Chapter One
Angel Brayson stood on the deck of the cruise ship, but instead of enjoying the view of the never-ending expanse of water, she held her phone to her ear.
“No, Dad, pirates aren’t going to hijack the ship.”
“I don’t know why you had to go off by yourself. You should’ve stayed home. Matter of fact, go ahead and get off that damn boat and get home where I can keep you safe.”
“I am not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-five. I don’t need your permission.” She shoved her big sunglasses atop her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Even if I wanted to, the boat has already left shore.”
Not that she got to enjoy that either. She’d been too busy arguing with her dad. She loved him, but he was part of the reason she’d run off on this fourteen-day cruise to start with. She needed a break. From him, from Nashville… from everything.
“You can swim. You can’t be that far from shore yet.”
“I’m hanging up, Dad. Love you.”
She ended the call, turned off her phone, and released a big pent up breath. She tuned out the people around her and focused on the waves. The salty air tingled on her skin. The sun shone high overhead and warmed her bare shoulders. She shoved her glasses and phone into her black cherry backpack and ambled along the railing.
She’d never been this far from home without family or friends, but wasn’t it about time to figure out what she wanted to do with her life?
Thrand obviously wasn’t it.
The pain was still sharp. Not because she’d lost him—because how could you lose something you never had? But because she’d lost a lot of time waiting for Thrand to open his eyes and see her.
Except he saw someone else.
It was a lot like being dumped over the head with ice water. It left her cold, alone and shivering. Seeing Thrand with his girl, Cassie, and then watching her cousin, Ethan, get engaged was enough to make her scream.
No way in hell was she going to the wedding. Right now, all that mushy shit set off her gag reflex.
What she needed was time away. Fresh air with people she’d never seen in places she’d never been.
She wandered the decks aimlessly. The sheer size of the ship staggered her. Like a floating city, she passed everything a girl could ever want. From shopping malls and salons to clubs and bars. She stepped into an elevator and hit Deck Six.
A cruise in June seemed to be a hotbed for a lot of that mushy crap she was trying to avoid. The couple in the elevator were not helping her gag reflex. Nor was the pin the ‘bride’ wore.
She hurried off, found her room, and pushed into the tiny stateroom. Her bags were already there and she walked around the king bed and then slid open the glass door. She’d splurged and her reward was the small balcony with the ocean view.
Perfect.
She closed her eyes. Just be. Nothing but the sound of the waves reached her ears. She collected all her thoughts and stuffed them in a box. Be. She could reflect later. There was plenty of time. She stretched her arms up over her head, spread her fingers wide, pushed up on tip-toes and breathed.
Let it go.
Her heart beat. Her pulse was light. She opened her mouth and… screamed.
Long.
Loud.
The sound got lost in the waves.
She opened her eyes, laughed, and pushed at her cropped hair. Ah, yes. Much better. Nothing like a little scream-therapy. It was totally underrated for dealing with daily shit-storms in life. Or in her case, years of stupid.
She turned her attention to her clothes, shook out the wrinkles and hung up her dresses. Mostly black, with splashes of red and white dominated the closet. She picked out one, tugged it on, and slipped on her wedges. Cherry-red lipstick finished off her look before she headed out.
“I’m telling you, this is made wrong.” Angel eyed the bartender and held up the offending drink. It tasted like vitriol and gasoline.
“Lady, that’s how I make my drinks. They have bite. People go on cruises to get drunk.”
“Probably true and bite is fine. But this is sex-on-the-beach. It’s supposed to be fruity. It’s for girls.” She narrowed her eyes on his nametag. “Donny, I’m a bartender. Best one around. So let me show you how it’s made. You’ll sell more drinks if they actually taste good.”
“You?” The guy looked her up and down and sniggered. “You look more like—”
“Don’t say it, punk.” She pointed a finger at him, sat on the bartop, swiveled, and plopped down on his side.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“Shut up, watch, and learn.” She smirked and poured eight different ingredients into the shaker.
“That is not how you make it. Lady, you’re kooky.”
“I may be kooky, but these are my specialty. I sell a shit-ton of these.” She poured the mixture into a glass and handed it to him. “Try it.”
He took a sip. “You can’t taste the alcohol.”
“That’s the point. It hits ’em about number three, depending on how lightweight they are.” She hopped back on the bar, turned, and slid back onto her barstool. She stopped the first guy she saw by shoving the drink at him. “Try this.”
*
Cole Rosin stopped just short of running into the drink that was shoved at his chest. His gaze tracked the pale slender arm to a girl. Straight, black hair framed a doll-like face with storm blue eyes and red lips. He raised a brow.
“Why? Is it poisoned?”
Her smile transformed her. Warmth emerged from that porcelain skin and those eyes twinkled with mischief. “I’m bad, but not that bad. But no. I just want to know which you like better. This one,” she held up the one in her hand, then pointed at the glass on the bar. “Or that one.”
He stepped up to the bar, took the glass and sipped. “A girl drink.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just tell me if it tastes good.”
Her fingernails were painted black, her dress was black with red cherries all over it, and she reminded him of a fifties pin-up. Pale, bare shoulders, and all. Intrigued, he took another drink, rolled it around on his tongue and gave it more thought.
“Yes, it’s good. Although, I’m not sure I’m the best judge.” She waved a hand for him to drink the other one. He took a sip of it and choked. “Are these supposed to be the same drinks?”
She gave the bartender a cheeky smile and picked up the good drink. “There’s your proof. Do it right next time.”
She slid off her stool and tilted her head up so those dark blues met his. “Thanks, darlin’.”
Her voice trailed up his spine as she sauntered off. A pin-up girl with a southern accent. She had to be the most interesting thing he’d seen in years. As interesting as the large day-of-the-dead girl tattooed on her left shoulder.
“Wait up.” He caught up to her, and her dismissive look made him hesitate, but only for a moment. “With an accent like that, I gotta ask where you’re from.”
Did I really just say that? If he didn’t think it would make it worse, he would have smacked his forehead.
She rolled her eyes and twirled the straw in her drink. “Come up with that one all on your own, did ya?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Yes. I did. And that was pathetic. I’ll slink off now. You have a nice evening.”
He turned on his heel and walked away. Nothing like a dose of dumbass to embarrass himself. And he hadn’t been embarrassed in years. He raked a thumb across his chin and stepped out onto the deck. Overhead, a million stars greeted him.
He found a quiet part of the ship and leaned his arms over the railing. He should be in his room, going over the plans for the new house he was contracting. Not making a fool of himself and now brooding about it. He’d once been known for his smooth words with the ladies. Not so smooth anymore.
“Nashville,” a feminine voice said beside him. “I’m a bartender. So where are you from and what do you do, handsome?”
He grinned and faced her. “
Denver, and I’m a contractor. Tell me it wasn’t pity that sent you out here.”
She gripped the railing behind her and wrinkled her nose. “A lil.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m okay with pity.”
She laughed and looked up at the night. “Gosh, the sky is big here.”
Her skin was almost luminescent in the darkness, but he tore his gaze away and looked up with her. “Same night sky you see every day at home. And everyone sees the same sky. The only difference is perception.”
“Ah, but that’s the tricky part. Perception can be such a bitch.”
“Very true. I’m sure your perception of me is a poor one.”
She slanted her eyes at him. “It’s improving.”
“Since cliché lines are my mantra, is this your first cruise.”
“It is. First time I’ve needed a passport, and it’s long overdue.” A somber expression settled across her face. It bothered him. She had a smile that lit up her eyes.
“My family has been on many cruises. You might say they have a travel fetish. I know all the good places to see away from most of the touristy traps. We’ll be in Grand Turk tomorrow. Would you like to go ashore with me?”
Her red lips quirked. “You’re not a pirate, are you?”
“Pirate?” He laughed. “No. Is that a problem?”
“My dad was sure the boat would be hijacked by pirates. And Dad also said not to go anywhere with strangers, and since I don’t know your name…” Her shoulder came up in a shrug. “I guess I’ll have to say no.”
“Your dad is a wise man.” He stuck out his hand. “Cole Rosin. And you are?”
She slid her hand into his, and a shock prickled up his arm and the back of his neck. Her eyes widened and her lips parted.
“Angel,” she said in hushed tones. “Angel Brayson.”
Her small, pale hand fit nicely into his. He reveled in its softness against his calloused one. Awareness spread through him. A new sensation. Something he’d never experienced. It left him unsettled, unsure, because he read the same surprise in her eyes.
She pulled her hand from his, put it on her hip, and took a step back. She tilted her head so the moonlight highlighted the angles of her face. “Have we met before?”
He shook his head and curled his hand to keep her warmth there. “No. I’m positive I would have remembered.”
Her brows furrowed, and warring thoughts flickered across her face. Had they not touched, he was sure she would have agreed. But there was something in that touch.
He felt it.
He was sure she did too because her retreat had been immediate.
“Angel,” he said and relaxed his stance. “I have no hidden agenda.”
She arched a brow. “Are you trying to assure me you have no intention of trying to get in my panties?”
Her blunt speech made him choke. “I guess, in my polite way, yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to say.”
Her flirty smile was back, along with the twinkle in her eye. “All right. Since you seem so sincere.”
She pulled an extremely colorful phone from the pocket of her dress and handed it to him. “Put in your number. In case I change my mind.”
He took it, punched in his number, and shook his head. “You plan on ditching me?”
“Not necessarily. But before I go…you said you were from Denver, yet you have a lilt to your voice. An accent.”
“You are very suspicious,” he said and handed back her phone.
“Matter of fact, I am. So instead of wondering, I just ask, then I can mull over whether or not you’re lying.”
He barked out a laugh. “As I said, my parents loved to travel. I was born in Rio De Janeiro. I speak Portuguese and Spanish fluently. That is what you’re hearing.”
She tapped her phone against her chin, obviously weighing his words. “Plausible.”
“So what could be your hidden agenda?” He decided to turn the tables. This verbal sparring was as refreshing as it was exasperating. He wasn’t used to being questioned. In his world, his word was taken as fact. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.
“I have none.” Her big eyes stared up at him, but he couldn’t read them. Partly because he didn’t know her, but mostly because he was sure she didn’t want him to read her.
“See you tomorrow, Cole,” she said as she turned and walked away.
He looked down at his hand and opened it. Her warmth was already gone, but the tingle she’d created lingered. He rubbed the center of his palm with this thumb. It had been two years since his wife died and he hadn’t been a saint.
Yet no one had ever left such a quiver of awareness.
A stranger named Angel.
He looked up at the empty space she had occupied. He had the rest of the cruise to figure out what that sensation meant, if anything.
Ashlynn Pearce
Were it not for Hope, the Heart would Break…
Once upon a time…You ain’t gonna believe this shit!
(I always wanted to start a bio like that!) But seriously—scrap that, I’m not serious, but I do love to write. Create characters. Give them hope that there is something better around the corner. It’s my passion. I live and breathe stories. When I’m not arguing with the characters in my head (yes, I do that, you can ask my hubby who thinks I’m nuts btw), I’m taking care of said hubby, my two kids and a melee of furbabies. I’m Okie born and bred and, yes, we get a lot of twisters and, no, there aren’t any teepees around that I’ve seen.
Come on over, say hi and see what I’m up to!
www.AshlynnPearce.com
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Twitter: @Ashlynn_Pearce
Check out the one that started it all… FUEL DirtSlap Series #1.
Wreck Page 17
