Free With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) by Valerie Chase

use his key card and go inside.
    West gets a room to himself, lucky dog. Other than the bigger, full-size bed, the room looks like mine. There’s more engine noise, though; the room almost vibrates with it. A backpack slouches in the corner, and instead of snapshots of friends on the walls like Camelia has put up in our room, his walls are blank. An open laptop sits on the desk. West must have disabled the sleep function, because the screen saver is on, cycling through images.
    I rummage through the small dresser beside the desk, looking for a clean polo and undershirt for West. First I find a drawer full of socks and boxer-briefs, and before I can help it my brain forms an image of West wearing only those two items.  
    “Stop it,” I mutter, exasperated with myself.
    The second drawer contains his shirts, so I grab a polo and tee. As I’m closing the drawer, his laptop’s screen saver catches my eye with a splash of color.  
    I step closer. This image looks to be of a painting featuring a stylized bird in shades of teal and blue and yellow. It’s gorgeous, with sure, delicate strokes. In the corner I spot the artist’s signature: Campbell . That’s West’s last name.
    Did West’s mom create that? He did say she was a painter.  
    The bird fades, the image replaced by a photograph of the dawn over a city landscape. I recognize the Freedom Tower, so it must be Miami. The sun reaches fingers of color over thin clouds that melt from white to red to gold, and the buildings in the foreground are black shadows, silhouetted by the brilliant sky. It’s a gorgeous photo, in both color and framing. It’s not anything like the photos I’ve been snapping all day of passengers. This is art.
    The screen changes again, to a close-up of a raindrop reflecting a rich blue sky dotted with clouds. I can’t help but think about my own raindrop photos that I took before I arrived on the ship—and how much better this one is.  
    I should scurry back above decks, but I’m mesmerized by the procession of photographs, each more striking than the last. I know the basics of balance and perspective, and can use my camera on manual settings, but these photos are in another league entirely. They’re like Sofia’s: professional. Vivid. Surprising. They tell a story, and make something special out of the ordinary.
    Did West’s mother take these too? Or is West himself the one behind the lens?  
    I tear myself away from the laptop and head back up to the hallway outside the dining room. Once there, I find West joking around with a family from Orlando, instructing them to lean to the side and pretend it’s another rogue wave. They laugh and pose, and he snaps a photo.
    “This might actually be better than a normal Formal Night,” West says cheerfully after they head into the dining room. “They’ll all want memories of the rogue wave.”
    I hand him the shirts with a wry smile. “Thank God we can use a potentially dangerous accident to part passengers from a few more dollars.”
    “That’s the job, Yasmin.”
    “It’s just so mercenary.”
    “Life is mercenary,” West says, fiddling with his camera. “Get used to it.”
    Oh, I want to smack him sometimes. If he hadn’t thrown himself on top of me to save me from the light, I’d consider doing just that.
    “I saw some paintings and photos on your screen saver,” I say instead. “Are they your mother’s paintings?”
    He gives me a startled glance, and I recall him telling me not to ask about his mother again. I brace myself for a sharp reminder, but instead West’s mouth softens into something that’s almost a smile.
    “Yeah,” he says.
    “They’re beautiful. She was really talented.”  
    His smile broadens, and for a moment I get a glimpse of something other than his Boss persona. But it fades as quickly as it appeared, and he returns his gaze to the camera.  
    “She never made much money on them.”  
    “Money, schmoney,” I retort. “And the photographs?