Page 59 of Ruining His Smirk

16

Garrett

In the ship’s laundry room, I stood in front of one of the machines with a load bundled under one arm and stared at the screen.

The preparation instructions for the submersible dive had been very specific. Loose, comfortable layers. Warm, but not bulky. Unfortunately, I had run out of thermal tops, and I didn’t want to subject Nate to my musky smell while we were trapped inside a submersible. I’d gone to Dexter first to borrow a thermal top, only to discover he had apparently left on a Zodiac outing with Hillary and some of the crew to collect ice core samples. My brother’s clothing situation was even more dire. In the end, I collected his clothes and added them to mine.

I checked my watch. I had just enough time to run one quick load before I needed to be on the stern deck. That was assuming I could persuade the damn machine to wash anything. I tapped the screen. It lit up with a grid of choices that made no sense.Why could there not be one ordinary dial marked hot, warm, and cold?

I pressed “Everyday.”

The screen changed. Another list appeared, this one even longer and filled with even more ridiculous choices. I gawked at it in disbelief. It was a washing machine for fuck’s sake, not a rocket launch pad.

I understood machinery. Machinery was literally how I made my living. But this junk had been over-designed to perform the simple task of getting sweat out of fabric.

I selected “Mixed expedition fabrics” in exasperation. The door unlocked with a soft click.

“Finally.”

I pulled it open, shoved the load inside, and closed it again. The machine made a polite chime. I waited, holding my breath.

Detergent choice required.

I looked along the front of the machine for some kind of pullout. It was smooth as a baby’s bottom. I crouched and examined all four sides of the machine. There was nowhere to add the detergent, and I was losing precious seconds.

“Where the hell do you want me to put it?”

The screen offered no answer.

“You know what? Fine.”

I was over this piece of crap. I could hand-wash what I needed. I reached for the machine door and pulled. It would not open. I pulled again. I pressed and held the start button. The message disappeared, replaced by another.

Current selection: Extended Polar Bio Containment Refresh.

Estimated completion: 4 hours 38 minutes.

Panic struck. “No. No, no, no.”

I grabbed the handle and pulled hard. The door remained locked. I braced one foot against the base and yanked again as if the machine might respond better to physical authority. It did not move so much as a fraction of an inch. “You useless, overeducated piece of shit!”

The screen flashed.

Please do not force the door.

I froze. The machine had sensors. Of course it had sensors. For all I knew, the damn thing was recording me through a hidden camera and preparing to send footage directly to the captain with a report titled “Guest attempts to assault laundry equipment.”

I slowly released the handle. Kicking it would probably trigger an alarm. I checked my watch again. Fuck. There was no time to find someone, confess defeat, and wait for them to explain how to wash one sweater without quarantining it until morning.

I rubbed my face. What was I going to do? Then Nate entered my mind.

Nate owned at least fifty million sweaters. I swallowed what remained of my pride and left the laundry room with my tail tucked between my legs.

Our cabins were close together. I knocked.

No answer.

I waited a few seconds and knocked again. I tried the handle only to see whether the door was locked. It opened an inch.