She pulls me to the very edge of the group. On the other side, Graeme is chatting with an elderly couple. He flashes me a knowing grin.

“You kissed him, didn’t you,” says Walsh.

“Shhh,” I admonish, but no one’s listening.

“How was it?”

How was it? Earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. Supernova central. “Fine.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Walsh, I can’t do this with him. The timing—”

She claps her hands on either side of my cheeks and squeezes until my lips pucker. “Stop overthinking it. He likes you. You like him. Boom goes the dynamite.” She releases me with a flourish.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I reeeally don’t. Nice, gainfully employed, crazy-hot guys like that are hard to find. Believe me, I know”.

“Last call for postcards, last call for postcards.” Gustavo’s voice rumbles through the murmuring crowd.

“Be right back,” I say, scuttling toward the barrel. I don’t care about sending a postcard at this point, but I don’t feel like subjecting myself to Walsh’s inquisition either.

I pause at the rough-hewn boards serving as a writing surface next to the barrel. Rummaging through the bag at my hip, I pull out a pen and the blank postcard. I clamp my jaw and sneak a glance over my shoulder at Graeme. He’s watching me. My heart flutters when our gazes connect.

Before the end of this cruise, I think you’ll kiss me again. Because you want to.

Fire scorches my neck and my cheeks warm. Of course, he has to make it a challenge. Because he knows a challenge is exactly my sort of catnip. Well, too bad I never back down once a gauntlet is thrown.

There will be no kissing for the remainder of the cruise.

But after?

Maybe I’ll finally give Graeme a chance.

Clicking open my pen, I scribble a note on the postcard along with my name and address. Before I can think twice, I stuff it into the barrel, inside the plastic bag filled with cards.

Maybe the postcard will take a week to find its way back to me. Or a month. Or a year.

And whenever it does, maybe Graeme will be in my life. Maybe not. Only time will tell. In the meantime?

I will not think about his lips. Or how his voice caresses my name. Or the way his forearm muscles ripple when he lifts his camera.

With only four days left on the cruise, how hard can it be?

19

The next two days pass in a blur of hiking, snorkeling, and pure, simmering agony. I spend every excursion with Graeme, every meal. He’s polite and professional—the perfect platonic colleague. He doesn’t encroach on my space and he doesn’t mention our kiss.

On the surface, it seems that everything between us is back to normal.

Except it’s not. It’s so not.