Page 18 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

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“Morning, gorgeous people!” Elodie announces, sliding into the empty chair beside me without a single awkward molecule in her body. She sets down her mimosa, plucks the chocolate croissant directly off my plate without asking, and takes a bite while making eye contact to establish dominance. In the wild, this is how apex predators say good morning.

“Good morning, Elodie,” I say right back. “Please, help yourself to my food. It’s not as if I stood in line for it or anything.”

I’m teasing. It’s basically understood that I stand in line for the two of us. I’m the hunter-gatherer in this friendship. She gathers whatever I hunt.

“Don’t mind if I do.” She grins, licking chocolate off her finger. “Also, Trixie, I’m deeply wounded that you didn’t invite me to the murder mystery dinner in the Coral Lounge last night. Wounded. Devastated. Emotionally scarred. I heard there were men.”

“They were made out of cardboard,” Bess is quick to inform her.

“I’ve got one back in my cabin if you need a close-up,” Nettie says as she lifts her coffee.

“I believe it’s called the Valhalla Lounge now,” Marina corrects.

Elodie waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever you’re calling it, I heard there was death and drama and Viking ice sculptures and I missed the whole thing. Do you know how rarely exciting things happen on this ship?” She pauses to inspect me for a moment. “Wait, actually, exciting things happen constantly when you’re around. Never mind.”

“You didn’t miss much,” I say, reclaiming what’s left of my croissant before she can finish it. “Just a woman getting poisoned and crushed by a six-foot ice Viking.”

“That’s not much?” Elodie’s eyes widen. “Well, when you put it that way⁠—”

Nettie brandishes her fork, syrup dripping. “A raunchy Viking book club has infiltrated the ship!”

Elodie’s mouth falls open dramatically. “No!”

“Yes!” Nettie gasps back, matching her energy gasp for gasp. She’s been waiting all morning for this. Possibly all year.

“Good Lord,” Bess mutters into her pancakes, not even looking up. “This is going to be a long, hairy-scary cruise, isn’t it?”

“The hairiest,” Nettie confirms with obvious delight. “Fifty women obsessed with fictional Vikings. Shirtless men in fur cloaks. Abs for days. Steamy romance novels with titles I can’t repeat in polite company. It’s absolutely glorious.”

“It’s absolutely terrifying,” Bess corrects, finally looking up from her breakfast. “Fifty women with questionable taste in literature and no sense of self-preservation.”

Nettie shrugs. “Same difference.”

Elodie lights up. This is the best gossip of the year, and she knows it. “Well, I certainly hope those women have better luck tracking down real Vikings on this cruise than they do in their paperback fantasies.” She sips her mimosa thoughtfully. “Fictional men are for women who have not tried the real ones. I have tried a great many.”

Bess balks. “Fictional men are for those of us who have tried the real ones and want a refund.”

“Story of my life,” Nettie agrees, stabbing a waffle with more force than necessary.

“Story of everyone’s life,” Bess adds dryly, pouring more syrup over what’s left of her pancake tower.

“But let the record show, I love men,” Nettie says, feeling the need to clarify her adoration for the species. “It’s my goal in life to show each and every one of them my appreciation. Except for the taken ones or the dead ones. They’re off the market, too.”

I keep my mouth shut on the dead ones. In my experience, they’re not so much off the market as extremely talkative. And handsy. And occasionally interested in my breakfast.

Elodie stands gracefully, brushing imaginary crumbs off her spotless white pants. “Speaking of finding men, and of things that are wildly inappropriate, there’s a sale at the Queen’s Mall. All the smutty romance novels are half off.” She looks directly at Marina with a wicked gleam in her eye. “You know, that’s one way to get the captain’s attention. Show up to dinner with a spicy Viking romance. It really sets the mood.”

She winks and saunters off toward the Queen’s Mall, her mimosa held high, a victory torch. She’s not only out of uniform, she’s drinking on the job. But with a job on this ship, I’m shocked half the crew isn’t storming the bar.

Marina’s face flushes nearly to the shade of her hair. “I already have the captain’s attention.”

I grin at her over my waffle. “Do you, now?”

“Not like that.” She laughs, but the laugh comes out brittle around the edges. “I’m not interested in men right now. Not interested in dating. Not interested in romance. I mean, I’m interested in Wes, but, well, I’m just... not interested.”

Her cheeks catch fire and let us know exactly how interested she really is.