“Remind you to enter our wildlife photography contest,” he blurts.

Damn it, he guessed what I was going to say—that he would retweet and like their posts. Score one for Graeme for wiggling out of the extra work I tried to land on his plate.

“The winner of the contest will receive an all-expense-paid Seaquest Adventures cruise to Antarctica,” Graeme continues. “Entries will be accepted until November 1. See Henley for more details.” He flashes me a smile that, from the outside, would appear to be nothing more than professional courtesy. Except I can see through his facade like cellophane. It’s a smile full of challenge. A shark’s smile.

Applause fills the room. My nostrils flare as we sit. I realize too late that we’re closer than we were before, only inches away. Energy surges between us so fiery it could melt diamonds.

“Yes, the contest. Thank you, Graeme. We’re pleased to have both you and Henley on board,” Gustavo acknowledges. “Now, if everyone could direct their attention to the screens for a short safety video. Afterward, we will gather in our muster stations for a lifeboat drill.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean over until my mouth is inches from Graeme’s ear. “Smooth move, making me the point person for that photography contest. Now every other guest with a fancy camera is going to be hounding me with questions.”

Graeme’s lips twitch. “I thought you liked being in charge.”

I narrow my eyes at him. His expression is placid, but I don’t miss the flush in his cheeks and the tiny beads of sweat that have gathered around his collar. Is he nervous or something?

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. “For the record, I will do anything to land this promotion. Even if I have to chat up every guest on this ship while coming up with a home-run marketing idea, I’ll prove I’m the better choice. Throw all the obstacles in my way that you want. I’ll still rise to the top.”

Straightening, he leans so close that his shoulder brushes mine and his warm breath caresses my ear when he chuckles. “Game on.”

7

Istill can’t believe you puked on that Russian chiropractor and I missed it,” says Walsh, her eyes obscured by a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses.

The safety briefing is over, and we’re back on shore on San Cristóbal for a short evening excursion to explore Puerto Baquerizo Moreno before the ship sets sail for Española Island, the first stop on our voyage. The café’s red umbrella above us casts a narrow shadow, and the strong sunlight warms my bare shins. Across the street, water laps against a concrete pier jutting into the bay.

“Is that a company record, yakking in the first fifteen minutes of a cruise?” Walsh asks.

Snatching her paper napkin from the table, I tear it into strips, lips pursed.