Page 44 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
Justin, at least, had been more enthusiastic, finishing off each of his plates.
The menu sat in front of me on the counter, and I braced my hands on either side and reread my notes. A lot of these things, I had to admit, were Natasha’s personal preferences, and she had every right to have her own opinions. I struggled heavily with valuing my performance tonight. I had plenty of experiences in restaurants, cooking for a wide variety of people. Many times, I had worked under a head chef, but it had been a few years since I’d answered to no one but myself—and guests. But guests were less fickle as a collective, and Natasha was used to personal chefs and cuisine that, I begrudgingly admitted, was perhaps beyond anything I’d experienced.
In other words, Natasha might be an Everest of a client.
Cat hugged my shoulders, gave me words of encouragement, and retreated for the night. I was in a bind. I needed to come up with another tasting menu, tweaking most of the dishes while still working within the confines of what I had on board.
I inventoried and then bent over my notes, continuing to plan until daylight broke and Roy shoved me out and to bed.
* * *
The second nightof tastings did go better. Natasha’s notes were slowly tipping more toward the positive and less toward corrections. I made detailed sheets of notes, and by the end of the evening—midnight again—Natasha pushed back from the table.
“This is enough, I believe. Marcella, do you understand the direction to move from here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Our notes will suffice and I think the menu is looking pretty firm now.”
“Good. Justin and I are going to retire for the evening. We’ll see you in the morning for our post-yoga breakfast.”
“I’m looking forward to the beans and toast again.” Justin smiled at me.
I nodded. “Thank you. Have a wonderful evening.”
I gathered the plates and descended the stairs, where I found Roy and Seb in the galley. Seb stood by the coffee machine, chatting while Roy washed the dishes that had piled up in the sink. When Seb turned and saw me, a grin tugged on his lips.
“Ah, Marce, you look like shit.”
“Hey,” I protested weakly.
Throwing the last of his coffee back, Seb handed the mug off to Roy. “Come on, it’s bedtime. Roy’s going to clean up.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can clean my own—” My argument was voided with a giant yawn.
Seb plucked the chef’s cap off my head and gently spun me around to untie the knots of my apron. He rotated me again and worked on the buttons down the front of my jacket. Instead of watching his fingers nimbly work their way down my chest, I watched his eyes.
The jacket and apron were tossed into the laundry under the counter with the dirty towels and Seb pointed me toward the door. “Come on, Marce.”
We walked aft through the guest cabins and back to my room. “I don’t need an escort,” I grumbled.
Seb laughed behind me. “I’ve still got some time before my night watch starts, so I’m going to make sure you fall asleep instead of lying awake.”
“How are you going to do that? Mind control?”
My body was tugged backward, Seb pressing my back up against his front. “A hot shower, a little massage, and I think you’ll be out like a light,” he whispered into my ear.
In my cabin he roughly stripped me down and pushed me into the shower. The heat started to ease the ache in my back and hands from the cramped work I’d been doing all day, but I couldn’t be bothered to move and scrub myself.
A few minutes later—maybe? Had I fallen asleep standing up?—Seb turned the water off. “Good enough,” he murmured, and pulled me out, wrapping me in a towel and scrubbing my skin dry.
He guided me to bed and down onto my stomach. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. Having someone to care for me, someone to look after me and make sure I didn’t work myself to death...that was new. And I was glad it was Seb.
Twenty-One
Seb was cooing softlyin my ear, and strong coffee wafted under my nose. I groaned and cracked open my eyelids.
“Morning, sunshine. I’ve got a coffee for you.”
The surface of the coffee was coated in the thick foam of cremina. I sat up. “Did you make this?”
