Page 74 of Fire and Ice Cruise

I’m wearing emerald green silk that Ransom picked out, a dress that makes me feel elegant and slightly dangerous, which is exactly how I want to feel at fifty. Bess is stunning in sapphire blue, her red hair swept up in something that required professional intervention. Nettie’s rocking a ruby red number with sequins, because that’s pretty much her signature move.

Ransom stands beside me in an inky dark suit that should be illegal in international waters. The man looks better in his fifties than he has any right to, and I’m not complaining.

“I can’t believe I’m fifty,” I say for approximately the hundredth time today.

This morning, Ransom brought me breakfast in bed. Belgian waffles, fresh berries, real maple syrup, and coffee strong enough to strip paint. We stayed in our cabin until noon, which felt decadent and necessary in equal measure. Of course we found creative ways to occupy ourselves. Let’s just say we set fire to the sheets, the shower, and maybe the balcony.

“You’re fifty and fabulous,” Nettie announces, appearing at my elbow with champagne. “The banner says so. It’s official.”

“The banner tells lies,” I tease.

“The banner tells the truth.” She thrusts a glass of champagne into my hand. “Fifty is the new thirty. Or the old thirty. I forget how the saying goes.”

“Neither of those is encouraging,” Bess says.

“Eh.” Nettie shrugs, snapping up a glass of champagne for herself from a roving waiter. “I’m here for chaos, not encouragement.”

“We know, Nettie. The banner outside your cabin says so,” Bess shoots back.

“I don’t have a banner outside my cabin.”

“You should.”

We spent the afternoon losing money and a significant portion of our sanity in the casino. Bess broke even at blackjack. I lost forty dollars at slots. Nettie bet on red seventeen times in a row at roulette because it felt right and walked away down two hundred dollars and completely unbothered.

Then we hit the Blue Water Café for its Nordic-themed lunch buffet and proceeded to eat like Vikings preparing for battle. Gravlax with dill and mustard sauce. Swedish meatballs in cream gravy. Smoked reindeer, yes really, with lingonberry compote. Jansson’s temptation, which is apparently a potato and anchovy casserole that tastes better than it sounds. For dessert, we demolished princess cake, cloudberry cream, rice pudding with cherry sauce, and something called drömmar that melted on contact and tasted like butter cookies made by angels.

I’m still full. And I probably will be for the next three cruises—not that it will stop me from eating again.

Ransom wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “You doing okay, Detective Troublefield Baxter?”

“I’m fifty and at a party, potentially with a killer. Define okay.”

“You got me there.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “For what it’s worth, you wear fifty better than anyone in this room.”

“You’re biased.”

“I’m accurate.” His voice drops lower. “And later, I’m going to show you exactly how much I appreciate every single one of those fifty years.”

I bite down on a smile. “Ransom.”

“What? It’s your birthday. I’m being romantic.”

“You’re being scandalous.”

“I can be both.”

“You’re being delicious, and in the event you hadn’t noticed, I’ve devoured just about everything you’ve served me today already.”

Bess leans in. “Are you two getting cutesy?”

“Honey, they’re getting to the finish line,” Nettie says with a laugh.

“Nettie,” Bess laughs and doesn’t disagree.

“What? It’s a race.” Nettie shrugs. “I’m just keeping score.”

Nicolette glides over in a black gown that would cost an obscene amount in the Queen’s Mall, her dark hair swept up, diamonds glittering at her throat. She looks old money and new confidence personified, which I suppose is the whole point of the Second Act Society.