Calamity Rayne: Gets A Life

by Lydia Michaels

  He laughed softly, his warm breath caressing my cheek like a million tiny feathers. “You’re not making any sense.”

  Irritated with my inebriated mind, I slurred, “I’m talking about almosts and guarantees. Almost only matters with horseshoes and hand grenades and the only guarantees we have in life are death and taxes.”

  “What does that have to do with what we were saying?”

  “I’m saying screw the rules. Do what you want. That’s how I got myself here on this fancy ship. You gotta take chances.”

  “Do what I want?”

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s what I meant to say.” I thought I’d said that.

  “Forget about the rules?” he muttered, and I swear we were getting even closer.

  “You and me…” I waved a finger between us. “We’re on the same page.”

  “How angry would you be if I kissed you right now?”

  I blinked. Maybe we weren’t on the same page—or were we? Was this another hallucination? “Me?”

  His lip hooked in a half grin as he removed my glass from my hand. “If we’re throwing out rules for the moment, why fight it?”

  “Oh, I’m against the rules,” I whispered, getting what he was getting at.

  His palm flattened on my lower back and pulled me forward. “Do you still think I should do what I want?” he murmured, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear.

  I nodded slowly, because let’s face it, I was beyond curious.

  I’d do him. Maybe not well, but I’d do my best. Even if we only did some kissing, that would be more doing than I’d done in the past year. I was due for some doing, and I was definitely half past tipsy.

  His finger traveled over the loose sleeve of my robe to the lapel, where it traced the slope of my breast. The moment his skin made contact with mine, shivers chased over my flesh, and my breasts turned into super sensitive beacons. My signals were waving his ship into harbor!

  Wow. Davenports really zeroed in on a target when they saw something they wanted. I couldn’t recall a man ever being so brazen, but I sort of liked it.

  And it was all-good until I self-consciously giggled and whispered, “Your finger’s on my boobie, Mr. Davenport.”

  He paused, looked into my eyes and back at his hand. “Should I move it?”

  I snorted. “Not on my account.”

  His arms dropped between us as he hastily tugged the belt of my robe and muttered, “You’re so fucking sexy. Just let me see you.”

  And then there was a cool breeze hitting my front from my navel to my nipples and I went utterly still. Yup, my robe was definitely open. Party hats and piñata on full display.

  His breathing turned labored, a soft echo between us. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, the backs of his fingers trailing over my stomach.

  “Um…” The words were there, but I didn’t want to say them, not when he kept touching me and filling me with all sorts of erotic urges.

  More importantly, were there condoms onboard? Someone had to have a condom. We only needed one, because this was going to end in a total letdown. Not on his part, but mine.

  A warning seemed the polite thing to do. “I should probably tell you now, I’m not real experienced with … the sex.”

  His gaze, which had been fastened to my chest, lifted and his brow creased. “You’re not a virgin.” He said this as if he’d already concluded as much and had the authority to inform me about my past exploits.

  “No.” There had been those three times. “I’m just not good at … the sex.”

  A disbelieving chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You’re not good at sex? Who told you that?”

  “You mock me, but I know the truth. You’ll see.”

  All laughter silenced and his expression turned serious. “Will I?”

  If I had any instincts at all, this would probably be the point I started playing hard to get, but the whole cock tease thing eluded me. I clearly wanted to see him naked. But we were getting a little ahead of ourselves, and my front was getting cold.

  Extricating myself from between his thighs, I tied the sash of my robe and reached for my drink, but it was empty. Who drank that?

  He remained silently observant as I situated myself. Despite being a bit intoxicated, I was still sober enough to know fair was fair. I shouldn’t show him mine until he showed me his. I returned to my stool.

  “Maybe we should go back to sitting on separate chairs again.” I lifted my body onto the seat and blew out a breath. “What’s happening here, Hale? Is this like a ‘you see my boobs and act like nothing happened’ thing, or is this a ‘that was an accident and you—”

  “This is a ‘I can’t get you out of my mind, and I want you in my bed thing,’ Rayne.”

  Oh. One of those. Sure, I was familiar with them. Had plenty. While I fed myself a load of bullshit, the real me broke into a sweat.

  “I knew that.”

  Hale eased out of his seat and crossed the small space between us, obliterating the distance I’d just created. Without touching me, he leaned close until any which way I moved I’d touch him.

  “I think you’re sexy and funny and nothing like the women I usually date.”

  “You know, humans are creatures of habit, and maybe there’s a reason you only—”

  “If you’re not attracted to me, I’d accept that, but I won’t apologize for making my feelings known.”

  “You sure can be forward when you want to be.”

  He definitely wasn’t guarding himself now. I nervously laughed and glanced at the floor, but he caught my chin, those silver eyes holding me still.

  “Are you attracted to me, Rayne? I thought I picked up on some signals earlier today, but maybe I misread you. I’m not into mind games so I’d rather keep things as direct as possible between us.”

  Hello grown up conversation. My heart was racing so fast. “Attraction is a funny thing—”

  “Rayne.”

  “Okay, fine. Yes. I think you’re hot.”

  But Hale being hot and wanting to do whatever with me was sort of like giving an exotic car to someone without a license. There was a good chance the pretty car would end up totaled.

  His smile was slow but full of male arrogance. Casually, he eased away from my seat and held out a hand. “I’m glad we clarified that. I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  “What?” This was why men sucked. Here I was making car analogies and I’d apparently missed the moment of payout. “This makes no sense. I thought you didn’t like games.” And they called women the confusing gender?

  “You’re tipsy, Rayne. It isn’t anything that won’t keep. Trust me.”

  This was my punishment for holding my liquor like a leaky bucket. I was being sent to blue ball purgatory when all I wanted was to sniff him and kiss him and love him as hard as Lenny loved the rabbits in Mice of Men. I would hold him and pet him until I crushed this little infatuation to death. That wasn’t too much to ask, but of course, I was drunk so who the hell knew what I was talking about?

  Following him back to the staterooms I realized he’d actually done something pretty sexy by putting on the brakes. Props to Hale for being all kinds of honorable, because I totally would have been mid-drunk-cowgirling him—or whatever sex position was trending—had he not insisted we put a pin in it.

  And realizing he’d protected my honor when I was too tipsy to recall I had any, made him all the more appealing. Dreamy Hale was promoted to chivalrous Hale.

  Once outside of my room he cupped my cheek, but only gave it a little thumb graze. What the hell was that? Was this what the kids were into nowadays?

  What happened to Frenching and copping a feel where it counted? Okay, there was a slight chance I overthought sex, which could very well be why I never enjoyed it.

  “Goodnight, Rayne.” He stepped back.

  That little cheek caress was all I was going to get. Still, it was more action than I’d seen in the past two years, so I considered it a win.

&nb
sp; I forced myself not to pout. “Goodnight, Hale.”

  Chapter Nine

  Thank You, Sir.

  May I Please Have Another?

  It turned out I had a knack for party planning. Once I got Eric to show me, grudgingly, where he was getting the Post-Its, I found the utopia of office supplies and was like a happy whore in brothel paradise.

  I started with a flowchart of various themes, narrowing each one down by resources and the growing list of characteristics I gathered from stalking Seraphina on social media.

  I’d taken over the big table on the upper deck and was currently using teacups as paperweights to map out my plans. Remington was on the sky deck above, so if I had a question, I only had to climb the steps and ask. However, every time I asked him his opinion on a certain band or color scheme, I got the same answer.

  Figure it out, Meyers. What am I paying you for?

  So I started making my own decisions and figured the sky was the limit, which, in all reality, it was. If I gave Remington two options, one several thousands of dollars more than the other, he never batted an eye. It became clear money wasn’t an issue, and his daughter’s party demanded the best of the best. He obviously adored Seraphina, but didn’t want to be bothered with the finite details of coordinating her birthday.

  He did want all the applause, though. That was clear after the sixth make it good, Meyers. But that was fine. It was his event. I was merely planning it and having a damn good time doing so—for the most part. Eric was an occasional set back, one I was still trying to interpret.

  There was definitely some sort of resentment between us, but I didn’t understand why. This couldn’t be just about sleeping arrangements. He seemed to talk down to me as if he wanted to establish some sort of hierarchy that set him above me. Maybe he just didn’t like women? Yet he seemed fine with Marta, the maid.

  Hale said I shouldn’t worry about Eric, but every encounter made me more certain the man didn’t care for me. As a matter of fact, I had the sense he was hoping I’d screw something up and get fired.

  “Mr. Davenport wants you to see about getting the lunch menu changed. He has heartburn,” Eric announced on his second trip past my table.

  I was in the middle of reading an article about Seraphina, so his request took me off guard. “Um, okay. Do I talk to the chef about that?”

  “No, you ask the Tangiers.” He rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

  Comments like that made me certain he had a problem with me, but, again, I didn’t know why. “I was just asking.”

  He huffed and walked away. I put aside my work and went to the galley to find the chef, whom I had yet to meet. The kitchen was busy and full of delicious scents. A tall man with dark molasses skin chopped celery at the counter.

  “Are you Laurent?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Rayne.” I held out a hand and he brushed his on his chef jacket before shaking mine.

  His smile was startlingly bright and put me at ease. “Good to meet you, Rayne. What can I do for you?”

  “Remington’s having a little heartburn today, so he wanted to keep the menu light.”

  “No problem.”

  That was easy enough. I spotted a basket of fruit on the counter and gestured toward a pear. “Can I have one of those?”

  “Take whatever you like, bé.”

  I grinned and bit into the fruit. “What’s bé?”

  Laurent shrugged. “Honey.”

  Wasn’t he cute? Mission accomplished, I nodded and returned to the deck.

  Twenty minutes later Eric returned and interrupted me again. “Mr. Davenport wants a bloody Mary.”

  I frowned, wondering where his wait staff was. “I thought he had heartburn.”

  “Just do your job and make the drink.”

  I stiffened, unsure if making drinks was part of my job and certain I didn’t deserve his tone. “Is there a reason why you’re speaking to me like that?”

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, just walked away.

  As I put aside my work again, I went on a mission to find bloody Mary mix. I didn’t realize this was something Laurent made from scratch, so it took several minutes to fill the order.

  As I carried the cocktail up the stairs to the sky deck, the scent of fresh pureed tomatoes and spices made me rethink my stance on the mixers we used at the bar. Remington looked up and held out a hand, his attention divided between me and whomever he spoke to on the phone.

  He took a sip and set it aside. Eric watched as if waiting for something to happen, but I didn’t stick around. Maybe I could get through the next hour without another interruption.

  When I returned to the lower deck Marta was waiting nearby. “Hi, Marta.”

  She smiled and approached the table. “You have work to do. Next time you need something from the galley, I’ll get it.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem.”

  She glanced at my notes. “You planning the party for Ms. Phina?”

  “Trying.”

  She patted my shoulder. “You’ll make it nice for her. Busy. Busy. I’ll let you work.”

  I grinned, thinking she was rather nice and thoughtful, sort of like the maternal figure of the ship. It wasn’t that I minded waiting on Remington. That was my job. But Eric never asked me for anything. He told me what to do. Maybe his seniority gave him the right, but I didn’t see the need for the pissy comments whenever I asked a simple question.

  Shoving the irritating thought of him aside, I got back to work. I might have overdone it with the theme, but after taking Hale’s description of Seraphina into consideration and combining it with my socialite notes, I had some decent leads.

  Those hemp shoes Seraphina liked, she didn’t like them because they were fashionable. She liked them because the maker donated a large portion of its profits to putting shoes on impoverished children. But that wasn’t the only charitable thing in this Davenport’s world.

  She also was an activist for no kill animal shelters and spoke out against animal testing, which painted a favorable picture of her in my mind. I hadn’t realized her entire cosmetic line was based around cruelty-free products. Her father grumbled about how much money she spent doing things the “tree hugger” way, but I liked that she did things the right way—at least they were right to my way of thinking.

  In the end, I settled on a Casino Royale theme, because rich people liked to play with money and I could slip in some silent auction items that would go toward some of Seraphina’s favored charities. I was rather proud of myself for coming up with such a clever scheme for a girl I’d never met.

  On top of a very productive day, my stocks were up, and my to-do list was full of items that added to my personal value and kept my mind off the other passengers. I saw Hale briefly after my breakfast slash stock market meeting with Remington that morning, but I didn’t want his presence to derail my focus, so once I had my instructions, I said a quick hello-goodbye and relocated to the deck below.

  Yes, I occasionally caught his voice and got a little tingle, but I was filling a role here, and that role was Awesome PA, not salivating, infatuated teenybopper. The longer I managed to phase out his presence the more entrenched I became in my work.

  At the end of the day, long after Remington retired to his room for his pre-supper nap, I hurried to wrap up any loose ends. My bare feet rested on the table as I jotted down the figures being dictated to me over the phone in my little coastal office.

  “And the roulette table?” I asked the vendor who worked for a franchise that rented pricey party props. “Does that include someone to run the table?”

  The man gave me a list of options that included white-gloved service and some that only included the game tables. I knew immediately that we were going to order the full show, but it was in my nature to barter, so I got all the options first.

  As a shadow passed over the table, I lost my train of thought and turned to find Hale standing behind my chair. My first concern was why hadn�
�t I chipped away the nail polish on my toes? I’d looked for nail polish remover, but on a ship of mostly men, I didn’t have much luck. My second thought was, boy, he’s pretty. Tucking my feet under my chair I smiled and held up a finger.

  “Okay, well, I’ll look over the numbers with our budget and be in touch. Thanks for all your help.” I ended the call. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He glanced at the sticky notes all over the table. “You were busy today.”

  I gathered the Post-Its in strategic order. “Yeah. I think your sister’s going to like what I have planned.”

  “Are you doing the New Orleans theme?”

  I closed my notebook and stashed it with my iPad in a basket I stole from the galley. “No. I think I came up with something better.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see when you get your invitation.”

  His mouth curved slightly and his eyes darkened with intensity as he moved a little closer. Because I wasn’t ready to relinquish my common sense just yet, I took a step back.

  He noted my retreat and paused, likely wondering why I was suddenly skittish. It probably had to do with the lack of alcohol and surplus of shame I suffered this morning when I recalled him looking at my boobs only to send me packing with a mediocre cheek brushing. Definitely not my best moment.

  Hale glanced at his watch and, without seeing the time, I knew I had to check on Remington who was probably awake and waiting for me. On cue, my phone buzzed.

  “The boss is calling.”

  “Will you be at dinner?” he asked.

  I nodded, as a thousand minnow tails seemed to tickle my belly. Though Remington hadn’t given me an explicit schedule, my workday seemed to exist between eight a.m. and five p.m. Dinner was strictly used for casual conversation and marked the start of my downtime. The only responsibility I had at night was getting my boss settled.

  “I’ll see you there,” he said, and I collected my basket and left him staring after me. Yup, he was staring at me. Me!

  Once I was outside of Remington’s door, I had myself a silent victory dance. For once I hadn’t been a basket case in Hale’s presence.

  Knocking on the door, I waited for Remington to invite me in.