With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) (3 page)

At my meeting tomorrow, however, Randall Cunningham isn’t going to want to hear excuses.

“Paolo won,” I say. He’s a high-energy guy from Brazil, and passengers can’t help but return his wide smile. Crowing with victory, Paolo does a little dance that has everyone cracking up except for me.
 

“Congrats, man,” I say to him. “You get the next port day off.”
 

The guys clap Paolo on the back, but I make everyone quiet down. “Listen up! I’m not finished. We really need to ramp up our sales on this next leg. That means if we have to work fourteen-hour days, then we work fourteen-hour days.” I ignore the wave of grumbling. “If sales don’t improve by five percent at least, corporate is going to start breathing down our necks.”
 

“Eh, I say to hell with corporate,” Charlie pipes up, making a face. The others laugh, but I can’t laugh along with them.
 

 
“Look, guys, the last thing we want to hear is that corporate is cutting commissions because our revenues are down. So we need to work our butts off this week. Don’t just meet your daily photo quota, exceed it. Target parents by getting photos of their kids. Push framing packages and digital slideshows. Got it?”
 

The shop has fallen silent.
 

“All right. Get back to work,” I say.
 

Murmurs ripple through the shop as everyone returns to their duties. It sucks that I can’t be the nice, joke-y sort of boss everyone likes, but I’m not here to make friends.
 

I save the sales files, then head over to inspect one of the wall display monitors. It was acting wonky all morning.
 

“Some pep talk,” Yasmin mutters to Camelia as they wipe down a countertop. Her back is to me. Camelia, noticing me, gives a small shake of her head, but Yasmin doesn’t appear to recognize the warning. “I mean, he sounded more uptight than my old history professor.”
 

Irritation slides through me. “Yasmin. Can I have a word?”
 

Yasmin whirls, eyes widening. Her cheeks flush, but she nods. “Sure.”
 

Gesturing for her to follow me to the storeroom, I silently swear at HR for giving me such a raw recruit. One who not only doesn’t know which way is forward, but who can’t seem to keep her mouth shut while at work.
 

Closing the door behind me, I get straight to the point.
 

“Are you at all trained?” I ask, rubbing my forehead. I got probably ninety minutes of sleep last night, and if I can get a spare moment I want to swing by the ship clinic for a seasickness patch. Out at sea we can usually route around rain, but we had to come in to Miami to dock.

“Of course I’m trained,” Yasmin says, frowning.

“Exactly what kind of training have you had?” I’ve come across way too many “photographers” who claim taking Polaroids as a résumé builder. “I know you went to the orientation seminar Star Heart sends everyone to, but do you have any other photography experience?”

“I took a class last semester—“

“Let me guess. They hired you because you own your camera and know what a flash is.” Once upon a time, cruise lines only hired professional photographers, but in the days of digital photography, they lowered their standards along with their pay. Nowadays, the pros are hired alongside amateurs who happen to have a full frame DSLR and who just want to sail the seas and goof off for a couple years. “Do you ever take your camera off automatic?”

Yasmin’s eyes go wide. “Wow, is that an option?”

I almost groan, then realize through my tired haze that she’s kidding. Okay, she’s feisty. I knew that earlier when she glared at me in the I-95 hallway—the main corridor the crew uses—not backing down though she’s probably a hundred pounds soaking wet. And she had been soaking wet, her long black hair an inky, dripping mess around her face.
 

Her hair’s nearly dry now, but her polo and shorts are still damp, and I find myself glancing at the way they cling to her body. She’s hot enough to rival any of the production dancers on the ship, and I can’t help picturing her in a bikini. Or naked.

I shake my head to clear it.
Focus
.

 
“I haven’t done anything professionally—yet,” Yasmin is saying, “but I’ve set up studio backdrops, and I’ve been shooting manual for a couple years. I’m a quick study.”

“We’ll see,” I say doubtfully. Photography is different on a cruise ship, even for a seasoned pro. I’m never going to win my corporate escape if I can’t get her up to speed fast. “How much can you lift?”

“What?”

“Some of our equipment is heavy, and you’ve got to do your own carrying.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than I look.”

I snort. “You couldn’t even lift a box of paper earlier.”

Yasmin crosses her arms, a motion that makes it impossible not to check out her chest. I force my gaze to a spot above her forehead.
 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Yasmin starts.

“Speaking of feet, I hope you’ve got other shoes,” I say. “You spend most of your day standing and walking around the ship, and heels aren’t really going to cut it.”

By the way Yasmin flips her hair, I’ve definitely annoyed her now. “They’re wedges, actually, and they’re comfortable. Trust me.”

“You were tripping in them earlier,” I say sourly. If I sound like I haven’t forgiven her, it’s because I’m still annoyed that she all but ruined a ream of paper. We can’t print photos on bent and stained sheets. It’s not that much money wasted, I’ll admit, but the cost comes out of my numbers. Every bit counts. I hate that I have to pinch pennies and be a tightwad, but I won’t let anything get in the way of my promotion. This girl, with her sexy tousled hair and a body that felt soft in all the right places when she fell on me earlier, isn’t going to change that.

Yasmin’s cheeks redden, and I wait, already mentally preparing a citation if she curses me out the way it looks like she’s going to. But instead of laying into me, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath.
 

“I apologize for getting in the way earlier. I was new, and lost. It was a total accident, but I understand how unprofessional it seemed.”

“Not as unprofessional as calling me an asshole,” I observe. If she’s going to throw a tantrum, I want to know now rather than finding out at sea, so I deliberately try to provoke her. “Does your diva card come with a foul mouth, or was that something extra just for me?”

Yasmin’s mouth flattens, but she doesn’t take the bait, instead saying evenly, “I apologize for that too. How can I make it up to you?”

I study her, letting my doubt about her competence show plainly on my face, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. Yasmin meets my gaze calmly, without fidgeting.
 

All right, she might make it here after all. If her pride can handle the next few hours, that is. I grab a big pile of foam and fabric from the corner of the storeroom. Hiding my grin, I press the costume into Yasmin’s arms.

“Here. Put this on,” I say.

Chapter 3

Yasmin

I am wearing a giant heart.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter as I survey myself in the storeroom’s mirror. Apparently, the costume is the cruise line’s mascot, a big fuzzy red heart—the Valentine’s Day kind, not the anatomical kind—with white and yellow stars scattered across its abdomen. Do hearts even
have
abdomens?
 

Basically, I look ridiculous. On top of that, I can hardly move. My arms stick out to the sides, and my limbs are covered in gaudy red fabric. Through the mask’s face screen I can dimly see that my own smile—or scowl, in this case—has been replaced by the mascot’s manic grin.

“I have a freaking bachelor’s degree,” I say in protest to my reflection.

“News flash,” West says, appearing at my shoulder. “No one cares out here.”

Crap, I hadn’t realized he was within earshot. The damned costume doesn’t give me any peripheral vision. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t fired me yet, especially since I called him an asshole earlier. Now he probably thinks I consider myself too good to wear a silly uniform. Well, he’s wrong. I’ve done dumber things for my sorority. Plus, in middle school one year I wore a carrot suit for Halloween so that Sofia could be a bunny. I’d figured nothing could be less flattering than dressing like a vegetable, but this heart mascot somehow manages the impossible.

“Welcome to the photography team,” West says somewhere behind me. I turn toward him and cross my arms. Try, anyway. The costume doesn’t let me do much aside from sticking my hands straight out, like I’m about to give everyone a giant hug.
 

“Is this a joke?” I say.
 

“Nope.”

“Then you’re doing this to punish me.”
 

“Wrong again.”

I can sort of see him through the face-screen. Is he grinning? Can’t be. West is, as far as I can tell, the kind of boss who’s a humorless pain in the ass—and I’m stuck with him for the next eight months. I don’t mind working long hours or hauling my equipment or even dealing with picky customers—I’m not afraid of hard work—but getting humiliated by my manager?
 

“Maybe I’m completely off, but it seems like you have it out for me,” I continue, trying to steady my voice. “The whole paper thing earlier was an accident, and I really am sorry for that. I don’t know what else I can do—”

“This isn’t punishment, Yasmin.” West takes hold of the costume and straightens it. He looks annoyed—and, annoyingly, hot. His hands on my arms are strong and warm, and send shivers straight to my stomach. I try to ignore them. I didn’t come on board to drool over my boss, or any other guys for that matter.
 

“New team members wear the suits,” he goes on. “That’s the rule.”

“Oh.” So it’s a sort of hazing thing. I round my shoulders. I survived Hell Week to join my beloved Kappas—including a run-in with a bathtub full of clean kitty litter—so I can handle this. I’ll prove to West that I’m not some clueless “diva” who has never done an honest day’s work.
 

Then I pause. “Wait, did you say
suits
?” As in, plural?

West checks his watch. “Come on. They’ve probably started letting people on the ship now.”

After he grabs a tripod and his camera bag, he leads me out into the Promenade. The last time I was on the ship, the décor was sort of dated, but now the passenger areas are decorated in blues and aquas, with sand-colored carpets. There’s a big coral statue stretching up towards the ceiling, with fish statuary peeking from its limbs. It’s like we’re under the ocean’s surface. The whole effect is pretty charming, and I find myself smiling through my face screen at a cool-looking octopus sculpture that contains a trash can.
 

“Hey, it’s Kippy!” some middle-aged guy calls out to us as we pass the duty-free liquor shop. He waves in our direction, grinning. “Save me a hug, okay?”

“Who’s Kippy?” I ask. And why does that guy want a hug?

“
You’re
Kippy,” West says. “Wave when people say hi.”

“This giant heart has a name?” I ask, but wave obediently. “Why Kippy?”

“I have no idea. Corporate thought it up. We just put on the costume and take the pictures like good little worker bees.”

We reach the atrium of the ship, which soars up several stories to a glass dome ceiling. Above, the sky is gray and stormy, but inside everything is bright and cheerful and a mix of vibrant colors—airy white, turquoise trim, splashes of mango and kiwi. There’s the giant fish tank too, three decks tall, that I remember from my cruise six months ago. But other things are different, like the library, which appears to be missing. Maybe I’m misremembering. Or maybe everything looks different from inside a stuffed heart.

West leads me across the atrium and past the help desk, also called the purser’s office. We reach a little alcove with a carved wooden sign bearing a painted rendition of the
Radiant Star
and the words
Best. Vacation. Ever!
Down the hall, I can see the passenger embarkation desk where a long line of people has gathered to check in and board the ship.

“Here we go,” West says, as three older women in sundresses approach. They’re carrying umbrellas, but no one is wet, so the rain must have stopped outside. West has the women pose around me. Once everyone is in place, he sets up his camera on the tripod and smoothly adjusts the aperture and shutter speed. He flashes us all a smile that makes my stomach do a sudden flutter. Damn, West is dangerous when he smiles. For my own sanity, it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t seem to like me.

“Where are you lovely ladies from?” he asks as he takes a test shot.
 

The women giggle. One of them says “Wisconsin” while another whispers, “What a handsome young man!”
 

Apparently, West saves all his charm for the customers. I can’t say I’m surprised, not after his lecture about boosting revenue back at the photo shop. I bet he goes to bed each night staring at Excel spreadsheets and calculating sales figures.
 

“Say ‘bikini!’” West directs. The women laugh again, and as they say
bikini
the flash blinds me. West hands the women a brochure on where to purchase their picture and sends them into the atrium before we repeat the routine with a young couple who must be on their honeymoon by the looks of their “Mr.” and “Mrs.” matching t-shirts. I shift a little to my left to give them more room, but the husband takes one look at me and grins.
 

“Hey, don’t I get a hug? Damn it, I want a hug. I just got married!” He throws his arms open and I can smell the vodka on him, even through my costume. Wow, he really must’ve hit the bar early. The guy’s new wife smiles sheepishly at me.
 

“He heard that Kippy gives free hugs,” she says.
 

“Kippy does indeed give free hugs,” West replies. His gaze sharpens on me expectantly. “In fact, he
loves
giving hugs, doesn’t he?”