Sneak Peek!
Viking Vengeance Cruise
Book Description:
From all-you-can-eat buffets to Broadway-worthy musicals, a library full of yummy BOOKS, the Emerald Queen has them all. Don't miss out on friendships, romance, and mystery. All board! Take a cruise today without packing a bag!
Cosmopolitan Magazine calls Addison's books, “…easy, frothy fun!”
Baltic Capitals (8 Days)
Day 1: Departure from Copenhagen, Denmark
Day 2: At Sea
Day 3: Gothenburg, Sweden (canals, fish market, archipelago)
Day 4: At Sea / Baltic Cruising
Day 5: Stockholm, Sweden (Gamla Stan, Royal Palace, archipelago)
Day 6: At Sea
Day 7: Helsinki, Finland (Fortress, Market Square, sauna culture)
Day 8: Tallinn, Estonia (Disembarkation)
Day 1: Departure from Copenhagen, Denmark
Embarkation day is my favorite brand of chaos—fresh flowers, free-flowing champagne, and an entire boatload of strangers who have no idea what they’re in for.
The Emerald Queen’s atrium glitters with champagne-colored marble, towering floral arrangements, and approximately six thousand excited passengers who’ve forgotten the concept of volume control.
I can’t blame them. This ship does things to people, and most of those things involve shrieking near the elevators. The rest involve the buffet, and honestly, same.
Marina Maxwell stands next to me near the gangway, effortlessly elegant in the standard women’s crew uniform of a fitted white blouse and a navy pencil skirt. Her crimson hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s gripping a tablet like it might save her from drowning. And it just might have to, considering she’ll be working side by side with our resident grumpy cruise director, Tinsley, from here on out.
“So this is what you do with each new cruise?” Marina asks, watching a rowdy group of men and women spill through the entrance, laughing like they’ve already discovered the drink package.
“Every single cruise,” I say with a shrug.
Marina nods. “I’m questioning my decisions.”
“You’ve been here ten minutes.”
“I work fast.”
We share a quick laugh as she joins me in waving to the passengers.
I already like her. Anyone who can arrive at regret that efficiently is my people. It took me a full week to regret my first marriage, and look how that turned out.
Bess strolls up on Marina’s other side, elegant as ever in her signature cranberry pantsuit, her red hair swept into its usual tidy bob. Bess Chatterley is one of my on-ship besties. Bess-tie, if you will. She’s typically glued at the hip to my other on-ship bestie, Nettie Butterworth. Both women are octogenarians, although that’s pretty much where the similarities end. Bess is Vermont-prim with a wicked streak she’ll deny under oath, and Nettie is the wicked streak.
“Don’t listen to a word this one says,” Bess tells Marina, patting her arm. “The job is wonderful.”
“I said it was chaos,” I point out.
“Wonderful chaos,” Bess amends. “Trixie tends to exaggerate. It’s part of her charm.”
“It’s my entire charm,” I say, and I tip my head her way because she’s not wrong.
Nettie swoops in from absolutely nowhere, her wild gray curls defying gravity and good sense. She’s wearing a purple muumuu that could double as a parachute and enough silver jewelry to trigger every metal detector between here and Helsinki.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Marina,” Nettie announces. “What you need is a proper orientation, and I’m just the woman to give it to you.” She hooks her arm through Marina’s and claims her the way she claims the last slice of lava cake at the buffet. Which is to say, with speed, commitment, and zero remorse.
“Oh no you don’t.” Bess takes Marina’s other arm, gentle but immovable. “Her version of orientation involves rating bartenders by chest hair density.”
“It’s a scientific system,” Nettie says.
“It’s a laminated chart,” Bess says.
“Everyone’s seen the chart,” I assure Marina. “It’s practically peer-reviewed. Bess added footnotes.”
“I annotated,” Bess corrects, sounding exactly like the former Vermont schoolteacher she is. “Somebody had to fix her methodology. She had Mr. Heavy Pour on the lido deck ranked third.”
“Mr. Heavy Pour is third,” Nettie balks.
“Mr. Heavy Pour is second, and deep down you know it.”
Nettie doesn’t argue. That’s how you know Bess is right.
Marina shoots me a look that screams help me.
“Consider this your initiation,” I tell her. “There’s no ceremony, but there is, apparently, a ranking system.”
Ransom strolls over, looking lethally handsome in his typical Head of Vessel Security uniform—dark suit, crisp white shirt that does things for his chest and shoulders, and cobalt blue eyes that are drop-dead serious as he scans the crowd for trouble. He has dark hair with a touch of salt-and-pepper around the temples that gleams under the light streaming through the atrium’s glass ceiling, and I get to look at him guilt-free because I married this man. Best decision I ever made, even if it came with a body count.
He drops a kiss on my temple. “Playing nice?”
“Define nice.” I nod toward Marina’s predicament. “Bess and Nettie are having a custody battle.”
He watches them tug her back and forth, a human wishbone at Thanksgiving. “Should I intervene?”
“Absolutely not. At this point, it’s practically a tradition. They got hold of me the very same way just over a year ago. I lost circulation in both arms and gained two best friends. It was a win.”
A trace of a wicked grin twitches on his lips. “I’m glad they convinced you to stay.”
“I am, too.” I bat my lashes at him as he lands a far more heated kiss on my lips.
Wes stands a few feet away in his captain’s uniform—white jacket with gold buttons, navy pants, the posture that says he’s commanded ships through storms and budget meetings and come out victorious. His dark waves are combed into submission, his green eyes scanning the boarding passengers because he knows exactly how fast chaos can spiral. He’s been captain of the Emerald Queen of the Seas for years, and it shows in every measured movement.
“Ladies.” He glances at the Marina situation, which is starting to garner more attention than it should. “Are we terrorizing our new crew member already?”
“We’re welcoming her,” Nettie corrects.
“Thoroughly,” Bess adds.
“With footnotes,” I say.
“I’m fine,” Marina manages, her voice only slightly strangled. “This is completely fine.”
And by the looks of it, it’s anything but. Her ponytail has already lost the will to live. I’d offer to hold her tablet, but I’m afraid Nettie would rank me next.
Tinsley appears on heels that should come with a liability waiver, her chestnut hair falling in waves over one shoulder. She’s clutching her ever-present clipboard and vibrating with enough espresso-fueled energy to jump-start the ship’s engines, and she looks every bit as grumpy as she does professional in her uniform.
“Positions, everyone.” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Big smiles. Enthusiastic greetings. And Trixie—” She points her pen at me. “No mentioning last cruise’s homicide. No discovering new bodies. No supernatural incidents in front of paying guests.”
“It’s not like I discover bodies on purpose,” I protest.
“Semantics.” She takes a moment to glower at me.
I’d argue the bodies discover me, but Tinsley isn’t big on nuance. And for the record, I’d be thrilled to follow all three of her rules. The rules have never once returned the favor. Neither have the bodies.
Suffice it to say, Tinsley Thornton isn’t in my fan club. Come to think of it, the meetings are getting smaller every year.
My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter. I have shoulder-length blonde hair with more than its fair share of tinsel these days, and no, the irony of that word is not lost on me. I stand at a perfectly average five-foot-five, I live on this glorious ship, and I happen to be married to the hottest ex-FBI-agent-turned-head-of-vessel-security on the planet. Oh, and I also happen to have an oddball supernatural quirk that allows me to see ghosts. Not every ghost, mind you—just the ones who come back to help solve a homicide. And yes, I’m something of a body magnet, too. As far as talents go, I’d seriously love a refund. Heck, I’d settle for store credit. I’m not picky.
A fresh wave of passengers floods through the entrance, dragging both luggage and vacation excitement. And the entire lot of us shift into crew mode—lots of smiles, far more welcomes, and pointing people toward elevators as if our lives depended on it. It’s organized mayhem set to a soundtrack of rolling suitcases, overexcited chatter, and jazz music playing through unseen speakers.
Nettie finally releases Marina’s poor arm. “Quick question.”
“Here we go,” Bess sighs, although I note she leans in to listen.
“When you said you couldn’t wait to leave Copenhagen”—Nettie’s eyes gleam—”was that code for running from a man? Because honey, I’ve been running from men for sixty years. I could teach a masterclass.”
“For once, I’d attend,” Bess admits.
“Nettie,” I say with a slight shake of my head, though not with much muscle behind it. I want the answer, too.
“What? I’m being helpful.”
I bite down on my lip, and Ransom gives my hand a quick squeeze because we’re both anxious to hear more about that ourselves.
Marina’s smile could freeze every cocktail on the ship. “I’m not running from a man.” She clears her throat, and her face goes bright pink. That particular shade only shows up when a lie has just left the building. “I just needed a change of scenery.”
Right. And I’m a professional ballerina. Prima, if you’re asking.
We all met Marina two weeks ago in a Copenhagen bar, where she was crying into her drink while Wes hovered nearby, looking concerned and possibly smitten. She had that haunted look people get when they’ve been running from something too long to remember why they started. But no matter how many questions we asked, she was expertly evasive with the answers. She’s basically a bank vault with a ponytail.
Wes offered her a free cruise, which she wisely took. And that snowballed into a position on the ship. She’s officially Tinsley’s assistant, so effectively the Emerald Queen now has two cruise directors.
Marina has a fresh start wrapped in ocean views and steady paychecks. But that doesn’t explain why she’s been cagey ever since we docked back in Copenhagen and has been all but counting the hours until we set sail again.
Marina Maxwell is definitely looking to get away from someone or something. My money is on both. And I never bet against my own money.
She may have been a nervous wreck earlier, but now here she is, looking composed and professional and definitely hiding something.
But who am I to judge? I chat with dead people and trip over homicides with alarming regularity. Whatever she’s running from, I hope she figures out soon that this ship has a habit of catching people right when they’re falling. It caught me. And whether she knows it yet or not, she’s already got people in her corner.
I’m her loudest cheerleader.
Also, there’s that fun little detail Ransom dropped on me as our last cruise ended.
Marina Maxwell is not who she says she is.
He wouldn’t elaborate. Just gave me that look he gets when he’s uncovered classified information and can’t share without violating seventeen federal regulations. But the message hit home. Marina has secrets.
Which honestly makes her fit right in with this crew.
Whatever Ransom found out, he said he’d fill me in soon enough. But I’m planning on getting that information out of him one way or another. Let’s just say I have plans that involve lots of kisses and a locked cabin door.
More passengers stream past us—couples, solo travelers, a family with enough luggage for a year-long expedition. We smile, we greet, we point them in the right direction. It’s cruise ship choreography, and we’ve all memorized our parts.
A commotion erupts near the entrance—laughter, excited chatter, the unmistakable energy of women who’ve bonded over shared experiences and a great deal of wine. They pour through the gangway in a glittering flood, easily fifty of them, all radiating midlife confidence and zero interest in keeping their voices down.
I don’t blame them. The ship has a way of stripping your inhibitions and turning you right back into a teenager. A teenager with better skin and a fully funded retirement account, which frankly is the superior model.
Most of the women speed past in a blur of designer luggage and American accents, but a smaller group heads straight for Wes.
The woman at the front of the pack commands attention without trying. She’s tall, five-ten at least, with silver hair braided in an elaborate wreath around her head. She has sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes the exact shade of fjord ice, and a spine that could intimidate granite. She’s wearing a glorious burgundy velvet shawl with a matching dress, paired with heavy silver jewelry—brooches, a rigid metal necklace, and amber beads the size of gumballs. She moves through the crowd like she owns not just the ship but possibly the entire ocean.
“Captain!” Her voice carries across the atrium without effort. “Astrid Storm with the Velvet Viking Book Club.”
Wes extends his hand with his company-issue captain smile. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Storm. We’re honored to host you and your group.”
“The honor is ours.” Her handshake looks strong and sturdy. Wes’ fingers may never recover. “We’ve been planning this cruise for a year.”
“A year and three months,” corrects a petite woman beside her. She’s maybe five-two with a wild mane of frizzy auburn hair going gray at the roots, round owl-like glasses, and the soft, patient face probably earned from decades of wrangling teenagers. She’s wearing layers of flowing scarves in earth tones and gripping a battered leather messenger bag bursting with paperbacks. “But who’s counting?”
The group laughs, warm and genuine, and I’m already in love with them.
Astrid gestures at the woman with the frizzy auburn hair. “This is Sienna Caldwell. Our resident English teacher and defender of bodice rippers everywhere.”
“They’re romance novels,” Sienna says mildly. “And they’re literature.”
“They have Vikings with abs,” Astrid counters.
“Your point?” Sienna shoots back, and more laughter ripples through their group.
I make a mental note to join this book club at my earliest convenience. Possibly before we leave port.
A third woman steps forward, tall and willowy, a honey-blonde bob swinging at her jawline. I’d bet good money she remembers birthdays and brings people coffee without being asked.
“Astrid, you’re scaring them,” she says with a light laugh. “We discussed making good impressions.”
“I am making a good impression.” Astrid turns back to Wes. “We’ve claimed the Valhalla Lounge for our Bon Voyage bash. Seven o’clock. You’re all invited.”
“The what lounge?” Tinsley asks.
“That’s what we’re calling it,” Sienna explains with a grin, her glasses sliding an inch down her nose. “It sounds far more dramatic than the Coral Lounge.”
“Everything is more dramatic with Valhalla involved,” the blonde chimes in, and the women around them break into another round of cackles.
Wes nods. “We’d be delighted. Thank you for the invitation.”
If there’s a buffet involved, I’ll be there by six forty-five. Six thirty if there’s shrimp. Some things you don’t leave to chance.
“Excellent.” Astrid winks. “Bring the whole crew. We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” I ask.
“Being alive, sweetheart,” Astrid is quick to answer. “Being gloriously, unapologetically alive.”
Here’s hoping the entire lot of them stays that way.
They sweep off toward the elevators in a cloud of velvet and enthusiasm, and I watch them go with genuine appreciation. I love seeing women my age banding together and having a good time. I have a feeling those women are going to be trouble—my favorite kind of trouble. And I know for a fact Bess, Nettie, and I will want in on it. We tend to gravitate toward a good time.
That and murder.
“I need to join that book club STAT,” Nettie announces in their wake.
Bess levels her with a look. “You don’t even read romances.”
“Well, it’s about time I start. Especially if men with hot abs are involved.” She fans herself. “Did she say Vikings?”
“She definitely said Vikings,” I confirm.
“Well then.” Nettie’s grin brims with pure mischief. “Time to expand my literary horizons. Maybe my romantic ones too.”
“It’s a book club,” Marina says. “Not a dating service.”
“Eh.” Nettie shrugs. “Everything is a dating service if you try hard enough.”
“That explains the last elevator ride,” I say.
“That was a misunderstanding,” Nettie insists.
“That was a proposal,” Bess counters. “The man filed a complaint.”
“He filed a compliment,” Nettie sniffs. “There’s a difference.”
“Words to cross-stitch on a pillow,” Bess muses.
“Already commissioned it,” Nettie fires back. “It’s hanging over my bed.”
Ransom’s hand settles warm on my lower back. “This cruise is already off to an interesting start.”
“They’re all interesting when Trixie’s involved,” Tinsley mutters, scribbling on her clipboard. “And deadly.”
I shoot her a look. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
I spot someone massive near the entrance, an entire mountain range in full Viking regalia. We’re talking fur cloak, leather armor, braided beard, and an actual shield. I get a better look at him and gasp.
Oh my word. He’s enormous. Seven feet tall at least, with shoulders that would need their own cabin. His hair hangs in thick braids of blond, brown, and gray. His face is all sharp angles and even sharper intentions, quite possibly nefarious ones, and he’s heading straight toward us.
Scratch that. He’s heading straight toward me.
“Speaking of Vikings, here comes one now,” I manage, my voice pitching higher.
The supersized Viking locks eyes with me and picks up speed. A breath hitches in my throat and a yelp escapes me as I grab onto Ransom’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his whole body shifting into protective mode.
I’m about to say something, but that Viking barrels over with a guttural snarl and does the unthinkable. He walks right into me before unleashing an ear-piercing howl that rattles through my skull and possibly my ancestors’ skulls. Somewhere back in the old country, a great-great-grandmother just dropped her knitting.
Then just like that, he explodes in a shower of silver stars and vanishes.
I stand there vibrating like a tuning fork while trying to keep my soul from jumping out of my body.
Embarkation day, my favorite brand of chaos. I’d like to formally amend that statement.
“What the—?” Ransom growls as he looks around. “What made that awful sound?” His eyes latch onto mine and he frowns. “That was an otherworldly visitor, wasn’t it?”
I nod, still waiting for my heart to climb back down out of my throat. Although, if I’m being honest, somewhere underneath the terror, a tiny part of me is already rolling up her sleeves for what comes next.
“You know what that means,” I say with a hesitant smile.
He gives a curt nod. “That means murder.”
Welcome aboard, everyone.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****