“And thanks for accommodating my request. I appreciate it,” Graeme adds in a conspiratorial tone. The fine hairs on the back of my neck raise in alarm. I don’t like that tone at all. Like Graeme is keeping secrets with the cruise leader. Secrets that will give him an edge in our competition? I lean over the arm of the sofa, straining to hear more…

“Of course, of course,” says Gustavo, sticking out a hand for Graeme to shake. “We will connect after the safety briefing, before this evening’s shore excursion.” Just as I’m about to catch my first unobstructed real-life glimpse of Graeme, a Technicolor torso sidles into view.

“We meet again, Ms. Shirt.”

I jolt and drop my pen. “Oh, um, hi.” I attempt to peer around Nikolai. He steps closer until he fills my entire field of vision. I nearly growl in frustration. In one smooth move, he slides next to me on the couch, body angled toward mine, thoroughly boxing me in. His cologne hits me like a sledgehammer. On a different day I might have said it was nice, if a bit strong, but today the scent drills into my nose and pummels my gag reflex like a punching bag. My throat constricts.

Under the guise of picking up my pen, I wiggle out of his orbit and quickly stand.

“You never answered my question earlier,” he says, crossing his legs, seemingly unbothered by my rapid escape. Lips squeezing together in a puckered smile, he smooths the imaginary wrinkles from his Ed Hardy T-shirt. “You, me, dinner?”

I open my mouth to decline, but—

“There you are,” a deep voice purrs behind me. I whip around to find myself staring into a face I’ve only ever seen on a screen—Graeme’s.

Sunlight frames him, highlighting the subtle dimple in his chin. My heartbeat stutters. He’s shaved at some point in the last two weeks. His stubble is shorter than it was before, maybe a week’s worth of growth. And I notice for the first time that his nose isn’t completely straight; the bridge is slightly crooked, but it doesn’t detract from his looks in the least.

It’s official: FaceTime Graeme has nothing on live-and-in-person Graeme. He’s tall, for one—a shade over six feet, I’d guess, based on how his chin is at my eye level. And with his strong jaw, patrician nose, and sweep of wavy, deep brown hair that’s longer on top, he cuts a striking figure. So much for my imaginings of a squat, bulbous troll-demon. This Graeme is freaking… majestic. Majestic edged with down-home, aww-shucks, Midwestern charm—snake charm, that is.

Sweat threatens between my shoulder blades. Did someone crank the heat in here or what? Squaring my shoulders, I flash Graeme a tight-lipped smile. “Here I am.”

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.