What are the odds he’ll tell James? I nearly choke. What are the odds he won’t? We haven’t even made it to our first stop of the cruise and I’ve already served up the perfect shot for Graeme to spike in my face.

Are people staring? Maybe no one else saw…

“Honey, are you okay?” a middle-aged woman asks, bustling over.

Graeme steps between us. “She’s fine. Just a little seasick.” He stares her down until she leaves. His hand closes around my elbow as he guides me to the far end of the sofa. My knees buckle and I collapse into a heap. “Do you need to go lie down?” he asks, voice low.

I consider it. But my stomach is dormant now, like a hyped-up toddler passed out after a sugar rush. I feel loads better, actually. I shake my head.

Without another word, Graeme turns and walks away.

Great, he’s so grossed out he can’t even look at me. Humiliation courses through my veins. At least I won’t have to worry about him getting in my way this week. He’ll probably stay far, far away for fear that Henley the Hurling Wonder might spew all over him.

I wet my lips. I need water. And a toothbrush. And to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Shoving to my feet, I pick up my notebook and pen from where I dropped them on the floor and stumble across the room. A crew member holding a spray bottle and a cleaning rag hustles to the spot where I was sick, probably to clean up the splatters. Ughhh so embarrassing. I wobble down the stairs, keeping my chin tucked in case anyone is looking, and escape to my cabin.

Our suitcases are here, finally, and I tip mine onto the carpeted floor and unzip it. Digging through the inside pocket, I fish out a container of Dramamine, my toothbrush, and toothpaste. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and tongue vigorously, almost gagging in the process, and slurp water from the tap to wash down the chalky white pill.

Bracing both palms along the narrow counter, I stare into the mirror. My cheeks are a brilliant pink and my eyes are glassy. I wet a washcloth and dab it against my face to cool down. Vomiting on someone, even someone as annoyingly persistent as Nikolai, ranks as one of my all-time worst waking nightmares. And Graeme had a front-row seat.

A voice sputters from a wall speaker between the two twin beds. “Good afternoon, good afternoon. A mandatory safety briefing will begin shortly. Please make your way to the lounge.”

“Shitsicles,” I mutter.

I have to attend the mandatory briefing, no matter how much I want to fade into the ether.