Page 7 of Fire and Ice Cruise

The first couple to approach catches my attention immediately. The man is probably late fifties with silver-streaked dark hair and warm hazel eyes. He’s wearing jeans and a charcoal henley that somehow manages to look both casual and expensive. The woman beside him has shoulder-length auburn hair streaked with honey highlights, bright green eyes, and she’s dressed in layers of maroon and navy that look effortlessly put-together. The kind of put-together you can’t fake, and can’t buy, though Heaven knows people try. People like me.

“This is Silas and Holland Rowen,” Gideon says proudly. “They own⁠—”

“Nordic Hearth!” I practically shriek, and there goes every ounce of dignity I’ve ever had and every speck of cool, too. “Oh my goodness, I decorated my entire house with your furniture! Well, I did when I had a house. I live on the ship now.”

Holland’s face lights up. “Really? That’s wonderful! On both counts,” she laughs.

“Oh, I’m obsessed,” I gush, probably sounding unhinged. “The minimalist aesthetic, the craftsmanship, the way everything feels warm but not cluttered—my old house was basically a Nordic Hearth showroom. The UPS driver and I were on a first-name basis.”

“I’ve seen the photos,” Ransom says dryly. “It was a situation.”

“A tasteful situation,” I add.

Silas laughs, and it’s a warm, genuine sound that wraps around our little cluster like a soft blanket. “We love hearing that. Truly.”

“Are you the artist behind the designs?” I ask Holland.

“We both are.” She links her arm through Silas’s. “He handles the woodwork, I do the textiles and overall concepts. We’ve been working together and married for over thirty years.”

“Relationship goals,” Tinsley murmurs.

A woman glides over to join us, and glide is really the only word for it. She’s probably mid-fifties with sleek dark hair styled in a sophisticated bob, flawless olive skin, and she’s wearing a burgundy wrap dress with black heels. Everything about her screams polished professional, from her manicured nails to the expensive watch on her wrist. I’m guessing if her watch had a watch, it would also be expensive.

“And this,” Gideon says, “is Nicolette Devereaux. She’s a divorce attorney in Boston.”

“Recovering divorce attorney,” Nicolette corrects, with a smile sharp enough to cut a settlement in half. And possibly a prenup.

“I’m taking a sabbatical to figure out what’s next.”

“How long were you practicing?” Wes asks.

“Twenty-five years.” She accepts a glass of champagne from a passing server. “Twenty-five years of listening to people destroy each other over who gets the lake house. I really needed a break.”

“I don’t blame you,” Marina says quietly.

And something in her tone makes me think there’s a story there. An entire paragraph of a story. Possibly a trilogy.

Gideon’s gaze shifts to Marina, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

Marina’s face goes completely blank. “No,” she’s quick with the answer.

“I never forget a face.” Gideon studies her for another long moment.

Marina’s cheeks flush bright red. “I have that kind of face,” she forces a tiny laugh. “People always stop me and ask if we went to high school together.” She clears her throat, and I can hear the slight tremor in her voice.

Gideon doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it drop.

Wes gestures toward the elevators. “The Opaline Royale Lounge is ready for your bon voyage party whenever you’d like to head up.”

“Excellent.” Gideon turns to our group with an expansive smile. “You’re all welcome to join us as my guests.”

“That’s very kind,” Bess says.

“We’ll be there with hell’s bells on,” Nettie adds with a wink. “And if there are appetizers, we’ll be there twice.”

True as gospel.

Gideon shoots another lingering look at Marina. “I’m serious though. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”