Maybe Anders was right—maybe a pretty face is all it takes to distract me. It sure made me believe Dane was a good guy. It made me miss the obvious fact that he and my best friend were fucking for years right under my nose.
I feel my stomach twist, but if I give myself over to defeat, I know I won’t be able to pick myself back up again. So I swallow the bile rising in my throat and get my shit together.
“It doesn’t matter what he is,” I say with as much force as I can muster. “Because after tonight, I’m never going to see him again. I plan on collecting my paycheck and disappearing.”
Anders gives me a disbelieving look. “I hope, for your sake, he lets you disappear.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Molly asks, her tone turning sour. “It’s pretty obvious he already got what he wanted from her.”
I barely feel the sting of her words. I’m a little busy still processing the whole Bratva don-slash-murderer part of the equation.
“We need to clean up,” I say in a shaky voice.
“Sure, but—”
“Silently,” I hiss.
She throws me a sharp glance, but follows the order. Thank God for the kitchen hierarchy.
I return to wiping down the counter. One swipe at a time, taking away grease and crud and leaving clean, shining steel in my wake. It’s pleasing work. Makes me wish I could fix my whole life like this.
But even as I try to unclench, it takes all I have not to throw up right on top of all those acres of countertop.
Keep breathing, girl, I tell myself. When you get back to land, you’ll start a whole new life. Things will be okay.
For a little while, I even believe myself.
* * *
By the time the kitchen is sparkling clean, I feel slightly more composed. The panic has given way to uncertainty. Of course the staff of a rich man would gossip, right? I’ve been in enough kitchens to know just how much. People who work in hospitality talk like old birds at a nursing home.
More often than not, the gossip is blatantly false or at least grossly exaggerated. So is it really fair to take the word of four strangers over a man I shared a real and deep conversation with?
No. I have to trust myself.
Though God knows my track record in that department is looking a little bit spotty as of late.
I remove my borrowed chef’s whites and stow them back in the little storage cupboard where I got them. I pull out the thick black jacket he lent me earlier on the bow of the ship.
Would a murderer really have done that? I think to myself triumphantly. Check and mate, Anders.
A part of me registers that I’m being naïve. Registers it loud and insistently, actually, like a red alarm screaming IDIOT-IDIOT-IDIOT!
But a larger part of me wants to prove the staff wrong. For no other reason than to assure myself that I’m not just a terrible judge of character who picks all the wrong men.
My phone is lying on a shelf next to the jacket. I don’t even bother checking the screen as I slip it into the right pocket of the slip dress. Then I take the jacket, fold it over my arm, and turn to find Cory watching me. His eyes land pointedly on Anton’s jacket.
“Goodnight, everyone,” I say, pointedly ignoring everyone’s gaze as I walk past them towards the exit.
“Where are you going?” Molly asks. “We haven’t even docked yet.”
“Just need to get some fresh air,” I tell her.
But the moment I step out of the kitchen, I ignore the steps that will lead me up to the deck. Instead, I turn the corner and head towards the room that Anton led me to when we first boarded. My wedding dress is still there. I’m not sure I want it, but I’m also reluctant to just leave it behind.
As much as I want to start clean, some things are hard to part with.
I’m lingering outside the door, about to step inside, when I hear the creak of a door not far off.