Page 31 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

The emotion I feel watching Hope when I wake up is not a “cruise ship hookup” feeling.

It’s the same feeling that sprang up in me last night as I was fucking her. This deep desire to be inside her. Not just physically—but emotionally. Intellectually. To truly know her.

It’s something soft I haven’t felt in ages.

Maybe ever.

I can’t believe how soon I’m going to have to let go of it.

Not one sliver of me wants to.

So instead, I let myself imagine her walking around my flat in London in one of my old T-shirts.

Sitting in a booth at the Smoke and Gun with my mates after we close, laughing with them over a pint and a bag of crisps.

Coming to Sunday lunch in Hampshire and eating my mother’s roast lamb and duck fat potatoes as we banter with my sisters.

Driving down to the coast to look at country inns. Living out her fantasy in the English countryside. The one that could merge so easily with my own dreams for the future.

I get out my phone and go on Rightmove to search for historic houses for sale near Devon.

Just to see.

I discover I could afford one.

My pubs have done very well, and I keep my expenses low and put my savings in the market, investing with the advice of my sisters. I have a solid nest egg.

What if I did use it to radically transform my life?

And what if there was some farfetched configuration of the future where that life involved Hope?

I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop excitement from tingling through my fingertips when I see the listing for a large manor house that’s currently being run as an inn.

I click on the hotel’s website, which leads me to its Instagram account.

I rarely use social media, but I do occasionally log on to see pictures of friends’ weddings and babies, so I open the app.

I have a notification for an unread DM. It’s from someone called @FYIFelixSegrave.

Weird.

I open it. There’s no message, just a repost of a reel from someone named @LaurenLuvRose.

I click on it, and a video starts playing.

In it, Lauren—Hope’s Lauren—is sitting in an airy flat holding up a glossy Romance of the Sea brochure.

“Hey girlies!” she says. “Lordy Lordy, do I have an update. So you know we’re always on a quest to find the most eligible bachelors in the land, right?

Well, I have a new idea, and I think it might be my best one yet.

Have you heard of luxury cruises? You know, the elegant kind where they serve food on fine china and give you a butler and sail to paradise?

Well, guess what else they tend to have?

An older clientele. A well-heeled older clientele that includes many lonely singles. ”

She winks. “So guess what? I’m leaving for one in two weeks.

The ship is called the Romance of the Sea , so how could I not fall in love?

I’m going with my bestie and we are going to find us some wealthy husbands, babydoll!

” A picture of the Romance sailing pops up above her head, and “Gold Digger” by Kanye West starts playing.

“Follow my journey!” Lauren says. “I’ll share all my tips for beguiling single gentlemen of means at sea. And wish us luck!”

The fuck?

They’re here to meet rich husbands?

This must be a joke.

I click on Lauren’s account and see that she’s been posting furiously the whole time we’ve been on the cruise. Every post has tens of thousands of likes.

There’s one of her posing seductively in front of the pool in her swim kit.

The caption reads: “Aquacise might sound boring, but it’s a great way to get just the right kind of attention.

Men love a hot girl bouncing in the water.

” It’s followed by a multitude of smiling devil emojis, followed by a multitude of splash emojis.

Okay, this can’t be real. It’s so over-the-top it’s parody. Lauren is obviously playing a prank.

And here I am falling for it, same as always.

I’m about to wake up Hope to tell her I’ve almost been had.

But there’s so many more posts that it gives me pause. I keep scrolling.

I scan over Lauren in revealing gym clothes, remarking that outdoor sports are a great way of finding fit men.

Beach selfies and sunset selfies, with makeup and styling tutorials tagged to various brands, all of them with tips for looking your most attractive when on the hunt for “eligible suitors,” which seems to be Lauren’s code for rich guys.

The “snagging” of which appears to be Lauren’s entire purpose.

Hope mentioned Lauren was an influencer, but she conveniently did not mention this.

And then I see a photo of Hope.

She’s in the outfit she wore the day of the cooking class, making eyes at the camera. There’s a caption: “My girl going out to snag a man looking smashing in #DiorCruise #ad.

What?

It’s one thing for Lauren to make a mockery of herself online.

But Hope? Hope is a sponsored post on an account about luring rich husbands ?

This can’t be real. It can’t.

I scan faster, looking for Hope’s face. Praying I don’t find it again.

But a few posts down there she is. She’s lying in bed in a turquoise and gold-printed caftan and dark sunglasses, looking impossibly glamorous.

The caption reads: “Bestie had a bout of seasickness, but her cruise beau came to her aid in the most romantic of ways. Never underestimate the power of needing rescue. Brings out a man’s desire to be a knight in shining armor. ” #romanceofthesea #versace #ad

The nausea sets in. I keep going.

And then I see my own bloody face.

It’s a video of me and Hope singing “Wuthering Heights” at karaoke. It’s overlaid with text reading: “It’s official! Bestie is in a shipmance with a HOT ENGLISH LORD. Can you even??? This has potential. Let’s root for their happily ever after!” #romanceofthesea #ad

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.

I look over at Hope, who’s still sleeping peacefully.

She’s all creamy skin, long lashes brushing against soft cheeks, hair splayed over the pillow, naked shoulders exposed, because beneath the covers she’s not wearing any clothes.

I would know.

I’m the guy who took them off her.

Lovingly, tenderly, while imagining that maybe we were meant to meet.

I can feel that tenderness receding like a flower closing with the dimming of the sun.

Details of the past week come back to me in bilious waves. All the chatter at supper about my family’s private equity fund. My sisters boasting of Dad’s connections, nattering on about yachts and ￡40,000 handbags.

Hope talking about her debt. Her frustration at her low-paying job. Her stress over money.

Her delight at my title.

Her dream of living in England—my home.

I feel myself reduced from a person into a juicy fucking mark.

“Hope,” I say. My voice comes out in a rasp.

She doesn’t stir.

I touch her shoulder. “Hope,” I say again.

Her eyelids flutter open, and those eyes that just hours ago I was so lost in look at me groggily.

She smiles at me. It’s the kind of smile you only give to a lover.

It almost makes me ill.

“Good morning,” she says.

I hold up my phone, my hand shaking. “What the fuck is going on here?”