Page 36 of Adrift

I have muffins to bake, golden-brown tops waiting to emerge from the oven, pastry dough to roll out and a bunch of other shit. I’m not a breakfast fan. I’m not a fan of baking, I even say I’m terrible at it. But I’m good at it. I just fucking hate it and try to do it as little as possible. Baking takes way more time and effort than any guest understands. No one remembers the baked goods, and they don’t bring in a bigger tip. It’s the glamorous dinners and sunlit lunches that get all the praise. I’d much rather have them eat a croissant, flaky and buttery, and have a cup of coffee. But no. It’s three lobster egg benny’s and two egg white omelets, this one with cheese, that one with no tomatoes. Andthe timing of everything is atrocious. Trying to get everything perfect, down to the last sprinkle of parsley, is a dance I’m constantly perfecting.

So I’m in a rip-roaring mood when I get to the galley. The owner, Pretty Boy’s dad, is going to be on board at eight. But Easton says that when Candy the fiancée is in play, eight means ten. Late starts are a chef’s worst nightmare. Which is another thing I hate. I can understand why last year’s chef didn’t come back. This isn’t a restaurant. I don’t have a team of cooks to cook your meal over if you don’t show up on time. Or an unlimited supply of ingredients. Hello, we’re in the middle of the ocean?there’s no chance for a quick run to the store. So no, I’m not a fan of guests showing up late.

Somewhere around six, Haley’s up, her hair pulled back in a tight pony. The early light catches the glint of her eyes. She’s wearing her white uniform for our official greeting of the owner. And she looks so damn perfect I want to rub a chocolate scone over her, just to break that pristine image.

“Good morning,” she sings, as in actual notes. And it’s infuriatingly good.

“Wow, you have a voice.”

“I like to sing, but not songs. And not in front of people. But thanks. What can I do to help?”

I guess I don’t count as people.Interesting. I’ll have to do something about that.

I give her a smirk and whisk my sauce some more. The aroma fills the air, a teasing hint of spices and cream. “I’ve got it under control. Wait, taste this.” I dip a teaspoon into the pot. “What do you think?”

“Wow, that’s amazing.” She licks the back end of the spoon and I’m totally going to hell like my Catholic grandma always told me I would. Because I knew the sauce was fantastic; I just wanted to watch her lick the spoon.

“All crew, all crew. Meet on the back deck for the official welcome in five minutes,” the captain says over the radio.

“Looks like Easton was wrong. They’re early.”

“Are you ready to meet them?” Haley’s face scrunches up in question, her eyes searching mine for any sign of apprehension.

I’ve got this. I’ve always got this. Owners love me. They’re in awe of my food because it’s absolutely perfect. I could have my own restaurant, but why would I want to? Being a yacht chef, I take the contracts I want and spend the rest of my time on beaches around the world, eating and strolling my way through Europe and Asia between jobs. My life is perfect. Who wouldn’t want to be me? One picky owner?that’s nothing.

“Everyone’s talking Candy up like she’s some sort of terror,” I say. “I should be fine with her. Her food preference sheet reads like a dream.”

On the back deck, we’re all lined up ready to receive the owners. Easton isn’t here. Captain straightens the lapels of a kid from Engineering. The morning sun makes his brass buttons shine. I’ve met him, but I don’t remember his name.

“Make sure you get your shirt to the laundry room so it’s pressed next time,” the captain tells the kid. Then he strolls to the end of the line to be the first to greet the owner.

Chapter 16

Salt Water

Sam

Anders is next to me. Separating me from her. Two months of not touching her is going to kill me.

“You ready for this?” I ask her over the top of Anders’ head. He’s got the new control pad for the ship pulled up on his phone. A meteor could fall out of the sky—so long as all systems on the boat were in the green, Anders wouldn’t even look up.

Haley’s holding a tray of rolled towels, and Shayla next to her has a tray of champagne. Normally, the chief stew wouldn’t have to hold anything. But there is nothing normal about this season. I spent the wee hours of this morning on the phone, hoping we could get a replacement out for Brianna. But no such luck. I found a stew, but Rocky wants to go out far, so it will be two weeks before we can swing into a port and pick her up.

I haven’t told Haley yet. We haven’t been alone since yesterday. And it’s a good idea if it stays that way. Her coconut scent is drifting on the breeze straight to my cock.

“We’re ready. Right, Shayla?” Haley says, a twinkle in her eye.

“We’re going to rock this shit.” Shayla holds the tray like a pro, her hand loosely over the base of the glasses.

Four silhouettes approach from down the dock. The driver called me ten minutes ago, letting us know they were almost here.

“Rocky.” I grab his wrist and shake his hand. He pulls me into a hug. I knew he would. The big man is a hugger. My ribs groan from his pressure.

“Good to see you. How’s the little dinghy holding up?” He slaps my back.

“She’s a beauty.”

“She is! Can’t wait to get her out on the water.” He pulls his fiancée next to him.

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