Though first she needed a theme for the event.
Everything hinged upon it. She couldn’t send out the invitations, purchase décor, or secure the entertainment until she had a jaw-dropping theme that would appeal to the judges and the Belle’s patrons.
Nothing like a little throat-cinching pressure to go with her cold latte.
Since hours of scouring the internet hadn’t resulted in anything but a mild headache, Devyn planted herself on the Belle’s stern, hoping the timeless lady would whisper some secrets. Or at least maybe an idea or two. Preferably one that would put the steamboat on the cover of Once Upon a Wedding’s future issue.
Before Devyn’s journey up here, her boss had shoved what appeared to be romance novels into her hands. “Read them,” Steph had said. “Soak your mind in all those swoony love scenes. It’ll help with creativity for the ball.”
She perused the cover of the book topping the stack and winced. No, she definitely didn’t need a steamy story about a misbehaving duke—as the title referenced—to ignite inspiration. She had all the kindling to spark her genius right here on the Belle. She only needed to fan the embers of her imagination.
A few towboats trudged to Devyn’s left, and traffic rolled endlessly along River Road with the interstate hovering over it. Yet, the Belle was stationary, despite the slight tremor from the water coursing beneath. The boat would be harbored until this Saturday night for the Captain’s dinner, but it didn’t take much for Devyn to envision one of its thousands of voyages. Her gaze held on the paddlewheel below. Oh the mileage this gal had.
Devyn stood on the most romantic part of the steamboat—the stern overlooking the water. When the paddlewheel was in motion it was like nothing Devyn had ever seen or felt. The planks lifted the river water, creating crystal falls over the crimson boards. The churning, so steady and unbroken, was the pulse of the entire boat, bringing her to life.
Devyn knew firsthand this was the wedding photographers’ favorite spot to capture the newly married couples. Even her own parents, who’d been married on the Belle back in the eighties, had a snapshot taken right here. But before the nuptials, how many proposals had been vowed at this very spot? How many first kisses?
The ballroom was a floor below, but Devyn was aware of passengers sneaking to this spot to steal a dance. To be under the moonlight, to sway to the rhythmic swish of the paddlewheel. It blossomed something in her, something Devyn had thought all but dead since Travis broke up with her.
Knowing not another soul was around, she allowed her mind to drift. Peeling back the years in her imagination to a different time. An era where social media hadn’t existed. Cell phones weren’t a thought. When the thrill of the moment was a shriek of the steam whistle. Or a waltz on this roof with a dashing gentleman.
With one arm hugging the books to her chest, she stretched out her other and mimicked the stance of that vintage ballroom dance. Stepping back and forth with an invisible partner, she kept in perfect tempo with the waves lapping the hull. Sliding her eyes shut, she could envision the ambiance of a starlit waltz. Almost hear the hushed vows of love between a young couple.
“May I have the next dance?”
Devyn shrieked at the deep male voice. The books in her arms tumbled to the floor, scattering.
A man with impossibly black hair stood only a few yards away. His hands were stuffed in his faded jeans and his sharp jaw tucked a bit, but the gleam in his eyes totally said his abashed stance was a farce. As if realizing he’d been caught, he unleashed a rogue smile, revealing how highly amused he was at her ridiculous scene.
And here Devyn had thought the coffee stain on her ivory shirt from her stumble in the parking lot earlier had been embarrassing. The beige blob smack dab on her chest seemed nothing compared to her being caught ballroom dancing with an imaginary companion on the back of a hundred-year-old steamboat.
“I don’t want to be rude.” He popped a hip against the guardrail and folded his arms across his chest, his black shirt pulling taut around his shoulders. “I can wait until the dance is over or until you tire of your partner. He seems pretty boring.”
Of all the…
This stranger could startle her out of her red slingbacks, adopt a familiar tone as if they’d been friends for decades, but she wouldn’t allow him to insult her taste in men—even if imaginary. “I have no idea who you are, but here’s a lesson for you—some women actually favor the silent type.” She pinned him with a glare. “They’re much more preferable to men who run their mouths, especially ones not welcome in the conversation in the first place.”
His grin widened. “I can see for myself the type of men that spark your interest.”
She followed his gaze to the steamy romance novel inches from his boots.
The half-dressed duke seemed to smirk at Devyn as if siding with the obnoxious stranger. “Those aren’t mine.” And why was she defending herself to this man? “Who are you and how’d you get up here?”
He ignored her and moved to pick up another book. “Now this proves you’re more refined than that smut novel suggests.” He angled the cover towards her.
Her tiny gasp escaped. Oh Steph, how could you? A sting of betrayal sliced through her as she glared at the all-too-familiar poetry collection. Would she never escape this? “That’s not my definition of refinement.”
He handed her the book and scratched the back of his neck, revealing part of a tattoo on his bicep. “You don’t like Slate?”
“Slate.” Devyn scoffed. “That name’s as bogus as his poetry. I can’t understand all the rage for him. Over three million copies sold.” Her muttering took on a sharp edge. “Three million people walking the earth with rot in their brains.”
His lips twitched at her severe tone. Was he fighting against a smile? A frown? Maybe he was allergic to opinionated women.
Oh well, it wasn’t like she’d see this man again. He was most likely a vendor wanting to burden the Belle’s culinary staff. Or a passing visitor who possessed a rebellious streak and jumped the entrance gate.
Either way, he’d inserted himself into her little sphere, piercing her bubble of peace. Her attention landed on Slate’s book in her hand, stoking her anger. She held the hardback up to the stranger, shaking it. “This poet claims he’s a romantic, but his verses are nothing but airy words of nonsense. It’s no wonder he remains anonymous. I know I would if I published this kind of garbage.” She was taking a risk. All of Louisville adored Slate because he was a local, but seriously, they needed to be more selective about who they prized as a celebrity.
After a few awkward seconds, his silver-hued gaze settled on her. “Are you by any chance, Devyn Asbury?” Something in his tone made it sound like he hoped she wasn’t.
She knew that feeling exactly. “Yes, that’s me.”
“My name’s Chase Jones.” Gone was his breezy banter, replaced by a professionalism that made her heart stutter. “Your boss, Ms. Dewalt, sent me up here to speak with you.”
She lowered the poetry book she was still half-strangling.
With reluctance, his eyes met hers. “I need to tour the Belle for special business, and she said you were the person I needed to speak with.”
All heat drained from her face. She fought the urge to dash up to the pilothouse and hide under the lazy bench. For the next million years or so. This man was no doubt the mystery judge Steph had warned her about.
She’d just blown her chance at the contest.
Chapter 3
With his raven hair lifting in the breeze, his golden complexion, and a tiny hook-like scar near his left eye, Chase Jones looked more like a pirate than a connoisseur of weddings.
Maybe he was one of the hired actors for next week’s Treasure Island Cruise. But then, why would he have asked for her? And be on special business? Devyn held in her groan. She’d just made a colossal fool out of herself. Should she continue in her streak of outrageous behavior by jumping overboard and swimming far far away?
No doubt Steph would follow after Devyn and drag her back by her soggy collar. Might as well face the man and pray she hadn’t completely destroyed the Belle’s chances at winning.
She fought to keep her chin level. She’d once been a master at disguising her feelings. At portraying someone she was not. But she promised herself never to step into that mode again. Her mind scrambled to remember what he’d just said. “You want to tour the Belle, right?”
“If you have time?” His face looked less stricken. Good sign.
“I do.” She’d have to brainstorm later. “Would you like to begin in the ballroom? That’s where we hold most of our events and weddings.” She glanced at the poetry collection in her hand, then to the man who’d fallen victim to her Slate tirade. What had she been thinking? “I’m…um…sorry about my ranting.”
His slow smile built, transforming him from pirate to one of those men on the cologne ads at Macy’s. “Were you being honest?”
“Yes.”
“Then no need to be sorry.” The perfect bend of his dark brow only made his lopsided grin more pronounced. “You should’ve seen that flash of fire in your eyes. It was incredible.” He seemed truly fascinated by her ill-timed diatribe. “What is it about Slate’s poetry that stirs that kind of reaction?”
“Let’s just say I’ve several reasons to dislike the man and his work.” A very strong one, and a few smaller offenses.Though she couldn’t slight Steph for slipping this book in. Her boss hadn’t known what truly happened.
Aware of Chase Jones’s thoughtful gaze on her, she gathered the other books that had fallen and set them on the nearby bench. “Now I’m sure you haven’t come to discuss awful poetry. What would you like to see first?”
She took note of his gray eyes. They were intriguing. Not a light gray but a deeper hue. Like graphite. And they watched her with a scrutiny that made her breath stick in her lungs.
“I’ve seen you before.” He leaned back on the guards and observed her, his lazy posture saying he could linger until his mind placed her. “I’m sure of it.”
No. No, no, no. If this man was one of the eighty million subscribers to Travis’s channel, then he’d no doubt have seen her. Oh, if she could have access to delete all those posts. Mr. Jones was waiting patiently for her response. Jumping into the freezing Ohio was more appealing by the second. “Have you ever toured the Belle before? Or attended a wedding here?” She went for the professional approach. “I’ve been the event coordinator for almost a year now.”
“I’m not much for weddings and…” He shrugged. “Fluff.”
What? Was this man purposely trying to throw her off his scent? Or…was he not a judge at all?
He pushed off the railing, straightening to full height. “I’d like to see as much of the boat as I can. Is that possible?”
“Sure.” She forced her lips into a perky arc. She needed to figure this person out. And soon. If he was a sneaky-faced judge, she needed to show her A-game, but if not, she had to discover a way to get him off this boat. She had no time to play Tour Guide.
“Let’s start at the pilothouse and work our way down. This steamboat was first built in Pittsburgh in 1914.”
“And was called the Idlewild, right?” He pulled a pad from his back jeans pocket and scribbled something in it.
“Yes.” She angled to read what he was jotting down without looking obvious but couldn’t catch anything. “It started off as a packet boat loading cargo and ferrying passengers.” She motioned him toward the stairwell that reached the starlight roof. He followed her lead.
“What about in the 1920s?”
She paused, fingers twitching on the wooden handrail. “That’s the only era where there wasn’t much documentation. But mostly because the boat went tramping.”
“Tramping?”
“It’s a steamboat term for going up and down the river, stopping at various towns and taking passengers for excursions. They probably took on loads of cargo too when they could.”
They reached the landing, his attention fixing on the calliope.
“Ah, there it is.” He didn’t wait for her but took off toward the direction of the musical pipes protruding out of the roof like stubby fingers. His gaze took it in like it was a puzzle needing to be solved. “Where are the keys?” He pulled something from the pages of the notepad—a photo?—and took a few steps back, as if taking in the entire scene.
“The keys have been moved behind the captain’s quarters.” She pointed to the texas cabin. “It’s too loud for our musician to be that close to the pipes. Plus she’d get soaked from all the steam. But you’re right. Back in the day, the keyboard would be about where you’re standing. Heaven help their eardrums.”
He gave her a courtesy look, then returned his focus to the photo. Had he printed off one of the pictures she uploaded for the contest? Wanting to verify it?
“We play the calliope when the passengers board and off-board. But for any other music we hire a live band or a DJ. The sound system here is pretty sweet for a century-old boat.”
He lowered the photo and glanced at her, his expression nothing short of curious. “I’m going to be straight with you.”
Oh.
“I need your help.” He took two steps toward her. “I’m looking for information on someone. She was last seen on the Belle.”
A missing person? Vanished after being aboard? Devyn’s hand leapt to her chest. “I—I think this is a matter for the police.”
“No, it’s you I need. Someone with knowledge of this boat and maybe access to her history.”
“I—I don’t understand.” Her childhood habit of stammering resurfaced.
“This person I’m looking for was born around the turn of the century.
I’m researching her background.”
History. Research. Those two words may as well have been her love language. In college, Devyn had majored in computer science for practicality, but her minor—and heart—had been in history.
He handed her the picture, well, half of a picture. Someone had torn it down the center.
Devyn stared at an old photo of a young woman standing in front of the calliope. Despite the sepia cast, Devyn could determine the lady’s hair to be dark blond. Maybe a few shades darker than Devyn’s own. And the woman had light eyes. She had pretty features, but what intrigued Devyn was her expression. It was almost a challenge. With her chin raised and eyes focused, as if daring whoever looked at this picture to take her seriously.
Devyn liked her. “Who is she?” Then to answer her own question she turned the picture over. “Hattie,” she whispered, and a wave of something swirled her gut. Devyn had always been a fan of the classics. Classic movies, books, and fashion. This woman—with her two-toned oxford shoes and drop-waisted dress with pleats on the skirt—had the vintage style Devyn adored. “Is this picture from the twenties?”
He nodded. “I need to know more about her.”
In a strange way, so did Devyn. She blinked. No, she couldn’t get caught up in all this. Time was not on her side already, and she couldn’t go all “cold case” about a missing woman, especially when she didn’t even know how to handle such a thing. “So I’m taking it you’re not a mystery judge.”
That piqued his interest. “Judge?”
“Of the Timeless Wedding Contest. The Belle is a finalist this year.” Saying those words aloud pushed thrill and panic through her.
“Sorry. I’m not.” His full lips pressed together then relaxed, the corners tipping up. “So that must be why your boss gave me the royal treatment. I’ve been offered chocolate, a latte, and any item from the gift shop on the house.”
Devyn couldn’t help but laugh.“That’s Steph for you.She’s a go-getter.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m a…” What was she? A survivor? A recovering people-pleaser?
“Dreamer.”
His lone word snapped her from her deliberation. “Huh?”
“You’re a dreamer.” S
tated so matter-of-factly Devyn could only gawk at him. Which probably wasn’t the best thing, because he might mistake her shock for interest, and she could not have that.
She settled for a disbelieving snort. “That’s quite the assessment for only knowing me a handful of minutes.”
“True.” He stepped closer, then leaned in as if about to share a secret. “But remember, I witnessed your dance.”
“I thought I asked you to forget about that.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Then I am now. Please forget it.”
“Can’t.”
His mischievous grin looked about as dangerous as blow-drying her hair in the bathtub. And she could do without any more shocks to her system. “Thanks for letting me see this.” She returned the picture, careful only to handle the edges. “But I can’t help. I’m way too busy right now.”
“Could we barter?”
She almost choked on a laugh. “You told me you have nothing to do with weddings and their…oh, what word did you use?”
“Fluff.”
“Yes, fluff.” She gave him a decided look. “Weddings and romance and all that is my business. I have to organize an event of the year and only have weeks to do so.”
“I said weddings weren’t my thing. Not romance. Romance, I can do. Very well.”
Oh man. She should’ve counted on him upping the charm. That’s what Travis had always done to get her to give him what he’d wanted. Well, lover boy could take his steamboat-sized ego and conveniently placed dimples somewhere else. “Again. My answer is no. Good luck in your endeavors.”
She turned on her heel and glanced over her shoulder. “You better find your way off soon before Gary the guard notices. He takes his job as defender of the Belle very seriously.”
“I’m an artist.”
His blurted confession made her pause. “And how can that help me?”
“I’m sure you need materials, flyers. Invitations, maybe?” He held out his hands, palms up. “I can design them for you.”
Undercurrent of Secrets Page 2
