The Trouble With Paradise

He smiled, his eyes revealing a good amount of trouble-the kind that drew women like flies.

Uh-oh.And there went her tongue, swelling away.

“I’m Denny McDonald, the captain.” He jerked his chin toward the other guy, the one rescuing her suitcase. “And this is Ethan Erle. Our burger flipper.”

“Chef,” Ethan corrected mildly, also incredibly good-looking, wearing the same navy pants Denny was, with an apron over the top. Cute as he was, he looked as if he was still in school.

Middle school. His youth was probably the only thing keeping Dorie’s tongue from further engorgement.

“I’m a chef,” Ethan said again, looking at Denny over Dorie’s head. “Unless maybe you’d like to be called an oar specialist, Captain?”

Denny merely arched a brow. “Oar specialist?”

Ethan smiled. Seriously, he looked twelve. “Chef?” she repeated.

He laughed, his baby face crinkling in good humor. “I’m older than you think.”

“Thirteen?”

“Twenty-five,” he corrected, still smiling. “Old enough to be experienced. I can promise you, just one of my meals will make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Okay, now that sounded promising. “Well, food is one of my favorite things.”

“Do you cook?”

“I can toast a Pop-Tart.”

He laughed. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

“You have your ticket?” Denny asked.

“In my purse.” She patted the purse slung around one shoulder, which as always, carried just about everything she could ever need.

Except good sense. That she seemed in short supply of.

“Purse?” Ethan eyed it. “That thing is the size of a suitcase.”

“No, those are my suitcases,” she said, taking a few limping steps toward the luggage, including the one hanging off the plank.

Denny was frowning down at her ankle. “What’s up with the limp?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

He didn’t push, but he did rescue her luggage, then guided her on board, where she looked around in awe.

The Sun Song was impressive, with the sail poles high and proud in the sky above.

“Enjoy,” Denny said, and left Dorie with Ethan, who gave her a tour of the ship from bow to stern. It dazzled her. The interior, polished teak and accented with bright, welcoming colors and fresh flowers and gorgeous prints, was surprisingly spacious and luxurious.

Despite her pain, a frisson of excitement coursed through her. She was really doing this, really sailing off into the sunset and the South Pacific, among over three hundred islands made of coral and dormant volcanoes covered in rain forests.

They walked (Ethan walked, she limped) through the large galley, a place stuffed to the gills with all kinds of mouthwatering food piled high on trays. “Oh my God.” She nearly moaned. “You did all this?”

Clearly very proud of himself, he nodded. “For the Meet and Greet. It’s in twenty minutes.”

The adjoining salon was more gleaming teak and held a bar, a gorgeous dining booth, an entertainment center, and a spiral staircase leading up to a lookout deck above. Everything dripped elegance and sophistication, and for the next week, she got to belong in this world.

Belowdecks, her state room was as glorious as the rest of the ship, done in beautiful wood and brightly colored accents, clearly made for comfort and privacy. Ethan left her with a complimentary bottle of champagne, and she toasted herself. “To no more tripping, falling, or stumbling,” she said to her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. “To confidence. To having fun.” She finished off her glass and then, just a little bit overwhelmed, went to sit down on her bed.

Bad idea.

Sitting down reminded her that she had a splinter in a very vulnerable place. Leaping up in response reminded her of her other problem, her ankle, which had gone from some discomfort to unmistakable throbbing, accompanied by a lovely mottled blue bruise-not her color if she said so herself. She needed ice. Grabbing her purse, she hobbled to her stateroom door, thinking to find Ethan again.

In the hallway, she ran into a different crew member, as extremely good-looking as the rest of them. He was the same guy she’d seen waving to Andy while on the dock. In his early twenties, he wore the same navy cargo pants and white shirt as Denny and Ethan, and oddly enough, a grumpy frown that rivaled Mr. Stryowski’s. Along with that frown, he wore an Astros baseball cap backward on his head and carried a tray of what looked to be iced tea, along with a small stack of glasses, and was sending off enough waves of irritation to make her wonder what could possibly be so bad about working on a boat in the South Pacific. Try Shop-Mart, buddy. “Houston,” she said. “We have a problem.”

“Oh, I’m not Houston,” he said. “I’m Bobby.”

“Well, yes. I was just making a joke-You know what? Never mind,” she said at his blank expression. “Look, I’m sort of injured.” She felt so stupid for adding her problems to his clearly already bad day. “I twisted my ankle, and then got a-” No. She was not going to tell him about the splinter. Her bottom could just fester and fall off before she’d tell a single soul. “I just need-”

“The ship’s doctor?”

She blinked. “Do you have one?”

“Christian’s part of the sailing crew, but also an MD.” He eyed her ankle over his tray. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” To prove it, she took a step, but her ankle gave out entirely and she fell right into him.

And his tray.

The iced tea fell over, and dumped down her front, soaking into her pristine white sundress. Oh, yes, right on track to having fun.

Bobby, his Astros cap askew now, eyed the front of her dress, which was drenched through. “Shit on a stick!”

“I’m so sorry.” She pulled her dress away from her skin, because wow, the tea was iced.

“Shit,” he said again, and handed her the small linen napkin draped over his forearm.

She dabbed at the damage, but it was like plugging Niagra Falls with a tampon. Worse, she realized she had a sort of wet T-shirt effect going. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve got something warm,” she tried to joke.

“This is bad.” Bobby was trying to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her breasts like magnets. “Oh, God.” He covered his eyes. “I’m going to get fired. Again.”

“No, it’s my fault, not yours-”

“It’s never the guest’s fault,” he said miserably, as if he’d had this phrase repeated to him more than a few times. “Fuck!” Then he put a hand over his mouth.

“What?”

“And I’m not supposed to swear in front of you either. Oh, God, I’m toast. Burnt toast.”

“No, you’re not. Look, we’ll just forget about the tea, okay?”

His expression went to sheer disbelief. “You’re not going to tell on me?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He let out a long breath, then nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. “That’s good. That’s great.” Bending, he began to clean up the glasses on the ground.

“Um… Bobby?”

He glanced back.

“Maybe I could get some ice? For my ankle?”

“The doctor.” He slapped his forehead. “You need the doctor.” He reached for her, but eyeing her wet dress, he pulled his hands back, shoving them in his pockets. “Uh…”