, still studying the map. “Do you need to see this? I can step aside.”

My eyes narrow when he gives me a sultry look that’s completely inappropriate. Oh hell no, he is not hitting on me right now. The audacity of men never ceases to amaze me.

“A sexy woman like you traveling all alone?” he asks, leaning closer. “That’s a shame.”

I just stare at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I’m a girls’ girl, and I’m definitely going to say something to India later, but with what proof? It’s my word against his.

“Even single girls gotta have a nice time,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Well, I’m gonna go find my room.”

“I’ll walk you up,” he offers, stepping closer.

Just then, we both hear India calling for him in the distance. I use the distraction to slip away, stepping into the elevator just as it slides open.

As it begins to close, Kendrick blows me an air kiss while winking. I respond with a cold glare, saying nothing.

Fucking asshole.

Oh, I’m going to have some fun this vacation.