Page 67 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
“I hope you have realized by now that I value a work-life balance, and I expect my crew to have some fun.”
“I do have fun,” I insisted.
Dom cut me a look. “You have some fun, but you also clearly work harder than anyone else. And Seb’s the kind of guy who would help you...”
He trailed off, and I fidgeted under his gaze. “I just want to keep things professional.”
Shoulders sagging a bit, Dom nodded. “Fine, then, let’s keep it professional. I do have a new contract for you to review here.” He slipped a small stack of papers toward me.
I relaxed—a tiny bit.
“It’s a one-year permanent contract with us now, the end of your probationary period. An increase in pay”—he circled a section with his pen—“and a few options for seasonal time off. Read it over and think about it. If there’s anything you need to talk about, my door is always open to you.” He spread his hands and shrugged.
“Thank you, Dom. You don’t have to worry about this. I promise.” I got up from the chair and left, a flood of relief passing through me. I was being given another chance, and I would not let Dom down.
* * *
Life moved on,back to normal—except for Seb. He avoided spending time in the galley, and when he would grab a bite to eat, he’d be short with Roy. He kept moving, passing through quickly and barely meeting my eyes. The latest quote had disappeared from the whiteboard, and I left the space blank.
At night I stared at the photograph of my great-grandparents, reminding myself that I had a goal, a job to do and a world to see. Despite these reminders, my heart ached terribly, missing Seb in bed with me every night.
Roy had not brought up Seb to me. Surely, he knew that things were over—Seb was coming back to their cabin every night now. Instead we focused on the upcoming schedule: a few charters in Spain, another visit from the Boyds, and then departing to sail across the Atlantic Ocean.
That last part had my nerves a little frayed, but Roy had already made the trip twice before, and it was going to be nothing like the twenty-five-day crossing I’d done onEik.Themiswould blaze a path in ten days from Gibraltar to Antigua, where we would begin the Caribbean season. Some of the crew was leaving, their contracts up, and they were moving on to other things. I, thankfully, was staying. Justin and Natasha, after discussing the entire situation, had stood firm on their offer for my new contract. I’d be onThemisfor a season island-hopping in the Caribbean, and then we’d spend hurricane season moving up the east coast of the United States. A company had been hired to help us all with our visas, and blocks of time had been dedicated for crew breaks.
There were even two regattas on the schedule, one in the Caribbean and one in Rhode Island. This time,Themiswould compete in the races against other superyachts.
All I had to do was put my head down and work hard. Time would pass, Seb would eventually start coming into the galley—he had to eat, after all—and I’d grow more secure in my position. This could work. This could still be my dream job.
“This is the last pie.” Roy slid the chicken-and-leek pastry out of the oven and onto the countertop. I shook myself out of my thoughts and back to the task at hand: prepping for our passage to Barcelona. It would takeThemisnearly two days to make the passage, so we had twice as many meals to prep as last time. Roy and I had been at work baking all day, preparing for us to leave that night.
“Good, we have plenty of time to get dinner ready early for the crew before we leave.” Our intended time of departure was seven in the evening, so we had an early dinner scheduled.
“Marce, you should take a break.” He checked the clock. “We have plenty of time. You could go take a nap.”
Just the thought of a nap was tempting, but I stifled my yawn and lied through my teeth. “I’m not tired.”
Roy gripped the edges of the sink and dropped his head forward. His shoulders were tense, drawn up to his ears.
“Then go explore Malta or something. Marce, you’ve got to get out a little bit. You haven’t taken a break in a week and, while I appreciate you giving me time off, I hate to say this, but you are cranky as hell.”
I glared at him. “I am not.”
“You are and you’re being irresponsible. You are too tired, even if you don’t want to admit it. I know you; I’ve worked alongside you now for how long? Three months?” He pushed back from the sink and grabbed my hand. “This,” he said, pointing to the plasters on my index and middle fingers. “This never would have happened to the chef I know.”
I tugged my hands away from him and pulled out a fresh cutting board. “I can sleep on the passage. Let’s keep going.”
Roy let out a weary sigh and plucked out my chef’s knife before I could touch it. “Fine, but no knives.”
His glare refuted my arguments before they could start. “Fine,” I conceded, and set to work.
Thirty-Two
I didsleep like the dead on the way to Barcelona—for most of the trip. I woke in the early morning on our last day at sea and stared at the ceiling, rocking on my bed with the boat.Themiswas moving more than I’d felt before, the room tilted, the waves splashing against the hull beside me.
My thoughts kept turning to Seb. When we’d had our night in Antigua, maybe getting immediately sacked had been for the best, because this timeit had gone beyond one night and I felt obsessed. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Instead of a single hot night, we’d had so much more, and I ached.
A rumble emanated from my stomach and I peeled myself out of bed, grateful for a distraction. I dressed and walked toward the galley, bracing myself against the walls asThemisheeled over.
