Page 99 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“Honesty.” She gives a mournful laugh. “That’s a new approach for me. Maybe I’ll try it more often.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “About your friend? About the affair?”

Her smile fades. “I’m going to tell her the truth. She deserves to know. Then I’ll deal with whatever consequences come from that. It’s time to stop hiding.”

It’s the season for it. Confession is sweeping this ship faster than word of a midnight chocolate buffet.

“That takes courage,” I tell her.

“Or insanity. I’ll let you know which one it was after she’s done screaming at me.” She gives a little wave. “See you around, Trixie. Try not to find any more bodies.”

“I make no promises.”

Historically speaking, the bodies find me.

She laughs and heads off, and it hits me that I’m going to miss the dramatic Viking teacher with the defiant streak. May her landing be soft and her friend’s screaming brief. And may she find true love with someone who’s available.

Tinsley and Elodie drift up just in time to catch Wes leaning a touch too comfortably toward Marina. It’s not scandalous or improper, simply close enough for anyone with functioning peripheral vision to clock it. Tinsley’s peripheral vision could spot a workplace romance through a steel bulkhead. Her gaze flicks from Marina’s face to the shrinking space between them, and her mouth tightens by a fraction.

“Marina,” she all but hisses, “I need you in a staff meeting. Immediately.”

Wes doesn’t hesitate. He shakes his head once. “No, you don’t. Take the afternoon off, Tinsley. You’ve earned it.”

Tinsley blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” he says. “We’re docked in Tallinn. Enjoy it. Walk the town wall. Treat yourself to lunch on Town Hall Square. I hear the marzipan is life-changing.”

Life-changing is a strong claim on this ship, where the phrase usually involves a corpse. The marzipan is a welcome upgrade.

Marina does her level best not to look caught between a promotion and a scandal, and she almost pulls it off.

Wes turns back to her. “Have you seen the Old Town yet? I could show you Toompea Hill. There’s a viewing platform at the top with the whole city spread out below. Red rooftops, church spires, the harbor beyond. The view alone is worth the climb.”

Marina smiles, and it warms her whole face from the inside out. “I’d love that. But don’t we have to be back soon to welcome the next passengers?”

“We’re here until evening. The ship repositions to Barcelona tonight, and the next cruise begins once we arrive.”

Before she can follow him, I head over and steer us both a few steps aside to give us a little privacy. I’ve been carrying this since Copenhagen, and if I don’t say something now, I’ll talk myself out of it.

“Marina.” I keep my voice low, just for her. “You know I’ve never asked. About any of it.”

Her chin dips a notch. “I know.”

“And I’m not asking now. Not really.” I give her arm a small squeeze. “I just want you to know that whatever it is you’ve been carrying, whenever you’re ready to set it down, I’m here. We all are.”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything. Her ice-blue eyes shine with tears, and I think she might finally let it spill, right here in the middle of disembarkation mayhem despite the man in a Panama hat continuing to defend his minibar innocence behind us.

“There’s a whole story,” she says finally. “You’ve probably guessed that much.”

“I’ve guessed a little,” I counter.

A little, and then some.

“I’m going to tell you. All of it. I promise.” She glances toward Wes, who’s waiting a few feet off and pretending very hard not to listen. He’s about as convincing as Nettie listening in on a lecture about chastity and pretending to be interested. When Marina looks back at me, her voice drops even lower. “I just—I’d like a little time first. A little while where I’m just Marina. Where there’s a handsome captain who wants to climb a hill with me and none of the rest of it has caught up yet.” She swallows hard. “Once I say it out loud, everything changes. I’m not ready for it to change. Not yet.”

And there it is. The closest thing to the truth Marina Maxwell has ever handed me, wrapped in a promise instead of a story.

She looks from Wes to me and blows out a breath. “Okay, Trixie. As soon as we board the next batch of passengers, I’ll tell you everything.”