Walsh flashes me an enigmatic smile as she picks up her fork and taps it against her water glass. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” she calls out.

The guests on deck quiet.

“For anyone who’s looking for a little after-dinner entertainment, make your way to the lounge. We’re having a lip-sync battle.”

22

My jaw nearly crashes through the floor and sinks the ship. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Lip. Sync. Battle,” she enunciates. “I originally wanted karaoke, but Gustavo didn’t want us to use the mics. Lip-sync battle is the next best thing.”

“And why exactly do you think this is a good idea?”

“Look around,” she says.

The response is overwhelmingly positive. Lots of wide smiles and enthusiastic nods—from the under-forty set at least. Some of the older guests chuckle and wave a no-thanks, but they still beam indulgently as they make their way to the stairs and presumably back to their cabins. Even Donna is smiling. The mood is one of revelry, and I find my muscles loosening and nerves buzzing.

Graeme pushes back from the table and stands as well. “Will you lip-sync?”

“Nah, I’ll probably watch,” I admit. “But it sounds fun. You’re not going to do it, are you?”

He flashes a self-deprecating grin. “Crowds still aren’t my thing.”

Nikolai sticks his finger in the air. “What is this ‘lip-sing’ battle?”

Walsh steps between Nikolai and me and loops her arm through his, leading him toward the stairs. “Lip-sync. It’s where a song is played and you have to mouth along to the words, but you don’t actually sing. Dancing is optional. Dramatic flair is required.” Her voice drifts off as they descend the stairs toward the lounge. God bless Walsh for running interference.

“Shall we?” Graeme offers his arm.

I hesitate for only a heartbeat before taking it. His skin is warm to the touch and his glorious scent makes me want to nuzzle my face in the crook of his neck. I edge closer, but not too close. We still have to keep up professional appearances.

The lounge is crackling with anticipation when we arrive. Roughly three dozen guests are sprinkled throughout the room—mostly women, but a few men too. Boozy, happy conversations punctuate the space. Graeme steers me to one of the curved navy sofas that ring the central dais and we sit. Across the room, Xiavera is directing Walsh on how to plug her cell phone into a set of speakers concealed in an AV cabinet.

“She really has a knack for this,” says Graeme, jerking his chin in Walsh’s direction.

“A knack for what?”

“Connecting people and bringing out the fun, like how she led yoga on the beach the other day. The guests love her. What does she do again?”

“She’s a masseuse and soon-to-be yoga instructor.”

“She’d make a good shipboard spa coordinator.”

Huh. “She would.”