Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Do you miss Alabama yet?” I’d asked her as I did a cabin check with her, ensuring she’d done everything to my standards. She was already great at it, and with a few pointers, I knew she’d have every room pristine.
“Not even a little bit.”
“No?”
She’d shaken her head, and we paused long enough for me to show her how to fold the hand towels properly in the primary bath before she continued.
“I’m from a very small town where nothing happens. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
“I take it you don’t have a boyfriend waiting for you back home then?”
She’d wrinkled her nose. “Ew, absolutely not.”
I’d chuckled. “Yeah. Those are my sentiments about the guys I’ve tried to date in South Florida, too.” I’d shivered at the memory of the few times I’d tried dating apps and lived to regret it. It didn’t help matters that most of that regret came from ever thinking any other guy could live up to Finn.
I’d wanted to move on from him so badly, and in a lot of ways, I’d convinced myself I had.
Him showing up on this boat swiftly proved just how wrong I was about that.
“I’m sure you miss your family when you travel like this though, huh?” Leah had asked as we gave the mirrors another good wipe down.
It was like an iron chain squeezing around my rib cage as I’d tried to answer. “A little.” I wasn’t ready to dive deeper than that, so I’d turned the attention to her, instead. “How about you?”
Leah had given me a sad smile then, shaking her head. “No. No family back home for me. Mama walked out on us when I was a baby, and Daddy went home to God two winters ago.”
“Oh, Leah. I… saying I’m sorry feels catastrophically wrong and weak, but I am. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she’d said, and without thinking twice about it, I’d pulled her into a tight hug.
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“You’re easy to talk to.”
“Let’s hope you feel that way when you inevitably need to air your grievances against me as your chief stew.”
“I doubt I’ll have any to speak of,” she’d said with a smile.
I’d hugged her tighter then.
Overall, it had been a nice first day, the beginning of friendships making me feel light on my toes and ready to conquer the season.
But once dinner service started, I didn’t have time to think about Gisella or Finn or Leah or anyone else.
All my focus was on the guests.
The galley was alive with energy as crew members bustled in and out, Eli and Gisella washing dishes while Leah and I got plates or bowls ready for the first course in-between helping Bernard serve the guests who were already seated on the sundeck.
Somehow, Benedict had made it to dinner — which meant half the crew lost our bet that he’d be passed out by now. He was also still throwing back gin like it was water. It was kind of impressive, if not a bit terrifying.
The rest of the guests were still alive, as well. Alistair and Theodora had both drunk in moderation throughout the day, mostly champagne, and Brielle had drunk just as much as her husband but somehow managed to keep that air of annoyance over any kind of drunken demeanor. Max still looked like he’d been kidnapped and hadn’t consumed anything other than water and lemonade. I’d noted him checking his watch at least four times during wine service. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this was the main show and not something any of us intended to rush.
Dinner service on a superyacht was more than a dinner — it was a performance; a six-star experience where every detail, from the placement of the cutlery to the precise fold of the napkins, was a calculated stroke of artistry. The table wasn’t just set, it was designed — chargers polished to a mirror shine, crystal glassware aligned with military precision, candles flickering in the exact right way to add ambiance without interfering with the aesthetic of the floral arrangements.
And if dinner service was an orchestra, then as chief stew, I was the conductor.
Every course, every pour of wine, every whisper between guests — it all flowed through me. I dictated the rhythm, the pace, the energy. I ensured the guests felt like royalty, that service was seamless, that my stews worked together like gears in a luxury timepiece — silent, seamless, exact.
The chef created the masterpiece, but it was my job to make sure it was delivered with the kind of precision and grace that made guests feel the money they had spent on this charter in every bite.
It was an honor to be in this position.
It was also so much pressure, I felt like a racehorse at the starting gate, every muscle tense, waiting for the bell.