Page 18 of Adrift

“Rich can do what rich wants to do.” I hold my fist out to give Haley a fist bump. Which she reciprocates. “I’ll just go ahead and board. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.”

“It’s fine.” Haley’s voice trails up, telling me it’s anything but fine. “I can show you around the boat. I know the captain has a ton of things to do.” She glances at him and whispers, “I’m sure.”

“Great, I’d love to have a guide.” I smile. And the half-second death glare from the captain tells me my first reaction is right. Usually is. I’ve got a knack for being able to tell by the end of my first or second day who will hook up during the season.

I don’t do on-board romances, because they always go wrong. Always. An internal shudder travels through me. But thecaptain has some amazing taste. Captains don’t usually partake in the cabin-hopping of yachties, but I can’t blame him if he does.

“Come find me later and we can discuss the rest of what you wanted to talk about,” he says to Haley.

The captain’s dog leads us to the ship, and the captain takes off for the bridge.

“She’s pretty.” TheRock Candy—dual motor, sleek design—is state-of-the art. I haven’t looked, but I’m guessing a heck of a lot. “I’m just hoping they didn’t skimp on the galley.” Now my heart is thumping like a chain smoker running a marathon.

“I’m sorry,” Haley says. “The captain and the bosun tried to unpack, get things going for you. Everywhere looked like a dump before they started. Shoot, that was just yesterday.” She’s sucking on her lip.

“It’s not your fault these rich bastards couldn’t wait to take possession of a boat that wasn’t finished. And trust me, this isn’t bad. I’ve taken over so many galleys where there are layers of grease and expired food. Not here. So I’ll be able to cook them something when they come on board. When?”

“Tomorrow lunch.” Nerves bounce off of her.

“Listen, we’ve got this. You, me, and your team. Who needs an elaborate team? Just brings more drama.”

“True. I hate the drama. And I don’t have much of a team.”

“Love the ship. Hate the drama. And with so few of us, how can we have any drama?”

“I put the number for the provisioner here.” She points to the board where the owner’s preferences sheets are pinned to the wall. “I also ordered some things because I thought you weren’t going to be in until tomorrow. Basics. But I printed out the list.” She’s taped it to the wall.

“Perfect, great.” I run my finger down the list of things she’s ordered. All the normal stuff. “That’s a shit ton of chicken.”Normally I leave it off the list of things I buy. It’s common, and who comes on a ship like this to eat common food?

“Yeah, but on the provision sheets, the owner’s son eats mostly chicken and broccoli.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, why the hell even come on a cruise if you’re going to eat like an overgrown douchebag?” I pull his preference sheet off the wall and circle his well-groomed face with a pen from my fanny pack. “Easton—it even sounds like a frat boy.”

“You’ve never heard of Easton Rockwell?” Her lips jut out in question.

“No.” I slap the party boy’s sheet back on the board. “Why? Is he more than a party boy spending daddy’s money?”

Her eyebrows rise. “He’s a three-time gold medalist in swimming. He’s about to take over Rockwell Harding financial group from Mr. Rockwell.”

“His father.”

“He’s an Olympian. He has to eat a certain way.” She points to the paper.

“Not anymore. He’s on a mega yacht throwing down preferences—that makes him a diva.” I didn’t yell, but I might have raised my voice a little. Either way, Haley cringes like I’ve smacked her across the face. I bow my head and take a cleansing breath. “My therapist tells me I’m too rigid. I suppose it doesn’t matter what the little twat won’t eat. His loss.” I randomly open cabinet doors. Things are almost where I want them. Fixing it later is the better plan, if my OCD will let me. “I’m going to make some eggs. Want some?”

Haley sucks her lips in; I feel her glare on my back as I find the few things I’ll need.

“How long have you been a chief stew?”

“Three years. I was a second on a 70-meter for a few years before that.”

I get the sauté pan hot and some butter melting. Damn, this is a nice stove. Actually, the fridge is top-notch too. I do the one-hand egg crack. Am I trying to impress her? Maybe. Not that she isn’t overly smitten with the captain already. I do a quick chop on some of the basic herbs I find in the fridge. I’m impressed they’re put away the right way: plastic bag with a damp towel to keep them fresh. I tip the bag up to her in question. “Well done on the fridge provisioning. I’m a firm believer that the chief stew is the second most important person on the boat.”

“Is that right? And who is the first?” Her cheeks are like apples. She’s expecting me to say I am, and she’d be right.

“The third stew in the laundry room. The ship can’t work without clean laundry. If they don’t have their shit together, then we’re all looking like shit.” I flip the eggs onto a plate.

She laughs.

---