Page 20 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
One time onOdysseyI had made panna cotta and given Seb a taste. I described it like flan, but unbeknownst to me, Seb’s experience with flan was the Cuban dessert hisabuelahad made, with sweetened condensed milk and evaporated milk instead of cream. The flan Seb grew up with was very different from the panna cotta I was raised on, much sweeter and thicker.
Seb had a serious sweet tooth.
“I have a tiramisu left in the fridge. Want to try it?”
It was an olive branch, of sorts. If he could try to move on, so could I. Seb studied me and slowly grinned.
“Sí, that would be good.”
“You’ll have a sugar high for your watch,” I warned. I pulled open the fridge and handed Seb the delicate glass bowl that housed the tiramisu.
“Better a sugar high than asleep on the job.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cool of the stainless steel. Seb eagerly pulled a spoon out of the flatware drawer and scooped up some of the delicate dessert, ensuring he got a combination of the ladyfingers and cream.
The spoon slipped into his mouth, and I watched his lips slide off the metal. Seb’s facial hair usually edged on the border of scruff and beard, but today it was longer, fuller.
He closed his eyes and I flashed back to that night, his eyes closed in a different kind of pleasure, dirty words coming out of his lips. I remembered a groan, or did I hear it now? I refocused my eyes on Seb. He was watching me, swallowing the bite, spoon poised over the bowl.
“Do you want some?” Was his voice a little bit more gravelly than normal? Seb’s tongue flicked out, licking a tiny bit of cream off his bottom lip.
I knew the tiramisu was good—I’d tasted it along each step of the way and I’d made this dish from scratch so many times, I could make it by heart. But I wondered,what would Seb do if I said yes?
I nodded, and Seb plunged the spoon back down and scraped a bite out for me. He took a step toward me, holding up the spoon. His eyes were focused on my mouth, dark and intent, and I realized there were far too many thoughts in my head about spooning tiramisu in indecent places and licking it off. Seb stood waiting—it was too late to back out, even if I wanted to.
Stepping forward, I leaned in toward the spoon. Seb watched my lips, his expression growing cocky and sure. I was about to close my mouth around the spoon when he pulled it back, and I clicked my mouth closed on air.
“Seb!” I flushed red and aimed a light punch at his stomach. He laughed, but chased after me when I backed off.
My back hit the cooler, Seb’s front pressed up against me, the hardness of his body molding me to him. His elbow met the stainless steel behind me, holding the bowl up above our heads. My heart raced, and Seb’s breath matched my own: shallow and quick, disturbing the wisps of hair around my ear.
He was too close; we looked at each other for a moment before his eyes dropped to my mouth.
The spoon hovered and dipped toward me. I opened my mouth and let him slide the spoon in, swallowing and sucking on it.
Seb’s breathing became ragged. His forehead thunked against the cooler door and he let the spoon out of my mouth slowly, sliding it against my bottom lip.
The door at the top of the stairs opened, and the laughter and recklessness from upstairs flooded down. When the door slammed shut, blocking off most of the noise, I could hear footsteps coming down the stairs and my eyes widened.
“Seb,” I whispered. He didn’t budge. “Seb!” I called more urgently and pressed my hand against his chest, shoving him back a step. He blinked at me.
I bent over the paperwork again just as Toby, one of the deckhands, rounded the corner.
“Hey, man, ya gonna take over for me? I’m bushed and they’re still partying like hell up there.”
Seb mumbled around another bite of tiramisu and I gathered my papers up. I cleared my throat, attempting to shake off the spell. It was too easy to remember the Seb who had been more than a coworker, but also a friend—and, for one night, a lover.
“Gentlemen, good night. See you in the morning.”
I rushed out, quickly forcing myself to relegate Seb back into the proper box—or risk my job again.
Ten
Between a late nightshifting the menu, tossing and turning over memories of Seb, and being up early to handle breakfast orders, I was running on minimal sleep. The crew food was out, and I made the special dishes for our guests. Roy was assisting, chopping and dicing as my sous chef.
Harper, one of the deckhands, flounced into the galley, seething. “One of the lounge chairs upstairs is completely ruined. That bratty girl Elsa,” Harper spit. “She got ahold of some markers and ‘decorated’ one of the white lounge chairs up on the bridge deck, the ones right off the bedroom where her parents were! How can they be so negligent? Where is the nanny?”
Roy and I exchanged glances at her tirade but had to keep working. There was nothing we could say anyway. Harper knew what to do: the lounge chair had to disappear and we’d deal with it in port once our charter week was done.
