The Shippers(29)

“It’s a fear of getting trapped.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Claustrophobia.”

But Cooper shook his head. “Claustrophobia is a fear of small spaces.”

Huh. Interesting. “Your phobia should rebrand,” I said. “It sounds like a knockoff.”

“I agree.”

“I’ve never even heard of it.”

“No one has,” Cooper said. “It’s very niche.” Then he added, “My case is mild, if that’s any comfort.”

“Who needs comfort?” I said, glancing back toward his room. “You’ve got the best cabin of anyone.”





Eleven


THE FIRST ORDER of cruise wedding business was a welcome gathering at noon on the sports deck up top before we even left port—a mini-golf tournament for the wedding guests with a buffet lunch afterward. Ashley put me on Finn’s team, so even though I hadn’t seen him yet, it was only a short matter of time.

I checked my watch. We had exactly one hour to get ready, and I’d need the whole thing.

“Can I change in your bathroom?” I asked Cooper as I unzipped my suitcase.

“You’re changing for mini golf?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, standing back up and holding out a tiny hot-pink cocktail dress for him to see.

“That’s what you’re wearing? To mini golf?”

“It’s Ashley’s,” I said, like that explained everything.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress like that,” Cooper said.

“That’s the point. This is phase one of the plan.” Then, quoting from Ashley’s notes: “Change your image.”

Cooper eyed the dress again. “It’ll certainly be a change.”

“This is designer, thank you,” I said.

“It looks like you stole it from Baby Gap.”

But I just stepped into the bathroom, deliberately unperturbed—leaving the door cracked as I peeled off my T-shirt and stepped out of my miniskirt shorts.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I went on as I pulled on the dress. “You’re thinking it’s totally asinine to wear this. You’re thinking everyone else will be in sneakers and golf shirts. This isn’t cocktail hour, you’re thinking. But mock me all you want. I know what I’m doing, and I know why I’m doing it.”

I wriggled the dress up into place and hooked the arms over my shoulders. Sleeveless, of all things. And snug, for sure—so snug I had to take off my bra because even just millimeters of padding were a deal-breaker. It was also the shortest dress I’d ever attempted to wear in public. But it was Ashley-approved. In fact, this whole plan was. And so, as strange and ridiculous and naked as I might feel, this was happening.

I reached back to work the zipper but only managed to clear my underwear elastic before it got stuck.

“Hey, Cooper,” I said, stepping back out into the room. “Can you zip—”

But there, just feet away, was a sight that stopped me short.

Cooper’s naked torso.

Specifically: Cooper—now changed into a pair of gray dress pants … and in the process of putting on a crisp white oxford shirt.

I say “in the process of” because he was midway through sliding both of his arms into the sleeves. It’s hard to capture the visual, exactly. But he’d flung his shirt up and raised his arms like a great blue heron stretching its wings so the sleeves could slide down over them—and I arrived just at the apex of all this and got a sight of Cooper’s fully exposed, remarkably naked torso.

Which was absolutely, utterly …

Like a flashbulb going off in my face.

“What the hell?” I heard myself say as I spun around.

I closed my eyes, too, for good measure.

Then I demanded, “What are you doing?”

Cooper was less flummoxed. “I’m getting dressed.”

“But why don’t you have a shirt on?”

“Because I’m getting dressed.”

I took a second to steady myself.

“Did you need something?” Cooper asked.

Did I? I couldn’t remember.

Then I nodded for a second before finding the words: “I need…” I said, “for you to zip me up. I’m stuck.”

I stayed facing away, but I felt Cooper walk up behind me.

This seemed like a good moment for a scolding. “You can’t just go around taking off your clothes like that, Cooper.”

“You took off your clothes.”

“In the bathroom. Like a decent person.”

But that’s when Cooper put his hands on my hips to assess the zipper problem.

“Where’d your bra go?” he asked, and I got a flash of what he must be seeing: a long, narrow, unzipped V tracing the naked length of my spine.

What was the question again?

“There’s no room for it,” I answered. “I am squeezed into this dress like a sausage in its casing.”

“Don’t say that to anybody else.”

Then I felt Cooper take ahold of the zipper pull and start trying to work it up. Which took a minute. “You have bad luck with zippers,” he said as he tugged.

“Bad zipper karma,” I agreed.