Nikolai scrambles to his feet. “Dr. Nikolai Kozlov.” He extends his hand, and when Graeme steps up to take it, I catch a whiff of something delicious: an enticingly light scent of cedar, leather, and something crisp—citrusy, even. I resist the overwhelming urge to grab him by the collar, shove my nose in the crook of his neck, and snort like a politician doing a line of coke off a prostitute’s cleavage.

I swallow the sudden excess of saliva that’s flooded my mouth—along with a jolt of anger. This is the competition. We’re not on the Love Boat. We’re on assignment for work. And the one who uses this experience to craft the best proposal wins.

And I’m going to win. I will. I’ll make sure of it.

The two men shake hands.

“Nice to meet you. Graeme Crawford-Collins.” Graeme’s expression is tight and unreadable.

“I’m sorry, you two are…” Nikolai trails off, pointing his finger back and forth between Graeme and me.

“Together,” says Graeme.

My eyes nearly bug out of my head and I scratch my nose to cover my reaction. Is Graeme pretending to be my… boyfriend? Why, to keep Nikolai from sniffing around? There must be some ulterior motive. I just don’t know what it is yet.

Catching sight of my face, Graeme shoves his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts and his bicep muscles flex beneath the sleeve of his white polo. “I believe you were extending a dinner invitation?”

“Yes. To her. And you. Both of you,” Nikolai hedges.

“We’d be delighted to—”

A gust of wind suddenly rattles the windows and the ship tilts sharply. Several guests gasp and grab furniture to steady themselves. Heat floods my cheeks. Bile rises. My head spins.

No. Not here. Not now.

I hunch, fist pressed against my lips as my stomach heaves. Graeme’s there, gripping my shoulder. Saying my name.

Need to get out of here.

I shove away, take two steps, and vomit. All over a brightly colored Ed Hardy T-shirt.

6

I blink in horror. Nikolai’s eyes widen and his lips curl in disgust. “I go change shirt,” he says stiffly, and marches to the stairs. Only one person, Nikolai’s friend Dwight, pulls a double-take at the trail of vomit oozing down his chest like pulverized egg yolks. Everyone else seems either too engaged in conversation or too transfixed by the view to notice.

With my fingers clamped against my closed mouth, I swivel slowly to face Graeme. His eyebrows are so far up his forehead that they threaten to disappear into his hairline.

I puked. In public. On a guest. In front of Graeme.

I want to curl up in a ball and die.