“How the fuck could it be worse?” I snorted.
“Well, at least you found me,” she said, shrugging. “I could have drowned, or I could have ended up on a raft by myself and not know what to do. If I have to be on a life raft out in the middle of nowhere, I have the feeling you are the person to be with.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to think about exactly what she was saying. I knew she just meant I had essential survival skills, but she just sounded so grateful. I don’t think anyone ever really talked to me – or about me – in that particular tone before.
“Yeah, if you were really unlucky, you would have ended up with John Paul.”
“I thought John Paul was sweet.”
“You talked to him?” Stupid question. Of course she had talked to him; he was practically a one-man cruise director. He talked to everyone.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “Alejandro was making waffles for breakfast, and John Paul told me to have it with blueberries instead of strawberries. He said Alejandro bought the strawberries super cheap and they were absolutely nasty.”
She giggled again. Damn.
“The blueberries were really good.” Raine smiled, looked straight into my eyes with her dark brown lashes half obscuring her irises, and giggled again.
Holy shit. I had to stop breathing for a second. She said something else, but I totally missed it.
“What?”
“I said, did you have the waffles with blueberries, too?”
“No.” I shook my head, “not my kind of breakfast.”
“What is your kind of breakfast?”
“Coffee with Kahlua and a half pack of cigarettes.”
“Seriously?”
“Only thing that keeps me awake.”
“What about lunch?”
“Oh, I usually eat lunch,” I said. “Whatever Alejandro brought to the pilothouse I would eat. I’m not too picky about food, as long as it isn’t crappy food.”
“What’s crappy food?” she asked.
“You know – like chips and red meat and candy and shit. I never eat that stuff.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not good for you.”
She laughed out loud, which was almost as cute as the giggling, but not quite.
“You drink and smoke breakfast, but you won’t eat a candy bar?”
“Yep.”
“Does that really make sense to you?”
“Yep.”
“Do you think you could explain it?” she asked, tossing a handful of hair over her shoulder. “Because I think that sounds absolutely ridiculous.”
“It isn’t fucking ridiculous,” I growled, glaring at her. “Alcohol gets processed by your liver and doesn’t affect muscle mass. Chips and other shit like that are wasted calories in fat which slows you the fuck down. Red meat is too hard to digest, has too much protein and too much fat.”