...just as the music pauses.
I whip my neck around to find twenty pairs of eyes staring at me with expressions ranging from “Hello to you, too!” to “What’s the hell’s the matter with you?!”
I force my lips to tilt up into a smile.
“S-Sorry,” I say, holding up a hand and waving awkwardly at my fellow passengers, whom I’m meeting for the first time. “I...I just wanted...”
The pianist takes pity on me, launching into a rowdy, new round of the Lambada chorus, and the passengers turn back to him, singing and dancing as though I’d never interrupted their fun.
Feeling like more of a fish-out-of-water than ever, I turn back around...
...to find Desidério from last night, eyebrows raised, and lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Miss Marino,” he says. “How can I help you?”
I canfeelmy nostrils flare and eyes widen. What theactualfuck is Desi-not-Arnaz doing here?
“Nh...uh...um...,” I elegantly snort.
“What can I get for you?” he asks, all smooth and handsome and way more composed than me.
(I hate him. I really do.)
“Mr. ...I mean, um...Desi—”
“Rio,” he tells me. “I’m called Rio on board.”
“Rio?”
“DesidéRIO.”
“W-When you said you were a tour guide, you meant...on a boat.”
“Yes.”
He looks down at the bar, and I can tell he’s laughing at me. His lips can barely contain his smile and his chest puffs up then deflates like he’s holding in a guffaw.
“I didn’t mean to yell.”
He glances up at me through those long, beautiful lashes.
“Okay.”
“I just wanted a drink.”
“Of course you do.”
I sit up straighter. “What doesthatmean?”
He places those too-good-to-be-true hands on the counter between us. “Just that you’re a passenger on this cruise...and you’re thirsty.”
The double meaning of “thirsty” is not lost on me.
(Ooooo! I hate him. Times a gazillion.)
I lift my chin, adopting my haughtiest Manhattan attitude.
“A martini, please.”