Sweet Read Free

“those crewmen are going to paint a line indicating the ship’s weight. When we come back to this port, in seven short days, the ship will sit at least ten feet higher in the water! That will indicate a combined weight loss of at least five thousand pounds from the Extravagance ’s five hundred passengers! And it could be even more!”
    The people around Tom cheer. He beams at them all.
    I sort of want to raise my hand and say, “What about the weight of the food we will eat? What about the fuel? Won’t those things affect the weight of the ship?”
    But I’m not going to be some kind of lame whistle-blower on their promotional idea.
    I have to say, it’s weird to look at him.
    It’s Baby Tom-Tom, grinning that grin we all know so well.
    I feel like I can see ghost images of him over his face—there he is as a toddler, as a saucy seven-year-old, as a chunky eleven-year-old wiseass, and then there’s the present Tom.
    The baby fat’s gone now—he has a hard, etched jaw and his body’s lean and muscled. You can see his pecs kind of straining at the fabric of his shirt. He’s not that tall, but he has an electric charm coming off him. And hotness. (Coming off him in waves.)
    Have I mentioned the hotness? Because he is scorching hot.
    Then something surprising happens: Someone I can’t see says, “Cut,” and the smile drops off Tom’s face. One minute, he seems to be having a great time and the next, he’s totally serious. Over it. Huh. (Maybe he doesn’t actually know how to have fun, after all.)
    â€œLaurel! There you are!” Viv crushes me in a giant hug from behind. “Stop gaping at Baby Tom-Tom like a dork.”
    â€œI wasn’t gaping!” I protest.
    She drags me away from the little crowd.
    â€œYou have to see our room!” Vivika exclaims. “You’re going to D-I-E die!”

 
    TOM
    DAY ONE
    HI, I’M TOM FIORELLI and I’m sweating through my third shirt of the day.
    Very classy.
    It’s hot. I don’t know why the heat is taking me by surprise—it’s June and we’re in Fort Lauderdale. But there’s no airflow and I’m kind of sweltering here on the deck.
    My producer, Tamara, is checking something off on her iPad, scowling as usual. I like Tamara. No one else treats me as poorly as she does and I like that. She doesn’t handle me with a bunch of flattery. I imagine she treats me like she would any one of her seven brothers and sisters.
    We’ve been working together for over a year. She’s my producer and also my manager for my hosting gigs. Tamara has big ambitions for me—the VMAs, New Year’s Eve, The Voice.
    There are about five girls in bikinis just “hanging around.” I guess they’re hoping I’ll pick them to interview.
    I will. I should. I’m pretty sure they’ve brought on a bunch of attractive “ringers” for us to use. But I duck back toward the cameraman, Cubby, and take a sip of water. Just taking a break while Tamara’s distracted.
    â€œGotta hydrate,” I say.
    Cubby’s mopping his head with a handkerchief. Sweat has made dark stripes on his brown T-shirt.
    â€œHeck yeah. Feels like a hundred and ten in the sun. Seems to me like the whole deck’s acting like a magnifying glass or something.”
    I like Cubby. He’s friendly, but not needy. When you’re shooting with a one-man crew, you want to like the guy you’re working with.
    â€œMaybe once the ship starts moving it’ll cool down,” I say.
    It’s been go-go-go since we boarded. First we did red carpet stuff down on the dock. Now these interviews on deck. We’re shooting for another hour or so and then I get to go see my room and hit the gym.
    The ship is really nice. Tamara said it was world-class and, I have to say, she was right.
    This is nothing like the Carnival cruise my mom took me on when I was