“This time.” I step away from him, breaking contact. “Look, I still don’t know if this is a good idea. There’s a lot at stake—for both of us. And once one of us gets the promotion it will be even harder. Someone will be more senior than the other and… I just don’t know.”

“You kiss me like that, then you say you might not want to kiss me again? You’re killing me, Henley Rose.” My heart sinks, but then I spot his wry smile. Sauntering closer, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I get it. You have history with this sort of thing, and you’re worried. If you want, we can keep things professional until the promotion is decided.”

“Yes, good.” My muscles sag in relief, even though a coal of disappointment smolders in my gut. “We’ll put a pin in it for now. It’s only for a few weeks.”

“Except… I bet you can’t stay away. I’ll give you all the space you need—platonic colleagues only, Scout’s honor. But before the end of this cruise, I think you’ll kiss me again. Because you want to.”

The arrogant set of his jaw competes with the sensual curl of his lips. He squares his wide shoulders and brings his face closer to mine. My brain turns foggy. Abruptly, he pulls back, and I only realize I’ve been caught in the magnetic power of his lips when I stumble forward.

He smirks. “See you around, Henley Rose.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he strolls down the path. There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before.

I don’t know whether to scream in frustration or run after him and climb him like a flagpole.

I settle for kicking a mound of sand. The wind catches it, and the scattered sand pelts me in the face. “Ack,” I splutter.

After taking a minute to compose myself—and shake sand out of my hair—I amble down the path to where the other passengers are congregated in a tree-ringed clearing. The “post office” is actually a whitewashed barrel with a hole cut in the middle. It’s lodged in the sand next to a ruined heap of splintered wood—the remains of a much older barrel claimed by the elements.

Walsh is standing at the back of the crowd, and I make a beeline for her on trembling legs. She’s staring off into the middle distance, expression clouded, but it smooths once she spots me.

“What happened?” she demands as soon as I reach her. She tucks the stack of three postcards she’s been flipping through into her bag. The top one has a Seattle address; it looks like Walsh found some mail to deliver.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”