Page 63 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“That Viking doesn’t exist,” Nettie sighs. “Not even in fiction.”

“Tragic, really. There’s an entire genre of men who can knock down a Norse pine in a single swing, and not one of them can locate a dish towel.”

“Some fantasies are too far-fetched,” Nettie agrees. “Even for the paperbacks.”

“A man who wipes down the counter afterward.” Bess shakes her head. “Now that would sell.”

“Although,” Nettie leans in, “I did read one where the Viking hero learned to bake bread and then seduced the heroine with fresh sourdough. Now that was very domestic. And very sexy.”

“How is bread sexy?” Bess asks.

“You’d be surprised what authors can do to make you raise a brow.”

Bess holds up a hand. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

I’ve accidentally glimpsed Nettie’s reading app before. There is no bottom to that particular rabbit hole, and I say that with equal parts horror and admiration.

Nettie spots a server with a tray of mimosas and flags him down as if she’s hailing the last lifeboat off a sinking ship. She grabs three glasses, passes them around, and takes a long sip. She also tucks a fourth behind the napkin caddy, an insurance mimosa. Bess reaches over and returns it to the tray before the server can escape, all without a word or a glance at the culprit.

Border patrol in a pantsuit.

“Sweet fizzy heaven,” Nettie breathes.

“It’s champagne and orange juice,” Bess says.

“Exactly. Heaven.”

I take a sip of my own mimosa, perfectly balanced, cold, and dangerously easy to drink, then scan the crowd again.

Magnus has materialized near a cluster of women in velvet capes, clearly enjoying himself. He informs them, loudly and to no one who can hear him, that velvet is “a fabric for sinning.”

I make a mental note to keep him away from the drapes in my suite.

“Is your sexy suitor from the great beyond here?” Nettie asks, following my gaze.

“Unfortunately, yes. He’s currently nibbling earlobes and whispering who knows what into them. Something naughty, no doubt.”

Nettie perks up immediately. “Hey, hot stuff from the other side!” she calls out to absolutely no one the rest of the room can see. “Come to mama!”

Half the lounge turns to stare. Nettie sips her mimosa, entirely unbothered. Eight decades of not caring will do that for a person.

Magnus’ head swivels toward us, and a grin spreads across his face, slow and villainous.

Oh no.

He glides over in a lazy swirl of silver stars and settles in next to Nettie, who shivers slightly as he leans close.

“Your friend invites me,” he purrs against her ear. “How delightful. Shall I tell her what I think of her⁠—”

“Don’t you dare,” I mutter.

Nettie looks at me. “Is he here?”

“He’s here.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Things I’m not going to repeat.”