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)
I dropped my luggage in the cabin I decided would be mine — claiming the bottom bunk, of course — before I bounded up the stairs and made my way to the bridge. It usually took me a few days to get the layout of a new boat, but the producers had provided all of us with a floor plan of Sinking Sun, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t study it like it was the key to the biggest test of my life.
From the hot tub on the sundeck to the crew mess in the bowels of the boat, I knew Sinking Sun like I’d already spent a full season aboard. The sundeck boasted loungers, a bar, and the all-important Jacuzzi for late-night drunk confessions and mid-day sunbathing. Below that, the bridge deck held the sky lounge and alfresco dining area — perfect for sunset cocktails. The main deck was all luxury, from the formal salon and dining room to the primary guest cabins, and of course, the galley. Beneath that, on the lower deck, were more guest cabins, storage, the laundry room, and crew quarters — where privacy was a luxury, and bunks were barely wide enough to turn over in. And all the way at the bottom, accessible only through a near-secret set of stairs, was the tender garage that doubled as a beach club, complete with a fold-down swim platform and lockers stocked with snorkels, floaties, and the dreaded gargantuan inflatable slide.
I had every inch mapped in my head before I stepped foot on board.
If this was my one and only shot to prove I was meant for this role, for this career? I was going to grab every opportunity to go above and beyond my duties.
“Trouble aboard,” I called out with a rap of my knuckles on the open bridge door, smiling at the familiar bald head of our captain, Gary Parks. He whipped around, beaming at me with that toothy grin of his that was now framed by a neatly trimmed white beard. The man had tan, weathered skin from his earlobes to his toes, proof of his many years in the sun.
“Uh-oh, sound the alarm,” he teased in his thick Australian accent, and then his arms were open for a hug that felt like the one a father would give his daughter.
Not that I’d know. My dad didn’t do hugs — or feelings of any kind, for that matter. He was a man of few words, divvying out praise only when I did something to deserve it.
Which wasn’t often.
“It’s good to see you, Cap,” I said when he released me.
“Great to see you, Ember.” I always smiled at how my name sounded when he said it, the R disappearing altogether. Em-bah. “Ready for your first season as chief stew?”
“Come on, now. You know I’ve been ready for years.”
He chuckled. “I do, indeed. This has been a long time coming. I’m keen to see you smash it.” He glanced at his watch. “The rest of the crew should be trickling in soon. Why don’t you go sort the crew mess and get started on provisions? We’ll have a team chat once everyone’s aboard.”
I saluted him with a smirk. “On it, Cap.”
“And Ember?”
“Mm?”
“Maybe don’t order all the lobster in Italy this time around, yeah?”
Biting back a smile at the memory of our first charter together years ago when I’d accidentally ordered twenty cases of lobster instead of two, I gave him a thumbs up. Those closest to me knew a thumbs up was my version of flipping the bird, and the gesture earned me a hearty laugh that followed me all the way back down the stairs to the crew quarters.
After that, I fell into a steady rhythm, a familiar one that left me smiling and singing to myself as I ticked through my mental checklist. Sure, this was my first time officially working as chief stew, but I’d had enough experience that it felt like the job had been mine for years. From stepping up when other chiefs got sick to flying five hours to finish a season after one got let go, I had been thrown into the fire plenty of times.
And like a phoenix, I thrived in those flames. I rose from the ashes even better than before.
It was a product of my upbringing, the way this career suited me so well. Busy was my natural state of being. By the time I was five, my parents had thrown me into everything from swim lessons and soccer to piano lessons and Spanish as a second language. The praise my father gave me for achieving only encouraged me to continue to pack my schedule all the way through college. If I wasn’t juggling at least a half-dozen clubs, extracurricular activities, sports and a job — I was bored.