Page 24 of Without a Clue
“And pistachio pudding.”
He chews on his lip thoughtfully as he watches me walk safely down the five doors, his hand on the knob of his own door. We’ve claimed the whole wing up here, eight doors for the seven authors plus myself. The library beyond it that will be used for our morning meetings and evening recaps, the dining hall around the corner. It’s the only spot on the ship with double-locked security: keys for entry once you get off the elevators; keys to get inside your rooms. It makes sense, I guess. The most luxurious rooms reserved for the guests with the most money, possessions, and, consequently, paranoia.
As I’m turning the key to my room, he calls out, “Er, listen, Pip. I haven’t said it before, but you know you can always count on me, right? If you ever need anything, anything at all, I just want you to know that . . . I’m here.”
For a moment, I don’t know how to reply.
“Thanks, Nash,” I say at last. “And . . . I know.”
Chapter 4
Glorious news.
Nobody died last night.
No dire phone calls came.
No suspicious text messages.
No screams for help.
I did order Hugh a nice homeopathic herbal tea to be delivered to his door in the a.m. that’s supposed to do wonders for stress relief, and all in all, with regard to last night: 1 point for the rational PA, Pip, and 0 points for Hugh.
I slept like a log, actually—when I finally did fall sleep, that is.
The soft purr of the cruise ship as we cut through the ocean was quite the sleeping aid—though I doubt it helped poor Jackie, who’s been downing Dramamine like it’s water.
No, for me, the crisp white satin sheets and thick downy comforter were like slumbering in the comforting arms of a kind, rocking polar bear, and the dreams that fell in likewise were nothing short of extraordinary.
It was the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in six weeks.
Perhaps my spell was broken, my curse over.
The star shower healed me. The beauty, the peace, the fact that I was so far away from all the troubles behind . . . the conversation with Nash . . . it was all restorative. Being back with Nash alone did something to me, quietly closing the door and setting me back in place. I hadn’t even realized how off I’d felt with him all the way across the continent for so long, out of reach of our usual conversations.
But listen to me. I sound like I’m in love.
It’s not love. It’s just . . . well, it’s hard to explain. I guess all I can say is, Nash fills a specific place in my life that nobody else can, and when he’s not around, a part of my life is lacking.
Simple.
At any rate, coffee calls.
I push the sheets off me and rush through the prep work of the morning. Shower. Teeth. Run a comb through my unruly hair. Don an olive-green sweater to go over my black leggings. Take tiny scissors and give my bangs a millimeter trim so they just barely graze my glasses.
Everything to scream I don’t really care about my appearance and am willing to do the bare minimum as a professional . . . until I swing back and give my blue eyes an extra deep line of liner to make them pop. Another layer or two of mascara until my lashes (annoyingly but prettily) hit my glasses every time I blink.
I look like a deer. A surprised deer that’s spotlit by headlights and about to get run over. But still, a cute doe-like deer.
Done.
Somewhere between stepping out of bed and out of the shower, a cream envelope has been slipped under the door. My name is on it, in the kind of handwritten calligraphy brides-to-be fight over.
I rip it open.
The weather across the transatlantic will be brisk today, I’m informed, reaching a blustery high of 56 with partly sunny skies. There’s a list a mile long of extracurricular activities, all continuing on the outskirts of our book cruise program. Half of the happenings go on in the deepest part of the ship, which, thanks to my lovely new claustrophobic situation as a thank-you gift from cave diving with Hugh, I skip over.
I check my phone one more time for any missing messages needing attention, check my reflection one last time, and shut the door behind me.
