I finish the banana in five more bites and throw away the peel in the trash can across the deck.

When I return to my spot in line, the slap-slap of flip-flops approaching co-opts my attention. I suppress a groan. Nikolai is wearing a faded shorty wetsuit unzipped and rolled down to his waist, and he’s strutting, gut sucked in, arms pumping like he’s on Baywatch. Surprise flickers through me. His stomach may be on the softer side, but his arms are relatively sculpted. Good for him.

“I see you are better today,” says Nikolai. “No more—” He opens his mouth and pantomimes vomiting with his hand.

“Not yet.” Not with the preventative Dramamine I’ve been taking.

“Good, I am glad. And you”—he wags a finger at Graeme—“you had me going for a second. You are not her boyfriend. You two work together.” Nikolai punches Graeme lightly on the arm. A frown flickers across Graeme’s face before he smooths it away.

“Perhaps we can get to know each other better this evening over dinner?” Nikolai asks me, pursing his lips in a puckered grin.

Really? I thought after I puked on him, I was permanently off the hook. Apparently not. I desperately want to tell this guy to bark up some other tree, but then I recall the second principle in our company’s mission statement: prioritize the passenger experience above everything except safety. Nikolai is a guest. Politeness is required.

I force a weak smile. “Sure.”

“You can’t today,” interjects Graeme. “Remember? We have that work thing, that meeting,” he says meaningfully.

“Oh, right. Yes. We need to discuss—”

“Website optimization,” he finishes.

“Yes, website optimization. Sorry, I completely forgot,” I say to Nikolai with an apologetic shrug.

“I understand. You are career-minded woman. I like that. Some other time then.” He slouches off to a chair across the deck, gut sagging.

I swivel to face Graeme. Did he just save me from unwanted male attention? This does not square with the Graeme I’ve known for a year. He’s being… nice. And Graeme isn’t nice. Graeme argues. He connives. He doesn’t say please or thank you, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be helpful.

Is this all part of the act? Some trick to get me to lower my guard?

“That was thoughtful of you,” I say once Nikolai is out of earshot.

“Was it?” he drawls. “You know this means we have to sit together at dinner, right? And, gasp, actually have a conversation?”

“The conversation part’s debatable.”

“Come on, don’t you think we should get to know each other at least a little? We’ve worked together for a year and I hardly know anything about you. Except the fact that you don’t seem to like me very much. Why is that, exactly?”

“You know why.”

“Can’t say that I do.”