Seashells & Mistletoe (Hawaiian Holiday Book 2)

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Dani’s the perfect partner for me,” Sylvester says. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, definitely.” I giggle. “We need to find a date for Alice, don’t you think?”

  “We should,” Sylvester readily agrees. “I wish Alice would date as much as I do.”

  I’m sure he’s a real wit, and actually, I wouldn’t mind dating him. But tonight, I need Alice’s cooperation more than her brother’s.

  “I know a very nice man who would love to date your sister tonight. I’m sure he’s better at shuffleboard than I am,” I whisper in Sylvester’s ear.

  “Honestly, she’s young enough to be your granddaughter and she’s only after your money,” Alice lectures her brother. “Be back in the cabin to change for dinner. Don’t make me warn you again.”

  “Oh, you have money?” I bat my eyelashes at Sylvester. “I love green stuff, don’t you?”

  A loud snicker pops from Alice, and she yanks my arm, loosening me from the older man. “You’re to leave us alone, young lady, or I’m calling security.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a narc,” Sylvester says. “We’re supposed to be friendly to everyone on board the cruise.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t speak to strangers.” Alice’s lips are white from being pressed together all the time, but inexplicably, a snicker pops out from between her teeth.

  “Ah, but we’re not strangers since we played shuffleboard together,” Sylvester protests.

  “Let me handle this.” I place a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Alice, can I speak to you privately?”

  “Better me than my senseless brother,” she says under her breath. “Okay, make it quick. Syl, you better return the sticks and discs before we get charged for losing them.”

  Her brother dutifully picks up the discs and stacks them in a holder.

  “Here’s the deal.” I cup my hand and whisper in case Sylvester is not as hard of hearing as his hearing aid would indicate. “I’ll leave your brother alone, if you agree to a date tonight with my friend Jordan Reed.”

  “Why me?” Alice squints at me, as if my bright-red dress is hurting her eyes.

  “Because your brother’s hitting on me and you don’t like it.”

  “Promise to stay away from him the entire cruise and I’ll do tonight only.” The sharp-eyed brainiac points her stubby finger at my cleavage.

  “Deal.” I clasp my arm around her thin, bird-like shoulders and give her a huggy squeeze enough to annoy her into an explosive snicker. “You won’t regret it. Let’s go meet your man now.”

  “Wait, where are you two going?” Sylvester clambers toward us, having returned the shuffleboard sticks and discs to the monitor.

  “Girl talk,” I say. “I really enjoyed the shuffleboard lesson. It’s so great to learn from a pro.”

  “Semi-pro,” Sylvester says humbly. “Would you like to sit with me and Alice for dinner tonight?”

  “I would, but Alice and I are busy tonight. She has a date.”

  “With you?” Sylvester’s jaw drops, and he blinks at his sister.

  I shrug a what-can-I-do gesture and nod while Alice snickers before adding, “Syl, I won’t be eating dinner with the Golden Gators tonight.”

  “Dani can eat with us,” Sylvester says. “We have no problem with the two of you together.”

  Alice snickers, and this time I agree with her. The entire point of a date is to be private, although, I’m sure I will not be enjoying my evening with whoever Jordan the Joker sets me up with.

  “Sorry, Syl.” Alice places a calming hand on her brother’s shoulder. “It’s only one evening. I’ll be back in the cabin by curfew.”

  “When’s curfew?” I sputter, wondering why people over sixty-five need to have one.

  Snicker.

  “You needn’t worry,” she says. “As long as you keep your part of the bargain.”

  I salute her. “Yes, ma’am. And Syl, it’s been a pleasure shuffleboarding with you.”

  I give him a wink which makes him blush, then while Alice is looking through her shoulder bag for her access pass, I give her brother a quick peck on the cheek.

  Poor guy.

  A cock-blocking sister is bad enough. But a snickering one?

  Poor, poor guy.

  And poor, poor, poor Jordan Reed.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  How is it possible that Jordan landed me a date with Sven Svenson, the captain of the Swedish water polo team?

  The golden-haired god is more muscular than the superhero Thor, with eyes bluer than the noonday sky, a cleft in his chin deeper than the Grand Canyon, teeth sparkling like the Crown jewels, and a honeyed voice deeper than the mellowest bass saxophone.

  I’m tongue-tied while we do the swap, especially when Alice snickered at Jordan asking her if she was one of the scientists who put the man onto the moon back in the nineteen-sixties.

  “You’re as lovely as Mr. Reed described,” Sven says in a heavily Swedish accent. “Would you like to dine at the captain’s table with me?”

  “Wow, yes!” I salivate like Pavlov’s dog since my stomach is a wee bit hungry after the strenuous shuffleboard tournament I endured with Sylvester and Alice and the Golden Gators.

  Dimly, I’m aware of Alice scolding Jordan for stepping through a doorway first. How rude of him.

  I agree.

  Happily, Jordan Rude is not my problem tonight.

  I’m dining at the captain’s table with Sven Svenson, blond Nordic superhero, and he’s telling me they will have a water polo exhibition game tomorrow against the world champion Singapore team.

  “The women’s team is also here,” Sven adds unhelpfully, and all I can picture is Jordan’s tongue lolling like a mad dog.

  Not my business. He can like whichever women he cares to. That hot kiss can’t possibly have addled my common sense.

  It was only a kiss, one of many he’s doled out in his useless existence, I’m sure.

  I tear my mind off Jordan when Sven repeats a question. He’s so gentlemanly and polite to open doors for me and wait for me to cross the threshold before stepping through himself.

  Everywhere we stroll, eyes turn our direction, and women stare longingly at Sven. It makes me lift my head a little higher, and now I wish I had my camera phone so I can take a selfie and post it on Stephen’s page.

  Fortunately, we walk by a row of clicking cameras and cell phones, and I’m hoping some of it will be uploaded to social media where Stephen might catch a glimpse.

  Even though these are strangers taking our pictures, it still boosts my ego and counters the humiliation of my cancelled wedding with a likely future president.

  I chat amiably with my date about the Christmas decorations, the elves running around surprising people with gift cards, and we compare Christmas traditions.

  He seems attentive enough—at first, but when we enter the captain’s dining room, where a pre-dinner cocktail party is going on, a professional mask morphs over his face and his attention turns to the movers and shakers and their perfectly coiffed partners.

  I sink into obscurity just like my stiletto heels into the plush carpet. The string quartet playing classical music, the faint clinking of glasses, the sedate murmuring of polite conversation, and the flash of jewelry and dropping of names reminds me of the phony cocktail parties I attended as pure arm candy.

  Smile when spoken to.

  Don’t ever venture an opinion.

  Look gracious when introduced.

  Stand straight and tall.

  Always bestow an admiring gaze at my escort as if he were the center of the universe.

  I glance at Sven and realize for the first time how tall he is and what a big presence he makes.

  He knows everyone. From the retired senator to an elderly duchess to a woman who starred in several B, C, or D movies, to a former Olympic decathlon gold medalist.

  Sven doesn’t much refer to me, other than as the beautiful girl he picked up at the bar. Now that I think about it, does he ev
en know my name?

  I must be tasty arm candy, because once we reach the table, I’m seated next to the captain, a silver-haired man with bright-blue eyes. We’re introduced to the other people at the table, the usual socialite crowd of self-important people, the masters of the universe type with social justice hobbies and causes.

  “So, Miss Davison, what do you do?” the captain asks as champagne is being served.

  “I’m a voice-over artist.”

  “Oh, really,” the captain’s partner stares over her long nose at me. “Tell me which movies you’ve done.”

  “I narrate audiobooks, but I’ve done a few commercials,” I admit. “I’ve tried out for several animated films.”

  “What kind of audiobooks?” the captain asks. “Do you do self-help or motivational ones?”

  “She does the naughty ones,” a deep voice sounding almost familiar vibrates from behind me.

  For a moment there, I thought it was someone else, a world-renowned voice artist, but my common sense tells me it’s Jordan Reed, and that my imagination is running wild.

  “Erotic romance is her specialty. I have all her recordings,” the mellifluous voice announces to the nervous laughter around the table.

  Jordan’s a fan of little ol’ me? Should I be pleased or upset?

  My head jerks around, and who should be coming around the table, but my nemesis with his date, Dr. Alice Lin.

  “Ah, Dr. Lin,” the captain says. “So good to have you with us. I’m looking forward to your lecture on the Apollo space program. Will you be talking about the moon landing?”

  “Actually, Apollo 13 is more dramatic,” Alice replies. “I’ll go into detail about the unstable orbit code I wrote for the lunar module thrusters. As you know, it turned out to be key in returning the astronauts to safety.”

  Everyone at the table pretends to hem and haw their agreement at how important the lunar module was to this ancient space mission which happened well before my birth.

  After taking their seats, Alice introduces Jordan as her hot date, not her grandson, as several of the snooty socialites assumed.

  I laugh inside at how well Jordan plays his role. He nods and smiles, and otherwise stays out of the limelight. Several times, I glance at him, but he doesn’t give away that he even knows me.

  As bad luck would have it, Jordan is directly across the table from me, so keeping my gaze away from him the rest of the evening would be an exercise in futility. I hate to admit it, but he dresses up well. I was always partial to the dark, brunette James Bond actors, despite telling Jordan I’m into light blonds.

  Too bad he’s such a jerk, setting me up with Sven, the very image of a superhero who should have his own Marvel comic series.

  The Swede’s booming voice bombards my eardrums nonstop throughout the meal, and I can’t help noticing how everything revolves around himself. That man must love the sound of his own voice.

  I can’t decide whether Jordan set me up with Sven as a blessing or a curse. On the surface, he’s gallant, a sports hero, stunning in looks and very well liked. I should be proud to be seen with him, especially since I was so unceremoniously dumped by my politician in training fiancé.

  Meanwhile, Jordan and Dr. Lin tell nerd jokes which get everyone laughing, and if you can ignore the huge age difference, it looks like he’s having fun.

  She’s taught him manners in less than the time it took for him to dress up, and he’s attentive and charming, making eye contact with her and smiling at her jokes.

  If he’s acting, he’s a darn good at it.

  I catch his glance and he smirks in a self-satisfied way, then places his hand on Dr. Lin’s shoulder, leans in and asks her a question.

  It isn’t until dessert time and the servers are passing out coffee before I realize she hasn’t snickered once since joining Jordan at the captain’s table.

  Chapter 6

  Squeak. Thump. Grunt. Scream. Bouncy squeak, thump, thump, thump. Moan. Moan. Groan. Squeak. Scream, clatter, clatter, clink.

  I toss and turn on my hard bunk and fling off the sheets, giving up any semblance of sleep.

  The walls of my cabin are paper thin, and it sounds like a herd of grunting elephants next door are having an orgy.

  To top it all off, the bunk next to me is empty, so I can’t even send Jordan over to complain.

  My stars. A glance at Jordan’s annoying projecting alarm clock tells me it’s two in the morning.

  Is he seriously spending the night with Dr. Lin, retired rocket scientist?

  I have a headache, thanks to drinking too much to dull the pain of being Sven’s sticky sweet arm candy. The evening ended when I finally ginned up the courage to tell him I have a headache and need to go back to my cabin—alone.

  My ears are ringing from the boom, boom, boom of his too masculine voice, and he was starting to repeat himself with the stories of his heroic exploits.

  Fortunately, he was agreeable, and we passed under all of the dangling mistletoe sprigs without any tongue-jockeying incidents—unlike a certain Jordan Reed who would have tempted me to a dozen pitstops, or should I say, mistlestops.

  Back to Sven.

  He’s a natural-born politician, always sprucing himself up for a photo-op. Kind of reminds me of the last budding politician I got engaged to.

  He politely walked me to my cabin, thanked me for the date, and promised to call and text. I didn’t mention I had no phone. For that, I’d have to wait until I was stateside to retrieve my text messages or check for its location at an internet café once I get on land.

  As soon as I entered my cabin, I checked for Saran wrap on the toilet seat. There was none. My toothpaste was not doctored, and there were no paper cups filled with water on my bunk.

  Was Jordan turning out to be a dud?

  Oh, right, he had a hot date complete with rocket fuel, slide rules, and pocket protectors in lieu of condoms.

  Since he hadn’t bothered to prank me, I fell asleep only to be awakened by the moans and bumps of the horny herd of elephants next door.

  I pound the wall. “Will you guys knock it off? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  The sounds stop momentarily, and then a deep, husky voice says, “You sound sexy. Come on over.”

  I cover my head with my pillow and roar into the bunk. “I sound angry. No, thank you.”

  That voice sounded sexy and growly enough to be my ideal audiobook male counterpart, if I were ever so brave as to find one.

  Truth to tell, my business has taken a hit now that romance authors are auditioning male/female pairs to do their narrations. Two voices play off each other better, and there’s no denying the chemistry, especially in the steamy parts.

  No matter how well I lower my voice, I can’t get the male parts as deep as a real man can.

  The only problem? How to audition for a male partner without embarrassing myself to death. I’m prone to getting aroused and drooling so much I can’t enunciate sounds other than s’s.

  A dirty mind is a hard thing to clean, and these days, thanks to my real-life sex drought and reading habits, my mind is filthy to the core.

  To the point I can’t stop imagining it’s Jordan next door doing the dirty with the aged Dr. Lin.

  Yikes.

  Bleach my brain.

  I punch the wall for good measure, and the man on the other side punches back.

  Then it’s off to the races with furniture bumping the wall, squeals of excitement, and a strange, clattering sound like it’s raining wood.

  I elbow the wall more vehemently. “I’m calling security on you guys. It’s frickin’ two in the morning.”

  “Come on over,” a chorus of voices say.

  “No!” I scream.

  Since sleep is impossible, I pull on a sundress and shawl and decide to go out on a midnight stroll. Or maybe I can snoop in Jordan’s things.

  Nah. That wouldn’t be nice.

  I stumble to the head to use it one last time before going up to the to
p deck.

  “Ahhh!” I jump up from the toilet and hit my head on the cabinet above it.

  There’s a spider on the toilet paper, and it’s big and black. I drop it on the ground and stare at it bug-eyed, but it doesn’t crawl away.

  I blink, then blink some more at the huge, black spider on the white square of paper.

  And then it hits me.

  Someone drew the spider with a Sharpie marker.

  I unroll some more paper and find the spidery imprints from the marker.

  That Jordan!

  I throw the spider paper into the toilet and flush it. This calls for revenge.

  Grabbing my purse, I slip into a pair of sandals. I barge out of my cabin and run into a man coming out of the room next door.

  He’s hard and hot, of course, and in the dim light, I can smell cheese puffs and peanuts—the favorite food of rutting elephants.

  I prop my hand on the man’s chest and push off of him, then lift my face.

  Jordan has his tie loosened and sprinkles of cheese puffs on his lapel. Behind him are Alice and Sylvester and a big, blond, Nordic Viking guy who looks suspiciously like Sven.

  “Going somewhere?” Jordan asks. “I told you to come over.”

  “What the hell are you all doing making so much noise?” I gape at the foursome, two old and two young.

  “You should have come over,” Sven says. “I’m exhausted. These guys tired me out and you could have taken my place.”

  “Taken your place?” I squeak through my extremely constricted vocal cords, wondering how they got him to stop bragging. “No, thank you.”

  A loud snicker explodes from Alice Lin with the percussive effects of a popping fart.

  “What exactly were all of you doing?” I glare at the bespectacled octogenarian. “With her?”

  And her brother in the midst? Too kinky even for my most out-there romance author client.

  Loud laughter echoes through the corridor and several doors open. Annoyed faces stick out like prairie dogs, staring at me as if I were the cause of the incestuous commotion.

  Whirling around, I stomp back into my cabin and slam the door, vibrating the thin walls, as an instrumental rendition of “Silent Night” pipes through the intercom.