Full Steam Ahead (Sea Swept #1) (2 page)

Our elevator spits us out onto another dim hallway, and we traipse across royal blue carpet that must have been installed in the early nineties. Dozens of doors flank us on both sides, and I hope mine isn’t too far. I want to close the curtains and sleep until tomorrow. Maybe my roommate has headed up to the Lido Deck already and I can skip the safety session altogether.

“Looks like this one is mine,” Yasmin says, stopping outside of room 8041. “You want to come in for a minute and say hi to Parker?”
 

“I should probably unpack. I’ll see you later, okay?” After Yasmin disappears into her cabin, I head down the hallway. I wish we could’ve roomed together, but she promised Parker Holloway that they’d book a balcony cabin months ago. I can’t complain. They’ve been best friends since elementary school, and I’ve only known Yasmin since I transferred to Baxter a year and a half ago. Besides, I never could’ve paid for a room with a balcony.

My head pounds, and I wish yet again that I had stayed at home. Yasmin called me ‘brave’ for coming on this trip, but the truth is that I’m not brave at all. The only reason I didn’t cancel is because I haven’t told my parents yet that Hunter and I broke up. I’m a coward, I know. I tried to tell them right after Christmas, but couldn’t bring myself to do it, not after hearing my mom gush again about how Hunter is the best thing to happen to our family in years, and how I’d better be sure not to lose him. So I charged my fare on my credit card and vowed to find a way to pay it later, though I’m scraping by to make ends meet as it is. And even that isn’t enough anymore. Not with the latest email …

That familiar nauseous feeling climbs up my throat, and I break into a jog, dragging my suitcase frantically until I find my room. Swiping the key card, I thrust open the door; a punch of chilly air greets me as I step inside. I shove my bags into a corner and sink onto the edge of the bed, drawing in deep breaths to try and settle my stomach. I tell myself I’ll be fine, but grab the trashcan just in case. There’s a roar in my head, a million poundings like water onto pavement, telling me I shouldn’t have eaten those cookies.
 

The shower in the bathroom shuts off, and I look up, startled.
Crap.
I’d been so busy trying not to puke that I hadn’t realized the shower was running. The bathroom door opens, and a cloud of steam escapes into the bedroom before my roommate steps out.
 

Avert your eyes
, I tell myself, but all thoughts of politeness float away as my gaze gets stuck to the expanse of bare skin of the tall form in front of me. A white towel has been wound around his lean torso, and his fingers even now are tucking in the edge.

Droplets fall from dark brown hair, water trickling everywhere. Across the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. Down his suntanned shoulders and flat stomach. Down, down … my mouth is dry, and I tear my gaze away from the line of towel slung low—too low—on his narrow hips.

Jace McLaren raises a dark brow at me.
 

“Hey there, roomie,” he says.

And that’s when I throw up.

Chapter 2

Georgia

“Whoa, you okay?” Jace heads toward the bed and stands next to me, his towel only inches from my face.
 

Horrified, I wipe my mouth. “What are you doing here?” I blurt out, then want to kick myself for asking such an inane question. This is his room too—Jace and his former roommate are Hunter’s frat brothers, and their room was the cheapest of the group. They drew straws to see who got to swap and room with Hunter, and Jace lost. “I just meant that I thought you’d be up on the Lido deck with everyone else.”

“Wanted a shower first.” Jace crouches down to look at my face, and I hope I don’t have anything awful still clinging to my lips. He studies me as if looking for signs of the plague.

“I’m fine,” I say, a little more sharply than I’d intended.

He shrugs, then stands, and I’m looking at his abs again.
No drooling
, I tell myself, and force my eyes upwards. His Texan drawl comes out full-force when he asks, “Did you have a little too much to drink on the flight to Miami?”
 

“What? No! I’m … seasick.”
 

Jace glances at the trashcan I’m holding. “We haven’t even left the dock.”
 

My cheeks burn, from embarrassment at throwing up and from his naked chest. No one should look that sexy in the room’s crappy lighting. “It’s a stomach bug, that’s all.” I bolt into the bathroom, trashcan in tow, and slam the door behind me.
 

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wall. From his expression Jace thinks I’m lying, that I’m drunk. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s better than him starting to wonder why I can’t seem to keep food down. But who am I kidding? Jace will be too busy flirting with bikini-clad girls on this trip to notice, let alone question, my eating habits. One less thing for me to stress about, thank God.
 

I rinse out the trashcan and clean myself up in the tiny bathroom, noticing that Jace has already opened the complimentary shampoo in the cramped shower, then head back into our equally tiny room. It’s smaller than my freshman dorm room was, but it manages to hold two twin beds, a small set of drawers, a cramped closet nook, and a tiny flat-screen TV mounted onto the aqua-painted wall. I was hoping that Jace would have gone up to the pool by now, but he’s digging through his suitcase, still clad in his towel.

“Feeling better?” he says, as if we’ve run into each other on Baxter’s sprawling campus.
 

“Much better,” I lie. Truthfully? The lightheadedness has hit me again now that my stomach is empty, and the room tilts at a weird angle. I take a seat on the bed by the door and reach for my bag to unpack, but I have to blink away the spots in my eyes first.
 

“So how many drinks did you have?” Jace fishes out a pair of cherry red swimming trunks. “A few gin and tonics? Or did you order the whole cart of booze?”
 

I only groan, wishing he would go away. I reach for the complimentary bottle of water on top of our dresser, but my clumsy fingers knock it to the floor instead. Jace crosses the distance between us and picks it up for me.
 

“You sure you’re okay?” The playfulness has retreated from his voice—surprisingly. Despite my weak protests, he presses a hand on my forehead. His touch is warm, damp, firm. With him so close, I inhale instinctively, and the scent of warm, clean guy mixes with a citrusy soapy note, probably from the free shampoo.

The scent sends unwelcome shocks through my system—unwelcome because I don’t want to be attracted to Jace. He’s not someone I can ever consider dating. I know that sounds snobby and horrible, and I hate myself for thinking it. But with my mother in my ear all my life, I know perfectly well that I’m carrying the Cantwell legacy on my lone shoulders and our name needs to be allied with class and money. And Jace has neither. What he does have is a shady background—I heard that his parents are in jail—and a reputation of jumping into bed with any girl who wants him. Believe me, there have been a lot of those.

“You don’t have a temperature,” Jace says, dropping his hand. Then his lips, which I can’t seem to look away from, twitch up into a smirk. “Looks like you’re going to live, Georgie.”
 

“Don’t call me that.” My eyes snap away from his mouth. “Look, if we’re going to room together, we need to set some ground rules.”
 

“Ground rules?”
 

“Yeah, like: don’t call me Georgie.”
 

“What’s wrong with Georgie?” he asks, grinning, and I start getting annoyed.

“It’s not my name.
My name is
Georgia
. Remember? Can’t you—”

“Whoa.” Standing back up, he raises his hands. “Fine, Lady Cantwell. Have it your way. After all, the rest of us mere mortals live to serve you.”

“Don’t call me Lady Cantwell either,” I grit out, ignoring his sarcasm. “Don’t call me any of your nicknames.” My headache has returned full force, and I rub my temple as Jace rolls his eyes.

“All right. Is that all?”

“No.” I’ve seen his mess of a room at the frat house, and since he’s asking … “Pick up after yourself. Knock before you use the bathroom. And—” I falter, then make myself add, “If you’re going to bring a girl back to the room, put a sock on the doorknob or something.”
 

That grin of his returns. “What, you don’t want to join in on the fun?”
 

My face boils hot, and I wish he’d put on a shirt. And pants. Maybe a parka too. He’s still wearing only a towel, and it’s … distracting. “That’s another rule. Don’t hit on me either.”
 

His smile slips. “It was a joke—”

“I
know
you, Jace.”
 

“Know me how exactly?”
 

“I’m not going to be another notch on your bedpost. I’m not your type.”

His jewel-green eyes flash dark. “My type?”

“You know what I mean,” I huff.
 

“No, I’m not sure that I do.”
 

Does he really want to play the innocent card now? “The type of girl who will jump in your bed for a one-night stand. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add, because a few of my sorority sisters have whispered that they wouldn’t mind hooking up with Jace, “but it isn’t me. So if you’re hoping I’m on the rebound because Hunter and I broke up, I’m not.” Hearing my tone, I wince, because I sound a little harsh, but I’m exhausted and hungry and stressed. “I’m just trying to be honest,” I add. Ha. Honesty is probably the farthest thing from my forte as you can get.
 

Except, I realize too late, for tact. Jace looks a little pissed now.

“Honesty from the queen of denial? That’s rich,” he mutters as he shrugs on a navy blue t-shirt.
 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, even though I had thought the same thing.

“Forget it.” Grabbing his swim trunks, Jace stalks to the bathroom to change into them. That’s for my sake, I’m sure. The muscles in his broad shoulders have tensed up, and before he shuts the door I notice the tightness in his jawline.
 

Well, great.
 

I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, but frankly I’m kind of surprised that he has feelings to hurt. Half of his fraternity brothers joke that he’s a man-whore to his face, and Jace always seems to find it hilarious. With a sigh, I shuffle to the bathroom door. Man-whore or not, I don’t want to spend a week in this tiny room with a roommate giving me the stink eye. And I really didn’t phrase that well.

“Jace?” I say softly.

The door swings open. Jace has swapped his towel for his trunks. “Let me guess. More ground rules, Miss Morality?” Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh, I forgot. No nicknames. Sorry, Your Highness.”
 

My flicker of guilt drains away. “I was trying to apologize. What’s your problem?”
 

“What’s
my
problem?” He shakes his head and roots inside his suitcase for his flip-flops, tossing out socks and shirts onto the carpet. The increasing mess makes my hands curl into fists. “Let’s just drop this, okay? I want to have a good time this week, and I’m not in the mood to deal with Lady Georgia Cantwell, who claims she ‘knows’ me when all she really knows is how to look down her nose.”
 

“Are you kidding me? We’ve known each other for a year and a half. And I do not look down my nose.”

Jace straightens to his full six-foot-two stature. We’re standing only a foot apart, and even though he’s fully dressed now, heat from his shower emanates from his skin. I can’t help but think of the skin underneath his shirt, and those mouthwatering abs. What would it feel like, to run my hands across his torso, his …

“Please,” Jace scoffs, interrupting my wandering thoughts. “Even some of your sorority sisters call you a snob.”
 

They do? But I don’t even have time to process that stab of hurt before Jace continues, “And I bet you couldn’t answer one question about me.”
 

“Try me.”

“Okay. What am I planning to do this summer after graduation, before med school?”
 

I bristle. I honestly have no idea but I won’t give him the satisfaction of being right. “Get a job. Obviously.”
 

“Nope. Wrong.”
 

“Fine,” I fire back. “Since you know me oh-so-well, what am
I
planning to do after graduation?”

His gaze—so very green—locks onto mine, and he doesn’t even hesitate. “You have no idea what you’re doing now that you’re not getting your MRS degree.”

My mouth hangs open. Is that what he thinks of me? A girl who only cares about getting married and getting taken care of? “Wrong. Very, very wrong.”
 

A chime rings in the hallway before Jace can reply. He glances at the door.
 

“We’re going to be late for that safety session,” he says.

“I don’t care about some safety thing!”
 

“It’s kind of mandatory.” He jerks his thumb at the door. “You coming?”
 

“Later,” I mumble. There’s no way I’m leaving this room with him right now.
 

“Suit yourself.”
 

After he goes, I chuck my shoes at the door and flop onto the neatly made bed. I know I should unpack, but Jace’s stupid words keep replaying in my head. What an arrogant bastard, thinking he has me all figured out.

And my sorority sisters think I’m a snob? I have been distant the last several months, I know—ever since the trouble started. I’ve had to take on more shifts at my J. Crew shopgirl job, and I haven’t had the energy or the stomach for as many of the Greek Life functions as I used to. So yeah, I’ve drawn away, but it’s not from snobbery—it’s from self-preservation.

But though I hate to admit it, Jace is at least partially right. When I was a freshman, I dreamt about becoming an art curator. I had it all planned out. Go to grad school and work my butt off. Nab an internship at the MoMA or the Getty. Then find a job at a museum or a gallery, hopefully in New York but maybe even abroad. London or Paris.