Chapter 1 - Cold Departures
The heat off the asphalt in Port Canaveral hit like a wet, heavy wool blanket. Exhaust fumes from a line of idling shuttle buses mixed with the salty, sulfur stink of low tide.
Sam squared his shoulders, adjusted the heavy strap of his leather duffel, and pulled his dark sunglasses down his nose. The terminal was a hive of chaotic noise. Rolling suitcases clattered over sidewalk cracks. Screaming toddlers pulled at their parents’ shirts. Seagulls circled overhead, screeching at dropped hot dog buns near the terminal doors.
He glanced at his watch. 1:15 PM.
His older brother, Mark, was supposed to be here with his new wife, Elena. The whole trip had been Mark’s idea—a four-day run down to the Bahamas on some over-the-top mega-ship to celebrate their two-month anniversary. Mark had bought three tickets, insisting Sam come along to balance out the group. Sam had reluctantly agreed, mostly because he needed four days off the grid without his phone ringing off the hook.
He didn't see Mark's silver SUV anywhere in the drop-off lane.
Sam reached for his phone, but a sharp drag of a suitcase wheel behind him made him turn around.
A girl stood there, flushed, holding two giant hard-shell suitcases that looked heavy enough to crack the concrete. She wore an oversized linen shirt over a tank top and cut-off denim shorts. Her dark hair was tossed up in a messy knot that was already coming undone in the Florida humidity. Small beads of sweat glinted along her collarbone.
Sierra. Mark’s new stepdaughter. Twenty-four, if Sam’s memory served him right.
He had met her exactly once. Two months ago at the reception in Chicago. She had been wearing a formal silk dress, standing near the bar, looking like she wanted to set the velvet curtains on fire just to create a distraction. Now she was here, breathing hard, her cheeks pink from dragging luggage through the sun.
"Sam?" She squinted against the glare, dropping the handle of the pink suitcase. It hit the pavement with a loud thud.
"Sierra." He took a step forward, his boot heels clicking on the curb. "Where’s your mother? Where’s Mark?"
She wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead. Her breath came in short, shallow hitches. "Not coming."
Sam frowned. "What?"
"Mom's appendix," she said, waving a hand vaguely in the air like she was trying to shoo away a fly. "Or... gallbladder? Something ruptured. Or almost ruptured. I don't know. They went straight to the ER at five this morning."
Sam stood still. The sea breeze whipped a strand of her dark hair across her cheek. "They're in the hospital?"
"Yeah. Well, local hospital. Back home." She tugged at the strap of her oversized canvas tote bag, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Mark said... he told me to just come. Said the room was paid for. Non-refundable. Said I should take the break."
"He sent you alone?"
"I mean, I'm twenty-four, not twelve." A quick, sharp edge hit her tone. She looked away, her eyes tracking a massive white cruise ship looming over the terminal building like a floating apartment complex. "He said you'd be here."
"I am here," Sam said slowly.
"Right. So." She bit the inside of her lip. Her fingers drummed a frantic, nervous rhythm against the leather strap of her purse.
The weight of the situation landed squarely between them, heavy and clumsy. He was thirty-four. She was twenty-four. She was his brother's new stepdaughter—a relative on paper, a complete stranger in reality. And the two people who were supposed to be the buffer between them were currently stuck in a triage unit eight hundred miles away.
"Did Mark mention the cabin?" Sam asked.
"No. Just said it was on deck eight."
"It's a suite."
"Okay?"
"One suite," Sam said. His voice dropped an octave, steady and flat. "He booked one room for the family."
Sierra stopped drumming her fingers. Her hazel eyes snapped back to his face. She stared at him for three full seconds while the sound of a ship’s horn echoed across the harbor, long and deafening.
"Oh," she said.
"Yeah."
"Well." She cleared her throat, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It’s a big ship, right? How small can a suite be?"
Sam didn't answer. He knew how Mark spent money when he was trying to impress a new wife. He’d booked a romantic package.
"Give me those," Sam said, reaching down to grab the handles of both her oversized bags. His forearm tensed, muscles straining as he lifted the weight.
"I can get one—"
"I got it."
Their fingers brushed against the cold plastic handle for a fraction of a second. Sierra pulled her hand back instantly, as if she’d touched an exposed wire. Sam took a breath. The scent of her hit him—something sweet and floral mixed with sunscreen and the hot asphalt under their boots.
He turned toward the glass doors of the terminal. "Let's just get through security first."
The check-in line inside was a slow-moving queue of loud families, retired couples wearing matching floral shirts, and groups of college kids already drinking out of plastic yard-long cups. The air conditioning was blasted on high, creating a freezing contrast to the swampy heat outside.
Sierra walked half a step behind him. He could hear the squeak of her sneakers on the polished linoleum floor.
"He really didn't call you?" she asked, her voice low over the hum of the crowd.
"Phone was off," Sam replied, pulling his passport out of his back pocket. "Was driving down from Orlando."
"Right." She searched her bag, dumping a pile of receipts, lip gloss, and crumpled gum wrappers onto a plastic security tray before finding her navy blue passport. "He was super stressed. Mom was crying. It was... messy."
"Is she going to be okay?"
"Surgery's this afternoon." Sierra handed her passport to the uniformed port agent behind the counter. "Mark's with her. He kept apologizing to me. Like it was his fault."
The port agent stamped her boarding pass without looking up. "Room 8204. Elevators to the left after the metal detector. Next."
Sam stepped up, handed over his documents, and received his blue plastic keycard.
They moved through the metal detectors in silence. Every step closer to the gangway felt heavier. The ship was waiting at the end of a long, windowed glass tunnel that stretched out over the water. Inside the tunnel, the air smelled of stale carpet and industrial cleaning supplies.
Sierra walked up to the glass wall, looking out at the murky green ocean water slapping against the hull of the vessel. "It's huge."
"Twelve hundred feet," Sam said, stopping beside her.
She turned her head to look at him. Up close, without the harsh sunlight, he could see the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept. "You don't want to be here."
It wasn't a question.
Sam kept his face impassive. "It's four night."
"We can cancel. You can take a flight back."
"Can't," he said, turning to walk down the remaining length of the gangway. "Ship sails in an hour. Gangway pulls up in thirty minutes. We're on it."
She caught up to him, her sneaker laces trailing on the floor. "So we're just... doing this?"
"Mark paid for it. Your mom wanted you to have a vacation." Sam reached the threshold where the carpet ended and the ship's brass doorframe began. A crew member in a crisp white uniform smiled at them.
"Welcome aboard the Oceanic Empress," the crew member said smoothly. "Keycards, please."
Sam tapped his card against the digital scanner. It beeped green. Sierra did the same.
"Welcome to Deck Five," the crewman said, pointing toward a grand atrium with glass elevators, marble stairs, and a towering chandelier that caught the light like thousands of tiny knives. "Elevators are straight ahead."
They walked into the atrium. The noise of the ship slammed into them—a live steel-drum band playing on the upper deck, the clink of champagne glasses at the lobby bar, people shouting to be heard over the music.
Sierra looked around, her lips slightly parted. "Which way?"
"Up," Sam said. He steered her toward the glass elevator bank, his palm hovering just an inch off the small of her back, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin through the thin linen shirt, but not touching.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. It was empty. They stepped inside, and Sam hit the button for Deck Eight.
The glass doors closed, cutting off the loud music from the atrium, replacing it with the low, hum of the ship’s engines below their feet. The elevator began to rise.
Sierra looked up at the digital floor indicator glowing red above the door. 8... 7... 6...
She reached down, pulling her messy hair back up into a tight, neat twist at the base of her neck. Her bare neck was long, pale, and exposed.
"So," she said, her voice dropping into the quiet space between them. "One suite."
Sam kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the metal doors. "We'll figure it out."