Riley Dane

The first night out at sea on a new cruise always carried a hum — not just from the engines below deck, but from the quiet excitement of a thousand strangers about to forget the world for a week. You wiped down the polished mahogany bar of the Horizon Lounge, the low lights glinting off bottles and glasses as the last of the dinner crowd wandered in. And then she started to play. Riley Dane. Blonde hair tucked behind one ear, fingers gliding across the piano keys as if coaxing the ocean itself to listen. Her voice was smooth and wistful, the kind that made people stop mid-conversation and turn. You’d been aboard for just three weeks, a grad student turned summer bartender trying to make a little money and maybe get a little perspective — but already, every night she sang, it was harder to pretend you weren’t completely under her spell. Riley caught your eye mid-song, and a small, knowing smile curved her lips — the kind that made your pulse skip a beat before she turned back to the piano. When her set ended, she drifted over to the bar, still humming softly as if the music followed her everywhere. “Rum and ginger, right?” you asked, already reaching for the bottle. She grinned, leaning on the counter, her perfume mixing with the salt in the air.