“Wanna roughhouse it?” I lifted an eyebrow.
She almost fainted.
“You deserve each other,” she spat.
“I wish.”
Riling her up was fun, and I couldn’t actually let her get out of here before making Tennessee feel better about the mix-up.
At some point in all this mess, her husband—poor Fred—had the good sense to pry my suitcase out of her hands and unzip it, revealing some flowery gowns, high heels, and jewelry I definitely did not pack for the cruise.
He crouched down, waving a handful of diamonds in the air in triumph.
“See? This is hers. Says right here on the suitcase tag. Ramona Warren. That’s my wife.”
For a second there, I was completely speechless. Probably because I’d never been in a situation like this before.
No one had ever accused me of any wrongdoings, and I’d never been caught with my pants down (ironically, other than that time I was caught with my pants down, junior year of college with Felicia Ralph).
Logically, I could tell that there was room for error—both suitcases were navy. Even I had mistaken it at first glance for mine.
And I definitely should’ve unzipped my suitcase and checked its contents—which I would’ve, given the chance, which Tennessee took from me when she locked me out the night before.
But then there were other things to consider. Such as—who the hell didn’t read the tag on a suitcase before bringing it into a room?—Tennessee Turner, that’s who.
Also, why had Tennessee been so stressed about our room being searched before it was revealed the suitcase belonged to this woman? What did she have to hide? From what I could tell, there were no sex toys or human feces in plain sight to make a quick search in the room unbearably uncomfortable.
I turned to look at my companion. Tennessee glanced away, out the window, at the blue ocean, her chin upturned, her eyes two shiny crystals.
She was going to cry.
I turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Warren.
“My apologies.”
The management women began blabbering about complimentary drink vouchers and a new point system that would allow Mr. and Mrs. Warren an upgraded room if they chose the same cruise again.
“I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, don’t ya, Mr. Hot Shot?” The lovely Mrs. Warren stomped over the carpeted floor with a vicious grin as she passed me, her shoulder brushing my arm purposefully.
“All I feel is intense compassion for my companion, who made a human error, and had to pay for it with meeting with your sour face,” I maintained calmly.
Mrs. Warren snorted, already out the door. “Keep her on a leash, pal.”
“That’s a nice visual. I just might, if she’s into it.” I received the desired effect as Mrs. Warren paled to a shade reserved for the walls of mental institutions. “Does that mean you have my suitcase?” I asked, the practical prick that I was.
“There’s a couple suitcases in the lost and found cabin. We’ll check,” one of the representatives said helpfully.
And then, Tennessee and I were all alone.
Her, me, and the elephant in the room.
“It was an accident,” Tennessee blurted out before I even spun to look at her. Which turned out to be quite a task, now that I believed she might’ve stolen the suitcase.
I could barely look at her face, I was so angry.
There was a ninety-nine percent chance that it was an honest mistake, of course. She made a lot of honest mistakes. But that one percent margin bothered me.
Tennessee proved to be obsessed with money. She’d asked me to buy her a dress earlier. Was she worried about fitting in? What if she’d thought she could steal a few items before returning the suitcase to its rightful owner?
“I believe you,” I said, because it was the right thing to say.
“No, you don’t.” She tossed herself over the bed with a heavy sigh, even though she was coated with sunscreen and sweat and a day full of sun. “I can see it in your face. You think I did it on purpose.”
“Nope.”
Maybe.
She groaned into the pillow. “The look on your face was unbearable.”
“You do seem to find my face generally punchable.”
“I thought it was yours. I did. There were no other suitcases in the hallway. Someone must’ve taken yours. I thought it was a no-brainer. You have to believe me.”
“I do,” I said, and because I wanted this awkward conversation to be over, I added, “You’re Messy Nessy. Things like that happen to you all the time.”
She looked up from the pillow, and immediately, I knew I’d screwed it up. She looked so dejected, so goddamn unhappy, I wanted to…wanted to…
Don’t complete that sentence, Dr. Costello. Not even in your head. She is not your problem. She doesn’t want to be your problem.
“Tennessee…” I said instead.
“Shotgun on the shower,” she said flatly, unplastering herself from the bed and making her way to the bathroom. “Make sure your valuables are out of sight by the time I get back. Wouldn’t want my sticky fingers all over them.”
By the time my roommate got out of the bathroom (why did she have to turn on all three faucets? Weren’t there more practical ways to drown oneself on a cruise?), one of the representatives came into our room with my suitcase, explaining that it had been in the lost and found cabin.
I tipped him well, wheeled it in, and decided that despite my sliver of doubt, stemming from Tennessee’s general unfounded bad reputation in Fairhope, I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.
We had a good thing going today, and by ‘good’, I mean no one had threatened to physically harm the other, and I wanted to keep it that way (although now I thought about it, I had told her I was going to bathe her in her own blood and throw her to the sharks if she locked me out again this morning).
She got out of the bathroom looking like something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Mrs. Warren was dead wrong. If Tennessee were a hooker, she would cost at least two grand a night.
A lacy black mini dress clung to her curves with a pink satin ribbon crisscrossed diagonally on her back, tying the whole garment into place. Her big Marilyn Monroe hair looked impeccable, and her heels were tall enough for her to see the Empire State Building on a sunny day.
She didn’t have any makeup on yet, and I had to admit, natural-looking Tennessee made my stomach flip like a teenage boy finding his father’s Playboy stash for the first time.
She glanced at my suitcase without comment, passing by me over to what I assumed she claimed as her nightstand, producing a makeup bag from the drawer.
“They found it,” I said, referring to the suitcase.
She unzipped her makeup bag, flushing under the weight of my stare. “Oh, well, that’s good. Maybe if you manscape regularly, your penis won’t be so hard to locate next time.”
We were back to being enemies.
“I said I believe you.”
“Oh, but I don’t believe you believe me,” she countered. “Anyway, it’s fine. You didn’t look like you were up to getting us a double portion of meat, anyhow.”
We weren’t going to dinner together now?
That was bull, but I wasn’t going to chase her. I had never chased a woman in my life, and I wasn’t about to start with Ms. Sulky Pants.