Page 17 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire

“Food was how I found home in each new place.”She began preparing our dinner—fish I’d caught earlier, seasoned with wild herbs she’d discovered.“Learn the local cuisine, and you understand the people.”

I watched her work, her hands moving with grace and skill.“You never mentioned your mother.”

“She left when I was six.Couldn’t handle the military lifestyle.”Her tone remained neutral, but I caught the slight tension in her shoulders.“My dad raised me alone after that.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was our normal.”She expertly filleted the fish on a flat stone.“What about your family?Beyond the stern father and ill sister?”

“My mother was the social butterfly, always hosting charity events and galas.She cared more about appearances than substance.”I helped by feeding small sticks into the fire.“My brother followed in her footsteps.He attended Harvard Business School, married the ‘right’ woman, and took his place at all the proper social functions.”

“And you were the rebel?”She placed the fish on our makeshift grill—salvaged metal from the yacht.

“Not deliberately.I just couldn’t see the point of it all.Even before Angela got sick, I questioned the path laid out for me.”

Janet turned the fish, the sizzling sound mixing with the crash of waves.“Yet you still ended up wealthy and powerful.”

“Different path, same destination?”

“Something like that.”

The conversation lulled as Janet finished cooking.This past week, we’d settled into an easy rhythm, dividing tasks based on our strengths.Her culinary skills made our basic provisions enjoyable, while my physical strength and mechanical knowledge helped with the heavier work.

“Here,” she said, handing me a palm leaf with my portion.“Not exactly five-star dining, but it’ll keep us going.”

I took a bite, surprised yet again by how good it tasted.“How do you make such basic ingredients taste this good?”

“Technique matters more than fancy equipment.”She joined me, sitting cross-legged on her section of the log.“A lesson every chef learns early.”

“That could apply to many things,” I mused.“We focus so much on acquiring tools and resources that we neglect developing actual skill.”

“Says the man with a yacht.”But there was no malice in her words, just gentle teasing.

“Had a yacht,” I corrected, gesturing toward the increasingly submerged vessel.

We ate as darkness fell, the fire dancing shadows across our small camp.Stars emerged overhead, more brilliant than I’d ever seen in the city.

“When I was little,” Janet said, looking up, “my dad would point out constellations wherever we were stationed.No matter how far from home we went, the stars remained constant.”

I followed her gaze upward.“Can you still identify them?”

“Some.”She pointed.“Orion’s belt there.The Big Dipper.Southern Cross low on the horizon.”

“That last one helps confirm we’re in the southern hemisphere,” I noted.

“I knew that from the tropical flora and the position of the midday sun.”She glanced at me, brandishing white teeth in the firelight.“Not just a pretty face with a knife.”

I laughed, and the sound surprised even me.When was the last time I’d laughed genuinely?“I never assumed you were just anything, Janet.”

Our eyes met across the fire, and something shifted in the air between us.A week of survival, of seeing each other stripped of pretense and position, had created a connection I hadn’t anticipated.

She broke the contact first, standing to clear our plates.“We should get some rest.Tomorrow, I want to explore the western side of the island.I might find more food sources.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, rising to help.“After I recheck the yacht.The navigation equipment might still be salvageable if the water level has dropped.”

“You’re obsessed with that yacht.”

“Not the yacht itself,” I clarified.“What it represents.Communication.Rescue.Getting back to our lives.”

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