Vivienne's Story Special Edition Color Interior Paperback

Girlfriends, grab a margarita and pull up a chair.
I CAN call you girlfriend, right?

Where I come from, girlfriends are the ones who know about that time you used rolled up toilet paper as a tampon. And how you once wired your bra closed with a binder clip at work when the hook broke and your boobs made a run for it.

And ALL about that walk of shame when your panties fell out of your purse in the Uber ride.

So come on now, plunk your cute little booty in a chair. (Do you do Pilates for that booty? I tried Pilates and sprained my girl parts.) Get that drink in your hand and listen up.

Because I met four hot men and somehow ended up on a cruise with all of them.

1: Vivienne

I never have been very traditional.

Case in point number one: I started coloring my hair strawberry blond when I was sixteen.

Mother didn’t know. She’d have skinned me alive. I was very tricky about it, pretending to have a hat fetish. She didn’t see my full head of hair for almost a year, when I was a senior and she couldn’t do diddly squat to punish me as I had already been accepted to junior college.

Daddy said he liked it anyway, and he’s the one who always handed over the car keys. What does it matter what color your hair is anyway? Gramma always says it’s what inside that matters. And I am loyal and kind and have zero problems with anybody’s way of living. Gramma taught me all that too, even when we sometimes felt full-on surrounded by jerks and cheats.

But strawberry blond is my color. The darker kind. I'm too lazy for platinum. We are L’Oreal soulmates. Till death do I part from my squeezy chemical bottle.

Case in point number two: I slept with my first boyfriend at age fifteen.

Okay, I know. You think I was too young. You’d probably be right. But boys were just so…how do I explain it? More than interesting. More than fun. Intoxicating. Necessary.

I became a serial monogamist right off. I learned never to jump one ship until another was in the harbor. So I never cheated, no way. But there might have been a rather narrow window in between them every once in a while.

I like to be passionate, both in bed and at the microphone.

Case in point number three: I want to be a country music singer.

I’m aware that I’d probably get more fame as a pop star. But country music is in my bones, growing up in Tennessee. Love gone wrong. Oh that “Lonesome Me.” “Tear in My Beer.” I like the songs with a powerful gut punch.

“He Stopped Loving Her Today” makes me cry for an hour every single dang time. Yeah. Google it. It’s a tear jerker in the hands of George Jones. I’ve also heard Dolly do it. LeeAnn did it. All good.

I may or may not have recorded a version for YouTube.

Despite my aspirations, I’m twenty-five and work as a travel agent. It’s a good gig, as I more or less set my hours, work on commission, and can use my travel discounts to go to auditions, which isn’t easy since I live in Miami now.

Plus I get big perks on cruises, and I always choose the ones for singles. Everybody hooks up in every direction there, and nobody blinks an eye when we don’t even exchange last names.

Karaoke is standard fare on these ships, and I know if I can get up there and sing a soulful rendition of “Crazy,” I’m going to have my choice of men that night. Works every time.

Does this make me a tramp? Maybe. I don’t know. I like to think of it as sexual agency. Boys have always been able to sow their oats.

I just planted a couple of fields of my own.

All this is to say is that when hunkalicious in jeans and cowboy boots walks into our office to book a cruise, I am all over it. My coworker Sam, who just finished her transition to the Sam she was meant to be, sees him saunter in and instantly waves him over to me. Sam likes girls regardless of her gender. We can generally eyeball which direction to send a walk-in within three steps of the door.

We refer the retired couples back to Janet. She loves helping them find bargain tours with the least amount of walking. Sam and I are hopeless at those.

We’re all about the adventure, the perfect pairing of the dream vacation with the ideal package.

And I’m already eying this guy’s package.

I cut him a shy smile. Sam may have sent him to me, but I did see her check out his Wranglers. She might like girls, but she’s got eyes.

And that butt is gold.

I stand up and hold out a hand, tilting my head so a dangling earring will peep out from my hair. I’ve practiced this look in the mirror. I want to dazzle the man I’m interested in. There is no room to be coy. Nothing about me translates as hard to get.

Case in point number four: I’m easy.

But you’ve figured that out by now. Hopefully you’re not judging me. Because by the time this story is done, I’ll have done a lot more than just sing a few songs and bang a few boys.

But back to the hunk.

He drops into the chair. His smile is slow and full of more promise than a TV talent show. Which I’ve auditioned for, three times. Those lips would have made a drag queen cry. You could kiss every part of them for the better part of an hour and not cover all the territory.

Despite being ready to take him on my lunch break, and dinner, and breakfast, I manage to sit up straight and ask him what sort of trip he’s thinking about. All the while imagining how that sandy brown hair would feel running through my fingertips.

I get another slow smile. God, I need an air conditioner in January. Of course, here on the ocean I’d need one anyway. But you get my drift. The back of my neck is as hot as the back of his jeans.

“The Blue Sapphire Yacht site says you’re an authorized agency,” he says, and his voice is just as sexy as his lips. Low, rumbly, like a tractor in a field.

I’m already naked in the hay with him while he mentions that Blue Sapphire Yachts was hard to track down. Their online presence is a little short on information.

And with reason. Their cruises start at ten thousand dollars.

Per day.

I size him up. Dusty boots. Wranglers. Totally need to peruse those again. A half-buttoned blue checked flannel over a white T-shirt. Nice hair, but not anything high-end in cut or style.

No watch. The phone sticking out of his pocket is a run-of-the-mill iPhone, the previous version, not the newest.

He looks pretty normal. Although he definitely works out. That means he has a job that encourages it or else he has leisure time. Access to a gym or equipment at home.

Still, I’m not seeing $50,000 cruise material. And that’s the starter package.

“They are pricey,” I say. I tug out a brochure for a more reasonable option. “Any particular reason why you chose them? You can get really nice cruises for much less.” I open the tri-fold to show a lovely ship on a deep blue sea.

It’s a singles cruise. One I’m thinking of taking in a couple months.

I’m shameless.

But he dashes my hopes.

“No, I’m pretty specific,” he says. “I need the Blue Sapphire Yacht Cruise starting three weeks from now sailing from Miami to Cuba.”

“Okay,” I say. The brochure goes back in the rack, and I turn to my computer. “Let me see what their schedule is. Three weeks out isn’t long. It might be booked.”

He nods, a flash of doubt crossing his handsome face. I’m not opposed to sitting here with him across the desk a little longer, even if I seriously doubt he can afford a Blue Sapphire Yacht. I’ll have to figure out a way to present the figure to him without embarrassing him when he realizes how far off the mark he is.

Of course, who knows. Maybe he won a lottery. Or inherited some cash. And it’s not unheard of for people to live way below their means or to hide their wealth.

It’s just that rich people don’t come in person to book a Blue Sapphire. They have assistants or secretaries do that.

And newly rich people wouldn’t have heard of them. Even as an authorized agency, we’re not allowed to mention them unless the customer talks about them first.

Blue Sapphire Yachts doesn’t advertise. There’s no way to know unless you just…know. When someone takes you on one. Or a company sends you there. It’s a secret passed by word of mouth. Like a kiss.

A hot kiss on a pair of lips made for sinnin’.

“You okay?” the man asks.

Damn, I’m staring.

“Just waiting for the numbers to crunch,” I say, swinging back to my screen. Of course the numbers crunched instantaneously, but people are always blaming their slowness on their computers. I do it at least twice a day.

I scan the screen. There are six Blue Sapphire Yacht cruises involving Cuba in the next month.

“I’ve found several,” I say. “Was it five days? Seven? Ten?”

He frowns. “I’m not sure. I heard them mention Grand Cayman.”

I wonder who “them” are. Maybe he’s going with friends as hot as himself. I imagine being surrounded by Wranglers and several of his hot buddies, and my face flushes.

“That helps,” I manage to say. The five-day boat doesn’t stop in Grand Cayman. It has to be either the seven-day one or the ten. I hit print on both.

“I’ve found two,” I tell him. I lean down to pull the print outs from the tray below. His eyes go where I’m hoping they will, into the cleavage that pops as I bend.

I’m sooo glad I wore the wrap around dress today. It fits like a dream, and I can conceal or reveal as I choose.

This guy warrants a reveal.

“How did you hear about Blue Sapphire Yachts?” I ask as I lay the printouts on the table. “They don’t advertise.”

His gaze skitters down my body and onto the papers. “I have a business connection taking this one. He suggested I look into it.”

“Oh.” So maybe he is all right. This is a corporate expense. Except nothing about Wranglers says business. Unless he’s getting up in my business.

“Well, here are the two in that time frame.” I turn the pages around. “Blue Sapphire Yachts are very exclusive. This one is mostly booked, but it looks like I can get you on.” I point to the seven-day cruise.

“This one is oddly open.” I turn it back around. “This itinerary was just created a few days ago.”

“That’s it,” he says quickly. “That’s the one. I want on it.”

My eyebrows lift. I can see Sam watching us, probably now regretting sending Wranglers to me. The commission on this one cruise is what I make in a week. Two weeks, when it’s slow.

I circle the price in my pen. “This work, though?” It’s six figures. Low six figures, but still, six.

He hesitates. “Can I put a down payment on it and pay the rest in a week?”

“Sure,” I say. “But if you don’t cover it, you forfeit the down payment.”

He nods slowly. “I’ll have it. I have money coming.”

I was right about not being easy rich. But now he’s got me curious. I glance at Sam, who quickly turns like she wasn’t listening in.

I lean forward. “You sure? I can get you lots of nice places for less.”

His eyes drop to the V of my neckline and rest there a moment. I haven’t even displayed this angle on purpose. But he seems to be enjoying the view, so I keep it there. My boobs are one of the few parts of my body I’m not shy about. Hell, I’m not shy about anything, but maybe self-conscious is the word. I only like my belly when I’m lying flat on my back.

And my thighs are hopeless.

But back to Wranglers.

“No, this is the one,” he says. He has to wrestle his eyes back to my face. “You book many of these cruises?”

I shrug, and the movement drags his attention back to my cleavage. “There are only three authorized Blue Sapphire agencies in Miami,” I say. “The company has very particular requirements.”

His eyes come back to mine now, inquisitive. “And what are those?”

“I’ll have to fill out a background screen on you,” I say. “And take a photo and go over some of their policies. We’re trained special for them.”

Now his smile is lazy. “When do you take my picture and ask me questions?”

He’s flirting.

Okay, my lady bits are starting to sizzle. “I’m sure a gentleman traveler such as yourself has a favorite restaurant?”

Yes, friends, I just invited myself on a date.

I do this often.

He sits back, scrutinizing me. “Is there a high rate of denial on this screening?” he asks.

And I get it. He’s playing me too. He thinks I can get him in. But I’m super crazy curious, and he’s the hottest one-night stand I’ve spotted in a while. So I’ll go along.

“The price is a pretty high barrier already,” I say. “But I’m sure there are some unsavory ways of earning money that they prefer to screen out. The boats are small, and the clients are interested in protection and privacy.”

He relaxes a bit. “That makes sense, actually. So I suppose I should pick you up for this interrogation after work?”

Now I’m smiling. “I get off at six,” I say. It’s four actually, but I want to run home and prep a little for this one. Some waxing. Some spritzing.

He stands. “Then I’ll return at six.”

I hop up from my chair, aware that my boobs get a good sway on as I do. “I’m Vivienne Carter,” I say. “And you are?” I hold out my hand.

He extends a strong hand and accepts mine. “Brady,” he says, letting his voice fall into a touch of a drawl. He’s a Southern boy but can hide the accent when he wants. Interesting. “I’m Brady Wilson.”

He lifts my hand, but instead of kissing the back of it, he turns it over and presses his lips to my wrist.

My pulse jumps like crazy.

“I look forward to tonight,” he says and lets me go.

Oh yes, so do I.