Cruising for Love (The Escape Series Book 2) (2 page)

I crane my neck to stare up at the mammoth bow of the ship in amazement. My intention had been to play it cool in case any cameras were secretly recording my arrival. So much for that plan...I'm openly gawking at the enormous vessel. The fact that this steel behemoth floats defies logic.

"I never dreamed it would be so big," I say to the porter who is trailing behind me, wheeling the cart that is burdened with my luggage. He smiles knowingly at me as if everyone says this.

I ended up borrowing two additional suitcases from my parents, so including the train case that holds my toiletries and cosmetics, I have a total of four bags. I keep waffling between being embarrassed that I brought so much to being concerned that I won't have enough clothes. After all, I don't want to be seen on air repeatedly wearing the same tired outfit.

I see a family of four heading up the gangplank whose porter isn't dragging as much luggage as the one helping me. During the call I'd had with the show's PA, Jamie, she mentioned that there would be 'regular' people on the ship, but that the show's participants would be kept separate from the tourists––for the most part.

Of course, as soon as I had hung up the phone from my conversation with Jamie, I came up with numerous questions that I should have asked her but failed to think of during our brief chat. My detailed voicemails to her were left unanswered, and I didn't have a contact number for T.J., so I went with my best guesses as far as what to pack.

I stand there for a moment to enjoy the blazing heat of the intense sunshine beating down on my forehead and shoulders. My baggage helper stands patiently behind me as if he has nothing else to do all day. Deciding that he probably has plenty of other cruisers to assist and that I have come too far to back out now, I head toward the angled pedestrian bridge that the light-on-luggage family had just taken to board the ship.

A disconcerting thought enters my mind as I trudge up the walkway and the elegant interior of the ship begins to become visible. The producers sent me airline tickets and arranged a rush order on my very first passport, but I don't have an actual ticket for the cruise. The smiling attendant holds his hand out, clearly expecting me to hand him something to gain access to the ship.

I return his smile and lick my lips nervously. "Hi, umm, my name is Ruthie Rose." I had been hoping to see a flicker of recognition of my name as one of the people on the show, but his face maintains the vacant, sterile friendliness of a professional greeter.

We are silent for a bit before he nods briskly letting me know my awkward introduction was unnecessary. His eyes dart to his outstretched hand as he raises his brows slightly and says, "Ticket, please."

"About that," I start, uncertain how to continue. "You see, umm." He peers skeptically at me over his reading glasses and I clear my throat nervously. "I'm on the television show that's going to be filming on the ship." Again, no recognition registers from him.

Deciding that this gatekeeper will not be the end of the line for my reality television career, I change tactics. I didn't come this far to not even make it aboard the ship. "Look," I say, trying to sound assertive, making the fake smile slide off his face only to be replaced with a weary stare, "don't you know who I am?" I cringe inwardly that those words have already slipped out of my mouth before filming has even started. Attempting to soften the edge of my crass question, I beam one of my most charming smiles at him. "Isn't there a list," I peek over the podium trying unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the papers in front of him, "of the stars of the television show that is going to be filming during this cruise?"

"There's no list, ma'am," he informs me sternly before adding, "and even if there was a list, you would still need a ticket to board this ship." I'm fairly certain he thinks I'm a total wackadoo.

I turn to my kindly luggage porter, who raises his shoulders as if to say he doesn't know what else to try. Several people are now lined up behind us, waiting patiently to gain access to their floating vacation home.

I'm quickly becoming embarrassed and frustrated––mostly with myself for not asking Jamie about the ticket during our brief conversation. "Isn't there someone you can call?" I plead with the attendant.

He gives me a look that indicates his patience is wearing thin with me. Losing most of what is left of his professional courtesy, he rigidly informs me, "No ticket, no entry."

Completely at a loss for what to do, I can feel my face starting to crumple into tears. Even if I wanted to retreat down the gangplank, it is not wide enough to pass the group of ticketed passengers and porters now lined up behind me. They would all have to go back down to the sidewalk to give me a means of egress. I guess having an un-ticketed passenger attempt to board a cruise ship isn't a terribly common occurrence––at least not common enough to warrant setting up a second gangway.

The ticket agent is giving me the look of fear all men seem to acquire when dealing with a woman on the verge of tears. "Please," I try. "This is my big break. I'm supposed to become America's Sweetheart."

I see the slight smile the ticket agent tries to hide with an undoubtedly fake scratch of his nose. For some reason his smirk angers me. It's as if he can't believe that I might be on the cusp of a major breakthrough.

"I will make it," I vow to him. "You'll see...America will love me. The world will love me," I proclaim for some odd reason. I don't know what it is about this man, but something about him makes me want to prove my worth. Maybe it's because he controls the access to my future.

Dashing in like a savior, T.J. pops into the entryway. "Ruthie, darling!" he exclaims in a very 'Hollywood' tone. Air kissing my cheeks, he asks, "What is the holdup? Follow me."

I start to explain that my lack of a ticket is causing a problem, but T.J. turns to the man who has been holding up my progress, saying, "She is with me," and whisks past him with me in tow.

I rush through the metal detector and follow T.J. inside the sophisticated entrance lobby of the ship. For a moment, I wonder at the producer's ability to gain my entry onto the ship without a ticket, but I am soon distracted by my surroundings. Gazing in wonder at the pristine brass railings, shiny-mirrored elevators, and plush carpet, I am astounded by the luxurious decor of the enormous cruise ship.

My porter takes the luggage cart into one of the glass elevators and finger waves to me as T.J. and I head towards the stairs. My first thought is to hope he knows where to meet us, but then I relax, realizing that he does this every day and that it will all work out.

As we ascend one of the winding staircases, I listen to the music emanating from the grand piano and tell myself to take a deep, calming breath. The fiasco I encountered with embarking the ship is over now. Although I hadn't handled the situation nearly as smoothly as I would have liked to, at least the cameras aren't rolling yet.

Ordering myself to do a mental reset, I silently promise to remain calm and not let my emotions take over again. After all, my reactions during this show will be recorded for the whole world to see. I'd like to put my best foot forward.

From now on, I'm going to be worthy of being an internet sensation
, I vow silently. Smiling happily, I whisper to myself, "You've got this," as I follow T.J. to my destiny.

T.J. leads me down a seemingly endless hallway before ushering me into a small cabin. "Hair and make-up," he announces as he swooshes me inside before exiting as quickly as he had appeared. I silently chastise myself for not asking a few of my many questions while I had the producer all to myself.

The room is long and narrow, but tiny. It does, at least, have a small balcony. Rather than a bed, it features an enormous lighted vanity with what seems like enough make-up and hair products to fill an entire shelf at Sephora.

I sit down on the white padded cushion of the dainty, metal chair. "Am I supposed to know what to do with all of this?" I wonder aloud, poking through the colorful compacts.

"Oh, no, Honey. That's what I'm here for." The voice startles me. I hadn't realized anyone had joined me in the room.

Using the lit mirror to stare at his reflection, I have to remind myself to close my mouth, which has fallen open of its own accord. The man who has joined me is absolutely gorgeous. His mocha skin and icy blue eyes make for an intriguing combination.

He walks over to me and lifts a lock of my long hair, which I just had highlighted with light-caramel colored streaks in honor of my television debut. "Hmm," he says noncommittally before ordering me to spin around in my seat so he can inspect me face-to-face. He's much closer than my personal space limit normally allows for people I don't know. In fact, he's so close that I can now see how impossibly perfect his complexion is.
Does the man not have any pores?

I start to feel anxious under his intense scrutiny. After all, I have plenty of flaws. My hands feel clammy and dampness is starting to accumulate under my arms. It is an odd sensation because I almost never sweat.

Pulling back to stand to his full height, which has to be at least six feet, he raises a hand to his chin. He appears to be pondering what the verdict will be about his perusal of my face. I wonder if he is trying to think of a way to tell me he's not a miracle worker.

"I can work with this," he finally decides before beaming a smile at me and displaying his straight, blindingly white teeth.

Relief floods my system––warm and sweet. For some strange reason, this gorgeous stranger's approval had quickly become of the utmost importance to me. The rational side of my mind knows that one person's opinion of my physical attributes shouldn't matter so much, but my physiological response to his blatant examination of me is undeniable.

"First, you need to relax," he informs me as he uses an outstretched arm to indicate the long sofa stretched along the other wall of the cabin.

His announcement has the opposite effect.
Is this the proverbial casting couch on which so many stars over the years have had to perform sexual favors in exchange for fame? Or does he just want me to take a nap?
My musings causes a nervous bubble of laughter to escape from me.

As much as I want to be on this show and become the next big thing, I will not sleep with this man to get there. Even though he is super sexy and being with him would probably be beyond amazing, I'm not willing to sell myself out that way.

I stop in my tracks and turn back to him as he's ushering me to the sofa. "Look," I start, "I can't...I mean, I won't..." I stop, uncertain how to proceed with my denial of his advances.

He looks perplexed for a moment before giving me a knowing grin. He leans in to whisper in my ear, "You're not my type."

"Oh," I say awkwardly, somewhat hurt by his cutting honesty.

My expression must have betrayed my injured ego because he quickly amends his statement. "You're not my preferred gender," he reveals before leaning in to give me a quick peck on the cheek. His lips actually touch my skin, unlike T.J.'s earlier air kisses.

"Ohhh," I respond, comprehension dawning. For some reason, his news makes me feel much better.

"Now lie down and let me work my magic." His eyes sparkle as if he's testing me.

For some reason, my gut now trusts him, so I comply with his request. He is slender enough to sit down beside my prone body on the sofa. The next thing I know, a groan of pure bliss bursts out of me as he rubs away the tension I had apparently been holding in my neck and shoulders.

"You weren't kidding," I tell him after my lengthy, relaxing massage. "You have magic hands."

"So I'm told," he teases me, making me smile.

For some reason, I now feel completely at ease with this man. "I don't even know your name," I realize aloud.

"After what we just did on this couch? I'm shocked, Ruthie!" His pronouncement indicates that he is already aware of my name. He smiles to let me know he's teasing.

"A random, handsome stranger bringing me to new heights of ecstasy on a casting couch...my dreams of fame are already coming true." He laughs at my silly joke, and I love the sound of it.

My limbs feel like limp noodles as I slither back over to the make-up chair. "My name is Sydney," he informs me, "but everyone who is anyone calls me Syd."

"I'm so glad to meet you, Syd," I say honestly before teasing, "I might let you have your way with me on a couch before knowing your name, but I would
not
let you touch my hair and make-up without it."

We both laugh loud enough to be heard out in the hallway, and I beam at him, certain that we are destined to be great friends.

"Turn around and look at me," he commands. "I need to get a good view of the palette I'm starting with."

Feeling a little nervous, I comply with his request.

He stoops down and takes his time, studying me closely. The tiniest frown lines appear on his forehead when something during his intense perusal of my features seems to displease him. Somehow the minute wrinkles manage to make him look even more handsome.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

"Are you completely relaxed?" He answers my question with one of his own.

"Of course," I tell him. "Your magic hands just made me feel as pliable as a warm bowl of wax."

I had anticipated at least a grin from my response to his query. Instead, his brow furrows further. "I have some bad news for you," he finally divulges.

Feeling overly anxious about what it could be, I nod, indicating for him to go on. "Honey," he clasps one of my hands within his as if he is about ready to give me a death sentence. "You have RBF."

"I have what??" I ask him, feeling completely alarmed.
Is this some new form of cancer or some other dreaded disease that I've never heard of? How can he tell I have it just by looking at me?
Whatever it is, I can tell it's serious by his dire tone and mannerisms.

"Here, I'll show you." He spins me in the seat to face the mirror.

I gaze at my reflection, tilting my head from side to side trying to see what he is so concerned about. My eyes dart to him when he inhales sharply.

In response to my questioning look, he says, "You compensated as soon as I turned you around," he informs me. "Your face perked up immediately when you faced the mirror." Almost as an afterthought he adds, "You have no idea that you have it, do you? You've been lying to yourself all of this time."

Starting to get annoyed with this cryptic and worrisome discussion, I snap, "Oh, for Heaven's sake, what in the world is RBF?"

"It's best if you see for yourself," he answers. "Turn away from the mirror and relax."

"That's easier said than done," I inform him as I attempt to un-scrunch my face, despite the concerns he has raised.

"Just relax," he says calmly as he gently squeezes my shoulders, rubbing his thumbs along the blades, which are now holding renewed tension––thanks to his mysterious acronym.

He bends down to peer into my face as he rubs. Once he's satisfied with my expression, he says, "Okay, now freeze. Don't move a muscle," he instructs me as he slowly turns me towards the mirror. "There, see it?" he asks, indicating my face. "That's one of the worst cases of resting bitch face that I have ever seen," he informs me.

"Resting bitch face?" I squeak, having never heard the term.

"See how your mouth points downward and your eyebrows look hostile?" I stare at the mirror, starting to see what he is talking about.

I begin to feel panicky about this new condition that I wasn't aware of, so I turn to Syd with pleading eyes. "What does this mean?" I ask him, unsure what to do.

"It just means that when you are in a relaxed state, your face makes you look like a total bitch." I recoil at the harshness of his words, so he softens the blow by adding, "It's no big deal, Honey. I've read that twenty percent of women suffer from it, and most of them have no idea, either. The problem is that people tend to naturally perk up their faces when they face a mirror or camera. We literally put our best face forward, but then we end up not knowing what we truly look like to others when our faces are relaxed."

His explanation makes sense, but it doesn't alleviate my concerns. "The cameras will be following me all of the time on this show. Am I supposed to try to keep a perpetual smile on my face, so I don't look like a total witch on television?"

"It's bitch," he reminds me before elbowing me lightly and chuckling to let me know he is teasing. "And no, you can't possibly smile all the time. Besides, you'd look like a weirdo."

"Agreed," I nod, "But what can I do? I want to be seen as the internet's Sweetheart, not the internet's angry Bitch-Face Queen." Even though I'm truly concerned, I can't help but chuckle along with him. Liking the sound of his laughter, I continue, "Is there a Bitch-Face Anonymous Club I can join?"

At this, he cackles and I join in, even though the comedy is at my expense. Once our laughter subsides, he helps alleviate my concerns. "You don't need a twelve-step program," he informs me before adding confidently, "That RBF doesn't stand a chance against me and my make-up kit."

I want to feel reassured by his words, but a mental image flashes into my mind of me going on television with a permanent, creepy make-up smile plastered to my face like the Joker from Batman.

"Oh Dear," Syd says upon seeing the concerned expression that I am unable to hide. "It looks like someone needs some beauty rest." He helps me stand and ushers me to an adjoining room that appears to be my cabin. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that my belongings have already been delivered, but it's a little disconcerting that my suitcases have been unpacked. I'm not sure how I feel about having had a stranger rifling through my personal things.

That concern is quickly overshadowed by Syd's next words. "Why don't you take a hot shower and have a quick cat nap?" I like the sound of his suggestion until he adds, "You need your beauty rest before your wedding tonight."

I turn to him with wide eyes before he closes the door and latches the lock from his side. "My what?!?" I screech and pound on the door, jiggling the handle trying unsuccessfully to regain entry to the make-up room, but the other side of the door is completely silent.