With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) (13 page)

“A few weeks ago,” Camelia says, grimacing. “I was drunk. Rum is my enemy. Thank goodness West did not sleep with me, though. If he had, Noel would not have wanted me.”

Camelia and Noel, a British guy from the hospitality department, have been dating for a week now. They’re cute together, flirtatious and carefree.

Why is it so easy for some girls to slip into relationships like a comfortable dress? I think of my friend Georgia and her boyfriend Jace. They’ve been backpacking through Europe, and she’s been sending me postcards all summer. I got one yesterday that showed a hulking concrete statue in Belgium. Georgia only wrote a few sentences, but sounded like she was having the time of her life, seeing the modern art she adores in world-class museums, accompanied by a boyfriend who can’t peel his eyes off her. Georgia and Jace are made for each other, and seriously in love.

Thinking of them reminds me of what I don’t have, of what I’ll probably never have. I want that kind of lasting happiness, but I’m not really the relationship type. I wish I were, but every time I think about getting in deep with a guy, guilt gnaws at my stomach. Keeping things on a one-night basis makes things easy, simple.

It would be even easier if I could stop thinking about my jerk of a boss who’s now policing my days off—and who called our hookup a big mistake.
 

Which is was, I tell myself. I’m not here for anything more.

“I bet West would sleep with you, though,” Camelia goes on, jolting me out of my thoughts. “He watches you with sparks in his eyes.”

“Because he thinks I’m incompetent,” I mumble, cringing as I remember the way he looked at me earlier. His eyes had held sparks, all right—of cold annoyance. Nowhere in his face had I seen the West from the bell tower, the West who listens when I talk about Sofia, the West who teaches me photography technique with sure hands and a ready smile. Instead he’d been angry—and with the way I spoke to him, I guess I can’t blame him. The thought occurs to me that slacking off at this job might have cost me our friendship, and ice sets in my stomach.

Camelia shakes her head and runs a brush through her long hair.
 

“Because he wants you. Half of the team believes you are sleeping together already. Charlie says that’s why you keep turning him down.”

“I turn him down because I’m not interested in dating,” I say tiredly.
 

“Then who gave you those marks on your neck during your first week? A ghost lover?”

 
“They were heat rashes or something.” It’s a lame story, but I’m sticking to it. Hickies are impossible to hide from a roommate—it’s not like I can wear a scarf every second—but thankfully Camelia only teases me about them when we’re alone, and she hasn’t told anyone else, as far as I can tell.
 

“I bet they were heat
somethings
,” Camelia says dryly. She glances over her shoulder and looks me up and down. “You cannot wear
that
—” She motions to my black camisole, which has seen better days. “—to the bar.”

“I was going to stay here and sort photos tonight.” I’m dividing Sofia’s photos into categories depending on light and color, to make the collage easier to put together.
 

“You are sure you don’t want to come?” Camelia says.
 

“Nah, but thanks. Have a drink for me though,” I reply as I scroll through photos on my laptop. My gaze halts at a particular image—one of me and my parents that Sofia took—and my eyes go blurry with tears.
 

There’s another reason I don’t want to drink tonight. It’s the anniversary of my sister’s death.
 

So far, it’s been a particularly crappy day. I started the morning feeling fragile, and dealing with pushy, irritable passengers during the final few hours of their cruise didn’t help. To top it all off, just when I thought I’d get a break and head to my cabin to cry for a while, West turned all autocratic and yelled at me. I almost lost it then and there, but somehow managed not to sob until I reached my room.

Then in the afternoon, I had to wear the thrice-damned Kippy costume again. That’s enough to sour any day.

There’s a knock on our door, and Camelia grins as she lets Noel in. I expect them to head off to the bar, but they linger in the room, kissing and chatting about some argument Noel had with a coworker as Camelia finishes getting ready. I move to the desk with my laptop, sliding into the chair and popping on my headphones. Europop that Camelia introduced me to pours into my ears, blocking out their conversation.

It doesn’t take me long to get into the photo-sorting groove, and a half hour passes before my back gets cramped in the rickety chair. I stretch my arms and am about to stretch my legs when I turn in my seat.
 

And promptly freeze.
 

“Sweet Jesus!” I choke out, knocking the headphones from my ears. Staring in horror, I find Camelia and Noel under the covers, half-naked and—from the looks of it—ready to get it on. I totally thought they’d left for the bar.

Camelia pauses and turns to me in alarm, half-sitting up. Yep, she’s definitely naked. I avert my eyes to the linoleum floor.

“What’s wrong?” she says.
 

“I’m … I’m right here!” I sputter.

“That’s all right.” She gives me a strange look. “You don’t have to leave.” After a moment, she adds, “You could turn around again, though.”

“Um, I actually have to go,” I manage to say as she and Noel start making out again. Camelia is okay with having sex while I’m literally a foot and a half away? Is this a cruise staff thing, or a European thing? I’ve never considered myself a prude, but I’m definitely feeling like one as I grab my laptop and room card and flee. On my way out the door I throw my robe over my shoulders, just as Noel roots for something in his jeans pocket. Probably a condom.
 

Look away, look away, look away,
I think, and dash into the hallway.
 

Slamming the door shut, I lean against it. Then a giggle bubbles up. My Kappa sisters weren’t shy either, but this never happened at the sorority house.
 

My laughter fades, and I’m left contemplating what to do. I’ve got my laptop, so I could go work somewhere else, but the crew bar will be loud and crowded, and I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to wander passenger areas in our pajamas.

After a moment, I shrug and sit on the floor. It’s not super-comfortable, and every few minutes someone has to step over me, but mostly people just say hey and smile, so it’ll do.
 

I’ve sorted through a few dozen more photos when a shadow falls across my laptop and stops instead of continuing. I glance up to find West frowning down at me.
 

“You okay?” His gaze grazes my skin, sending a familiar heat shooting through me. Before I can reply, a moan comes through the cabin door.
 

“Just peachy,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

West’s brow rises knowingly. “Sexiled?”

“She said I could stay,” I tell him with a traumatized grimace.

West smirks. “Ship life.”

“I know. But it hasn’t eaten me alive yet.” I shift and groan at the hardness of the hallway floor. “Trying real hard, though.”

I expect West to step over me and leave, but instead he studies me. Is he thinking of our fight earlier?

“You want a quiet place to hang out?” he says. “I was going to edit photos in my stateroom.”
 

He makes the offer in a neutral voice, and I wonder who I’m talking to, Boss West or Friend West. I honestly don’t know what to say. It’s been a craptastic day, and West hasn’t made it any better.
 

“Your room?” I say, stalling. Is that a good idea? So far we’ve made sure to hang out only in public places. I remember his room; the main feature is the bed. Which is probably way more comfortable than my bunk.
 

As if he’s reading my mind, West raises a sardonic brow.
 

“If you can keep your hands off me, of course,” he deadpans.

I snort derisively, though I hope I’m not ruining the effect by blushing.
 

“Gee, I’ll try.” I get to my feet, cradling my laptop. I guess West and I
are
still friends, and I find myself more relieved than I should be.

Soon I’m ensconced on West’s bed, while he takes the desk. I’ve shared the photos with him through a joint web-based storage service, and he’s been taking the photos I’ve sorted and editing them. Nothing major that would alter the photo, just minor light adjustments and cropping. He has a better eye for it than I do, I have to admit. Plus, he doesn’t get sidetracked by memories all the time.

I open my laptop and sort for a while, but it’s been a long day, and I’m tired, and I have barely had a moment alone to cry, so I’m exhausted. The bed
is
more comfy than mine, so I lie down and close my eyes for a sec. The thrumming of the engines, more pronounced than in my room, is almost soothing. In a few minutes, I’ll go back to my cabin and see whether Camelia and her boyfriend are back to a PG rating, and get some sleep.

~ ~ ~

Knocks on the door jerk me awake.

I startle, sitting and curling my legs under me. West, still at his desk, glances at me before he stands and takes the two steps to the door.

Checking my laptop, I realize I’ve been asleep for an hour and a half. It’s nearly midnight. I rub my eyes and try not to wonder who’s coming to West’s cabin at this time of the night.

West opens the door, and in steps a tall, lithe blonde girl I’ve never seen before. She’s dressed in a slinky black halter top and a pair of skinny jeans that hug her slim curves.

“Hello, handsome,” she says with a smile. Her accent sounds German. “I’m back!” She throws her arms around him and plants a kiss on his cheek. My stomach turns.

“Whoa.” West disentangles the girl’s hands from around his neck. He’s stiff, his shoulders tight with surprise. “Letta, what are you doing here?”

She laughs. “My new contract started, silly! We can be together again.”

Again?
My eyes narrow. Not that it’s any of my business, since there’s nothing going on between West and me.

“I thought you were on the
Midnight Star
this time,” West says with a frown. Am I petty for feeling happy that he doesn’t sound all that glad to see tall, blonde Letta?
 

“I’m friends with the Hotel Director’s girlfriend,” says Letta. “I got him to switch me with another purser.”

“Oh.” West seems at a loss for words. “Look, um …”

The blonde girl finally notices me, and a thundercloud flashes across her pretty features.
 

“Who is
she
?” she demands, making it sound like I’m some kind of sea slug dragged up from the bottom of the ocean. West glances at me and opens his mouth, but doesn’t make introductions.

“A friend,” I supply.

The girl murders me with her eyes, then turns back to West.

“Are you sleeping with her?” she demands.
 

“No,” West says. That barely seems to mollify Letta, but before she can say anything West rubs the stubble on his jaw and says, “We broke up, Letta. I didn’t think you were coming back.”

She turns all smiles again.

“Well, I
am
back. For you.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Letta says. “What we had, it was special.”

“Look …” West shakes his head. “I wish you would’ve told me about this before tonight.”
 

Letta’s blue eyes start to cool. “It was supposed to be a surprise.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “What are you saying, Westley?”
 

“I’m saying that I don’t want to get back together,” West says baldly. I guess he doesn’t reserve his lack of tact just for me.

Letta’s face pales, and despite myself I feel bad for her. This is really awkward, and not something I should be seeing. I want to get the hell out of here, but Letta is blocking the door.
 

“Why?” She stabs a finger in my direction. “Because of
her
?”
 

West shakes his head. “No, not because of her. I just don’t.”

The girl whirls toward me, and I almost check my face for knife wounds, her glare is so sharp. I think it’s safe to say that Letta is not a Yasmin fan.

Without another word, she turns. Her heels stamp on the hallway outside as she leaves. West shuts the door, then stares at it.

“Shit,” he says. I hide my smile.

“Your ex, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you want to get back together? She seems nice.”

West snorts at my sarcasm. “Dating her was a huge mistake.”

My amusement vanishes. Letta was a mistake the way I was a mistake? Great. Suddenly I’m back in the bell tower, when West regretted our having sex practically before we were even done.
 

“Did you make that clear to her?” I snap. “Maybe while you were still inside her? Because she would have gotten the picture that way, I promise.”

West gives me a startled glance, and I wince at the venom in my voice. Suddenly my anger is gone, washed out as quickly as it came, and I’m just tired again.

“Sorry,” I say, standing up. I should go before my tears arrive. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s … it’s been a crappy day.”

“Because of me, I’m guessing,” West says.
 

I shake my head.

“No. I mean, that didn’t help, but …” I trail off, and West cocks his head.

“What is it?”

I take a deep breath and tell him what no one else on the ship knows.

“Sofia. One year, today.” Saying the words conjures up the tears, as I knew it would, and they spill over my cheeks. Sympathy blooms in West’s gaze.
 

“Yas, I’m so sorry.” He reaches out as if to touch my arm, then pauses. “Can I hug you, or are you still mad at me?”
 

Despite the tears, one corner of my mouth tilts up.
 

“Yes.”

West steps forward, and I sink into his embrace. He’s warm, and smells of citrusy soap. Sweet Jesus, he feels good, wrapping around me like a heated blanked on a chilly morning. This is what I’ve wanted all day, I realize—this comfort, this reassurance from someone who wholly understands where I’m coming from. Maybe we can’t hook up, but I love having his arms around me.