Page 89 of Without a Clue

“Where?” he says.

His head swings automatically toward the door and he throws me back, one arm stretched behind, the other out toward the door. His body serving as a middleman between me and the unknown threat.

“Sorry,” I say weakly. I rub my forehead. “Sorry, I just . . . I saw you slumped over in the chair and . . . for a second . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all on edge.” He rubs his face with his hands. Waking himself back up. Looking back at his computer.

I run a hand over my matted hair, embarrassed.

Nash has done so much, been so much, and what have I done?

What have I helped?

Nothing.

He’s carried me down the hall. He’s taken me—or attempted to take me—to dinner. He’s announced he loves me, a wreck such as myself.

And so far I’ve had a migraine and made him sit in the dark.

I have brought a total sum of nothing to the table.

Per usual.

I look out toward the lamp.

Stride over, anxious to turn it on and get some light in here.

To find something productive to do with my hands.

My eyes land on the curtains. The entryway to the little balcony, where one table and two chairs sit.

And I have an idea.

Chapter 17

Let’s start by saying: Nash was up anyway.

My little flash of terror moment jolted him awake. He wasn’t planning to fall back asleep anytime soon.

Which was perfect for letting me try out my idea.

I’m not going to say I forced Nash into the bathroom to take a shower while I prepped, but he was forbidden to come out of there until I got everything set up.

Turns out, having a slew of personal staff available on a gold-star ship can come in handy at midnight in a pinch.

One call to the front office, with only half a ring before they answered, and five minutes later three staff members were lined up at my door, each with arms laden.

I took the silver platters.

And the armful of candles.

And the rolling three-tier carts.

Nobody asked questions. Nobody showed any expression on their face.

I have no idea what other people do or ask for on this ship at midnight, but it was plain as day that they have seen weirder.

Now, as Nash emerges, hatless with hair dewy and fresh flannel, I’m waiting.