Page 24 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
I gently touched his back, and the muscles flexed as Seb shifted next to me. “Yeah, it’s me,” I whispered.
He exhaled a big breath and reached out, sliding a hand across my stomach. Immediately his body relaxed, his breathing evening out. I sighed and reached up to turn off the reading light. Lying still in the dark, I felt the bed gently moving with each inhale and exhale. Fingers twitched lightly against my stomach. I ran my fingers through his, stilling the movement, and closed my eyes.
It would be so comfortable, so easy, to let him in again. But how could I keep myself from getting burned?
Twelve
Our guests were gone,finally gone.Themiswas a ghost town, as Dom gave us all two days off: one to catch up on sleep and one to enjoy a day in Split. The staff was told to help themselves to anything they wanted in the galley, as long as they cleaned up afterward.
The second day, I slept in as much as I could before dressing in some comfortable shoes and stepping off the boat. We had tied up to the wharf in Split, called the West Bank, which had a long promenade for pedestrians. I followed the pavement until it dead-ended, and then I crossed over and into the city.
Yacht crew had limited time in port, so we’d perfected how to get as much done as possible in one day. Others might be off renting cars or scooters and maximizing their distance. I was more about maximizing the effort, and was going to see as much by foot as I could.
I climbed the Marjan Hill Stairs up to the observation deck, a meager part of the entire hill, but enough to get me a view over the harbor.Themis,with her unique rigging, drew the eye, but there were other yachts here too, and cruise ships across the bay. This reminded me of a hike I’d done with Seb in Antigua. I half expected to see him today, stretching his legs and finding the best view.
The morning after the nanny incident—as the staff was all calling it—I had woken up to an empty bed. Seb had slipped out in the early hours, but his scent was still on my sheets. I had rolled over and pressed my face into the linen, taking a big inhale before rolling off and getting up.
I had barely seen Seb since then. He would pop in for a quick bite to eat, but he didn’t linger with Roy. My sous chef had gone quiet too. I didn’t know what to make of it, but my own feelings for Seb were confusing enough.
Climbing back down, I crossed into the city center, walking through cobbled streets tightly lined with old buildings with terra-cotta roofs. Street names—any words, really—were written in a language that felt clunky on my tongue and had diacritical marks that baffled me. I walked the Riva, a pedestrian path in the city center waterfront in view of the Venetian Tower, and zigzagged through to temples and cathedrals. When I was tired, I sat at a café and ordered local pastries—frituleandkroštule—before getting up again to walk it all off.
I rarely shopped, but as I passed a window display, a moka pot caught my eye. Seb’s sweet tooth extended to coffee, and one night—the one that popped up into my thoughts way too often—I had made Seb an espresso with cremina just like I drank at home. It was like thecafecitoSeb drank back in his neighborhood in Miami. I had watched while Seb sipped that coffee, sweetened with sugar and the first drops of the moka, and his eyes had closed in pleasure.
“This is the best coffee I’ve ever had,”he had said.
And then he’d kissed me.
This moka pot in the window of a tiny shop had brought a rush of memories—and sparked an idea. I knew just how to repay Seb for his favor.
With my purchase in hand, I made my way back to the galley ofThemisand pulled my sous chef aside.
“First you boil some water,” I instructed Roy.
He tossed a look at me and I smirked.Oh, just wait.
“Then you fill the base of the moka pot with the hot water. Take the freshly ground beans and put them in the filter. Tap it a few times.” I demonstrated by tapping the metal container on the counter. “This goes in here; the top gets screwed back on. Then set it to boil again.”
“Okay, so we’re boiling the water, putting it in a fancy pot, and boiling it again. Just to be clear,” Roy teased.
“I’ve seen you make tea. If you got any more particular about how you make it, I bet you would be qualified to serve the queen.”
“Fair ’nough.”
“Okay, this is the part you really have to watch.” I flipped the lid of the top open and Roy and I peered in. “See how it’s forming some liquid? That’s the steam rising up through the coffee.”
“Huh. Fancy.”
“Now, with this here, the first coffee, we take this glass with a bit of sugar in it and pour the first coffee in.”
“Like the first press of olives.”
“Exactly. Set the rest back to finish boiling and while the first few drips are still fresh, we whip the sugar mixture.” I whipped the spoon furiously around the glass until the first coffee became foamy and whipped. “This is called the cremina. Then we pour a mug of the final brew, spoon some of the cremina in, and enjoy.”
Roy looked at the coffee skeptically. “You know I’m not a coffee drinker.”
“But you are a good chef,” I said. “And every chef knows to taste the food and judge the flavor before they serve it.”
Roy took a sip and blanched. “Ugh, so bitter.” He handed the mug back to me. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
