“So where did you learn to dance like that?” she asked as he sat, interrupting his musing.
This wasn’t what he’d been planning. He wanted more of her story, not to be grilled on the half truths he’d told to get onboard. Dylan paused and checked her eyes before continuing. “I’ve had an old Russian teacher for years. He gives me private lessons.”
Hoping to divert her, he asked, “Where are you from originally? Your accent is a bit mixed.”
Michaela nodded. “I was born in Wellington, in New Zealand, but my family moved to Canada when I was a teenager. I went back and forth for a while until this job, where I’m back and forth even more.”
“Must have been a bit hard.”
“Not really. I got the best of both worlds. The small-town freedom of New Zealand and the opportunities of education and work in Canada.”
Better. “I guess that’s true.” Through a mouthful of cheesy pasta, he smiled. “You miss anything from home? Wind through the trees perhaps? Wellington’s good for that.”
She smiled. “I’m not sure I’d say I missed it, but the big greenbelt up behind where we lived when I was a kid did have a magical quality when the wind whistled through it.” Forking up some more pasta, she paused. “My sister and I used to make hideouts and tracks through the macrocarpa pines when we were growing up. We hid secret messages for each other—oh, and for the birds. That’s probably the bit I miss most, spending time with my sister.”
A sister. Dylan added to his mental list of Michaela’s qualities: smart, independent, driven, and values family.
She fixed him with a careful stare. “So you know Wellington, then?” She set her fork down.
“Oh, yes. I…” He stopped himself. He didn’t want her getting too close to the truth of his background. “I’ve done quite a lot of work there. I was living in Sydney most recently. I do sometimes miss the sound of the Wellington wind in the trees, though.”
“You’ll get used to not hearing the wind in the trees. The music the ocean makes will replace it. You might even like it better. It’s a pretty beautiful soundtrack with the slap of the water against the side of the ship, the pull and ping of the rigging on the lifeboats, and the sea birds as we come into port.”
Her eyes glazed, as if seeing what she described. There really was something about her that was enticing. Dylan found himself wanting to drag her to bed so he could have her all to himself for a lot longer than dinner.
Soon.
He smiled. Thank goodness she hadn’t seemed to notice how he’d fudged where he grew up, or his reluctance to talk about his dance training. Old Mr. Grevorgian had been elated when Dylan told him he was taking a break from work so he could dance for three months. The private lessons from his Russian neighbor over the last ten years had been Dylan’s secret release.
Thank goodness Mr. Grevorgian was a masterful teacher—so much so that Dylan had been able to fake his way through the cruise audition.
Dylan searched for other topics to keep Michaela’s attention away from his background. “What are the ports like?”
“Some of them are really beautiful. Everyone is always excited about New Caledonia and Fiji, but I love Vanuatu. Oh, and Norfolk Island, too.”
“Really?” Everything he’d read about Norfolk Island, the small subsidiary of Australia, had made it seem a bit dowdy. Certainly not the sort of glamorous location he’d assumed a cruise director would be attracted to.
“There are wonderful forest walks and loads of birds. And it’s easier to get away from the crowds. I’m not such a fan of all the organized tours. I prefer to go off on my own.”
Dylan looked at her. That was exactly the way he felt, but he’d never believed others onboard would feel the same. He had assumed that a love for the shiny gloss of package tours would be inbuilt into the DNA of cruise staff.
If he wasn’t careful, he was going to find himself agreeing with everything she said.
You were the one who wanted to talk more.
Yes, but he hadn’t figured on enjoying her conversation so much.
He watched his boss as she kept talking. It was obvious she was enjoying the conversation, too. The way she coiled her hair around a finger, the way her body leaned in toward his—her whole posture spoke volumes.
Dylan felt the familiar glow of pride in a job well done.
She was as good as his.
Michaela was shocked at how relaxed she felt. Again. And this was a man who had only minutes ago kissed her in front of her whole entertainment team.
He’d changed into casual clothes after his shower, and the soft hug of his white T-shirt and faded denim shorts made her more aware of his pale-olive skin and toned body.
Dylan’s bare arm next to hers was flecked with golden hair, and the muscle underneath the warm skin called out to be touched.
This conflict of attraction and relaxation was alarming, Michaela decided, admitting finally to herself that she was very much affected by Dylan Johns.
“I think I’m going to go again. Do you want another serving?”
His words snapped her out of her reverie. “No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t have George to make sure I burn every calorie I put between my lips.”
He smiled and stood to refill his plate.
Michaela thought about his lips. Oh, she would like to feel those lips again. Her mention of George made her remember their earlier conversation.
He’ll need a woman.
She’d be just the woman.
God, no. Dylan might be a great dancer, a good listener, and give good advice but…but what?
But she was his boss.
She looked over at the food line and spotted the captain going up for seconds. What had she ever seen in him? Further up the line, Dylan bent to reach for something, the movement tightening his shorts over his butt. He was so much more of a man than anyone else on board, and he treated her like an adult. It was wonderfully refreshing after spending so much time with all the young kids on her team, who just seemed to want to hide from her.
Dylan Johns. Even his name felt good in her mouth.
Could she?
She didn’t have long to go on her contract, and she’d promised herself she’d look for a new placement after this. Michaela looked around her at the world she’d called home for the last six years. The cafeteria’s walls weren’t dirty so much as worn, the tables scuffed, the floor scratched after so many chairs being pulled out and pushed in over and over.
That’s a bit like how I feel.