Page 11 of Total Dreamboat
Hope
I awake to the dulcet tones of Lauren recording a video about the courtship opportunities provided by ballroom dancing, along with tips for assembling an outfit suited for cha-cha.
(Chiffon frills and sparkles encouraged.) I would love to spare myself the details by falling back asleep, but I have to check my work email to make sure Lana sent me the media list.
She has.
There is also, horribly, an email from Magda herself:
Hope—Where is the speech for Xeni to give at the TGE Games Investors Day? Not seeing it in the shared drive. Need ASAP!!!
Fucking hell. I don’t even work on the TGE Games account. Rather than pointing this out, which will only piss Magda off, I dig through the drive until I find it and send her the link.
“Are you working?” Lauren asks with a look of profound distaste.
“Yes,” I sigh. “Magda’s being needy.”
“I can’t believe she’s bothering you on vacation. You never take vacation.”
“In part because she harasses me when I try.”
“Shouldn’t you get dressed?”
“Yes,” I say, shutting my laptop. “What should I wear to a cooking class?”
“Um, given your boy is going to be there, something fetching, obviously.”
She’s not joining me for the class—she opted for an arduous mountain hike to see if she can meet “someone jacked” instead.
I don my cutest sundress—a flared blue vintage number with a flattering sweetheart neckline. I’m tempted to wear my wedge espadrilles—I like how they tie up my legs and give me a little more height—but they aren’t terribly comfortable and I doubt Felix finds hobbling sexy, so I opt for sneakers.
Lauren takes one look at me and immediately says, “No way.”
“What?” I ask.
“You are not hanging out with that boy wearing Keds. They don’t go with your dress.”
“I need to be able to walk,” I say.
“You also need to look hot. What else did you pack in that tiny little bag?”
I let her rummage in my suitcase, and she comes up with a pair of high-waisted white shorts with a flouncy tropical-print top that ties at the midriff.
“Better for showing off your legs,” she says. “But you still can’t wear those shoes.”
She examines what I brought—the sneakers, the espadrilles, a pair of heels, and some surprisingly cute Tevas—and scoffs at me. “Nope.”
“Shall I go barefoot?”
She sails over to the walk-in closet where our butler, Crisanto, meticulously arranged her seventeen pairs of shoes when he unpacked her bags. She selects a pair of pointy-toed flats.
“They look uncomfortable,” I say.
“They have a rubber sole and are made of recycled plastic bags, so they mold to your foot.”
“Let me guess. Brand partner?”
She nods. “And they paid very well.”
I slip them on. They’re actually quite comfortable, and they do nice things for my legs.
“Perfect,” Lauren says. “By the end of the day you’ll be married.”
“Is there a chapel on the boat?”
“No clue, but there’s definitely an Elvis impersonator, and I think they’re required to be wedding officiants by law.”
“I would actually love to be married by an Elvis impersonator.”
“I’ll start making a Pinterest for your wedding. I assume you want the cape and rhinestone jumpsuit era?”
“Obviously. Okay, I have to go.”
“Wait,” she says. She pops into the bathroom and comes out with a tube of lipstick. “Wear this.”
I open the cap and am blinded by a nearly fluorescent shade of coral.
“What is this color? Hot orange?”
She winks at me. “It’s Dior Cruise. And I get two thousand dollars every time I post about it.”
“I can’t wear this outside. I’ll look ridiculous.”
“No, you’ll look glamorous. Just try it.”
I put it on and gape at myself.
It’s amazing. My skin has never looked creamier, and my eyes have never looked greener. It perfectly complements my top.
“Wow,” I say.
“Told ya. Take it with you so you can refresh every two hours. And don’t lose it or I’ll make you reimburse me for lost income.”
God knows I already owe her enough money. I hold the tube protectively to my chest.
“I’ll treat it like a bar of gold.”
She holds up her phone. “Let me take your picture for posterity.”
I’m so happy with my appearance I actually want a photo. I turn to her and vamp for the camera. She takes several shots.
“You look like a goddamn pinup,” she exclaims, holding out her phone.
They might be the most flattering shots ever taken of me.
“Wow,” I say again.
I’m sure this lipstick is like eighty dollars, but I make a mental note to buy one next time I get paid.
“You need these on your dating profile,” Lauren says. “I’ll text them to you.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, even though I don’t currently have a dating profile. “I gotta go. Wish me luck.”
“Bonne chance, sugar.”
I leave and head down to the lounge where we’re meeting our guide for the excursion. I feel a bit self-conscious being this dolled up for a cooking class, but whatever. I want Felix to notice me.
No. I want him to covet me.
He’s already there when I walk through the doors to the lounge where we’re meeting our guide. His hair is damp, making me imagine him showering.
“Hi,” he says with a lopsided smile. He holds out a to-go cup. “I got you a coffee. Just in case.”
“You absolute prince,” I say, accepting the cup.
“I wasn’t sure how you take it so I went for an oat milk latte.”
“Lucky guess.”
He holds out his own coffee. “Cheers,” he says.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask, looking around.
“He bowed out. Ever since he retired he’s the king of the lie-in.”
I’m pleased to hear this. I want Felix all to myself.
“I guess we’ll have to get by on our own,” I say.
“I’ll warn you that I’m quite boring.”
“Oh good, so am I.”
He reaches into his pocket and pops a piece of gum into his mouth.
“Can I have a piece?” I ask, worried about coffee breath.
He flashes me a guilty look. “Yeah. But only if you like nicotine.”
“You smoke?” I ask, dismayed. I can’t stand the taste of cigarettes, and I’ve decided that I want to make out with him.
“No, not for two years,” he says. “Switched to gum to wean myself off the Marlboros and got hopelessly addicted.”
“What does it taste like?” I ask.
“Spearmint and mild euphoria.”
“Maybe I’ll borrow a piece if I need a kick.”
“You can keep it. My treat.”
The tour guide calls us and our six fellow participants to gather around, and reminds us to make sure we have our IDs and cruise wristbands. We follow her out the door and down a flight of stairs to the gangway, where a tender awaits to take us to shore.
The sea is choppy—the boat lurches up and down so forcefully it makes my ass hurt, and we all get sprayed by water. A woman runs to one of the windows and gags. Which is when I realize I forgot to pack the seasickness patch my doctor recommended.
Oh well. I’ve never gotten motion sickness before, and I feel fine.
A large, open-air Jeep meets us at the port to take us to the class. We pile in, three to a bench, and it’s extremely tight.
So tight that my entire right side is molded onto Felix’s left one.
His body is lean and hard, whereas mine is ample and soft, and we melt together.
The ride is bumpy and involves tight turns over terrifyingly vertiginous cliffside roads.
I wish it would go on forever.