Shaking my hair out of my face, I square my shoulders and raise my chin. Okay. I puked on someone. So what? The quickest way to draw attention to myself will be if I slink around like a piddling puppy, and I refuse to give Graeme the upper hand here. If I pretend this episode never happened, then everyone else will too, Graeme included.

He’d better.

Taking a deep breath, I stride out of my cabin and return to the lounge. Mostly everyone is seated now. I intentionally don’t look for Graeme. If he’s planning on ignoring me the rest of the trip, I’ll let him.

I spot Nikolai, wearing a different, equally ugly shirt, sitting with Dwight near the central dais. He doesn’t see me—whew. And Walsh is still perched on a barstool, happily chatting away, oblivious to everything that just went down. I could join her, but the thought of making small talk with strangers right now has me feeling queasy all over again.

I skirt through the sea of sofas and find an empty spot in the opposite corner from where I was before.

“You’re back,” says Graeme at my elbow. My muscles jerk. He wasn’t here a second ago. Leaning over my shoulder, he places a glass of ice water, a packet of Dramamine, and a candy wrapped in blue foil on the cocktail table in front of me before sinking into the nearest teal swivel chair, unfolding like a king assuming his throne.

Graeme’s… not avoiding me?

I blink at the water, then at him. He inclines his chin as if to say, There you go.

This is so unexpected. And nice. And weird.

I hold the glass up to the light and rotate it, looking for any sign of foul play. Then I bring it to my nose and sniff.

“It’s water. Not cyanide.”

“I know.” Wetting my lips, I take a tentative sip.

“I mean, I spit in it, but…”

My first instinct is to open my mouth and spew the water back into the glass. Instead, I lift my chin, lock eyes with him, and deliberately swallow. A droplet of water clings to the corner of my lips and I brush it away with my fist.

He chortles. I glower.

Resting an elbow on his armrest, he considers me. “You know, whenever I imagined meeting you in person for the first time, I never pictured you projectile-vomiting on someone.”

Don’t acknowledge. “What did you picture?”

“Henley, warrior princess. Armed with the sharpest of knife collections to skewer the hearts of her enemies.”

“The knives are in my cabin. They were a bitch to get through customs, especially the meat cleaver, but I can go get them if you like. You never know who might need skewering.” I flash my teeth in a wide, beatific grin.