Page 17 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
“Right, well, I’m still crossing my fingers for you on the regatta deal.”
“What’s the regatta deal?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
Seb leaned back against the counter and finished chewing. “It’s a training program at the regatta. Basically, I’d be taking a day or two off to get some sailing coaching in. Consider it job training.”
“You want to be a sailor?”
Seb shrugged. “I may not be as passionate about it as some people, but having some skills in place and some knowledge around racing would help my career prospects.”
“Sailing’s actually pretty great. I think you would like it.”
“You know,” Roy said thoughtfully, “Themishas a little sailing dinghy. We should take it out next time we get an off day. I bet Clarissa could teach us a thing or two.”
Seb looked at me, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Why bother Clarissa? I bet Marce could show us how to sail the tender.”
“I bet I could,” I fired back.
“Yeah, so which part of the sailboat was intriguing to you? Was it the wind in your hair or the sound of the boat cutting through the waves? Or was it the captain?” Seb bit out.
“Excuse me?” I set my measuring cup down forcefully. “What exactly does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just wondering which part of sailing off with two strange men attracted your attention.”
“Seb.” Roy laughed nervously. “I’ve got a knife—don’t make me stab you. Leave my boss alone.”
I crossed my arms and fully faced Seb, glaring at him.
“It’s an honest question,” he said, eyebrows pinching together and anger flushing his cheeks.
“I donotregret my time onEikand how dare you insinuate anything. Have you been to Panama, the Marquesas, Tahiti?”
“Well,” Seb drawled, full of sarcasm, “I’m glad you got around.”
I sucked in a breath and so did Roy. Even if Seb had been hurt, that was no excuse for him to be so cruel. I was hurt too, and I’d lost more than he had.
“Mate, too far.”
“What the hell is the matter with you? We’ve got a big day and don’t need your negativity around here. Fuck off.” I leaned forward, angry enough to physically push him out of my kitchen if I had to.
Seb slammed his cup down. “Fine, I will fuck off.” He turned for the stairs, flashing two fingers at Roy. “Later, man.”
I huffed a breath and turned back to my dough, my fingers shaky.
“Marce—” Roy began, but I cut him off.
“Don’t. It’s fine.” I wiped my hands on my apron, shaking them out, attempting to bring the atmosphere back to normal.
Roy eyed me carefully, but picked up his knife and started slicing fruit. The tension in the galley was heavy, and I tried to relax and roll my shoulders, blinking away tears of frustration. I had a job to do.
Nine
I threwmyself into my work. This first presentation was an easy one, and relied on freshness and quality. The stews helped us take everything upstairs.
Bok, one of the stews, a petite Korean-born Brit, was doing some last-minute polishing of the silverware. She smiled and greeted us. Clarissa wavered nearby, absentmindedly tidying the service station. Unlike most of the crew, Clarissa was designated for two jobs as a deck stew. While we had no guests, she was part of the exterior team, working with the deckhands. When we did have guests, she worked on the stew side. She fidgeted with her uniform, looking less comfortable in the formal uniform the stews wore, a modest navy dress, than she did in the casual deck uniform.
“Want to go over the menu really quick?”
They both nodded, and I pointed out each dish as I walked around the table, the two of them following.
