Page 67 of Fire and Ice Cruise

We emerge from the locker room to find Wes and Ransom waiting, looking relaxed and comfortable in their swim trunks.

Men really do have it so much easier in life.

“Ready?” Wes asks with an easy smile that assures me he did not participate in a conga line in the locker room or spend twenty minutes wrestling with spandex.

“Define ready,” I say.

Ransom takes one look at me and his mouth curves into a naughty smile. That man has a one-track mind. But as long as that track is focused in my direction, I don’t mind one bit.

We walk together toward the pool area, and the first full view stops me cold.

The Blue Lagoon spreads out in front of us like something from another planet—and I mean that in terms of both appearance and sheer size, because this thing goes on forever, carved into the black lava rock in every direction like the earth just decided to fill itself in with something beautiful.

Milky turquoise water steams against black lava rock formations, wooden bridges cross the expanse, and people float in blissed-out suspension holding drinks they got from the bar that’s literally IN the water. The sky above is gray and moody, making the blue even more dramatic.

Bodies are everywhere, all ages, all shapes, all looking like they’ve found paradise in geothermal minerals.

“That actually looks worth the trauma,” Bess admits.

“I’m still voting for another conga line,” Nettie says.

“No,” Bess and I say together.

Wes gestures toward the steaming expanse. “Shall we?”

I take a breath, looking at the volcanic blue water, the black rocks, the steam rising as though Iceland itself is exhaling.

Marina is still hiding secrets.

Ransom is still unemployed.

There’s still a killer sailing on the ship with us.

But right now, there’s also a hundred-degree volcanic hot spring and the promise of at least an hour or two where none of that matters.

“Here goes nothing and everything all at once,” I say, and step toward the water.

CHAPTER 22

The Blue Lagoon smells like minerals and sulfur and that particular brand of relaxation that only nature can provide.

Bess, Nettie, Wes, Ransom, and I stand at the edge of the milky turquoise water. And I mean milky, like someone dissolved the entire contents of a bath bomb factory into a volcanic crater. The steam rising off the surface makes everything look dreamlike and ethereal.

The water stretches out in every direction, dotted with floating bodies and punctuated by black lava rock formations that jut up because Iceland decided to accessorize. Wooden bridges crisscross overhead. Somewhere to our left, a swim-up bar is doing brisk business in frozen cocktails. The crowd is international and enthusiastic, their voices mixing with the gentle lap of water against rock.

The sky above is slate gray and moody, because this is Iceland, and sunshine is apparently rationed.

Bess dips a toe in and hisses. “Wow, that’s HOT.”

“It’s volcanic,” Nettie reminds her, then proceeds to wade in, howling at the top of her lungs while taking in a few quick breaths. “Sweet mercy and shirtless strangers! Oh. OH. This is H-O-T double hockey sticks hot!”

Bess follows, making sounds like she’s being slowly boiled alive. “This is INSANE.”

Ransom and Wes, meanwhile, submerge themselves to their necks in one smooth motion, completely unbothered by the temperature. Men. They acclimate like it’s a competitive sport.

I do my best to melt slowly into the water, inch by torturous inch. The heat is shocking at first, a full-body assault that makes every nerve ending scream, and then suddenly it’s not. It’s just perfect.

The minerals make the water feel silky against my skin, coating me in something that’s part hot tub, part science experiment, and all relaxation.