by Louise Bay
“But the upside is there’s only one guest.”
“Really?” That sounded too good to be true. “For a 154-foot yacht? There must be six bedrooms.”
“Yup. The boat’s got capacity for twelve.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“The guest is very private, apparently. Wants a working vacation.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’ll have guests once he gets settled.”
“And how many interior crew will I have?” Maybe this was the big catch. “Would it just be me?”
“You’ll get two. So the crew won’t be different just because there’s one guest. But, if we lose a member—for illness or incompetence—there won’t be any replacements. We’ve been background checked.”
It was unusual but not unheard of to be background checked. “Is it some celebrity doing a detox or something?”
“I have no idea. I’ve also been advised that we won’t be given details of who it is or their preferences for food or drink.”
The whole reason guests went on these charters was to have every whim catered for, but if we didn’t even know what this guy liked to eat and drink, then how would we make sure he had the best possible experience?
“Is he Russian?” Sounded like this guy was super paranoid. Rich Russians were all paranoid and not without cause. I had a girlfriend who worked on Boris Kasanov’s Sunset for a few months. She’d thought working on the third biggest yacht in the world would be glamorous, but apparently the place had been full of scowling ex-FSB agents looking to take someone down. She’d left after a crew member had been accidentally shot in the leg and she’d been told to turn a blind eye or quit. She’d quit.
“No, British. From what I understand, the guest’s privacy trumps any concerns over what we’re serving them for dinner. I’ve only been made aware of preferences for privacy, and it’s clear that if there are any slipups in relation to his requests, he’ll leave and sure as hell we won’t be getting a tip.”
The last thing anyone wanted was an eight-week charter guest to leave—last minute bookings were rare. Even a forty percent uplift was not going to cover the lack of tip. It was a gamble, but one where I could tip the odds in our favor with great service.
“You know what these guests are like. I’m sure he’ll have other requests when he’s on board, and I think it’s safe to assume this guy is going to be picky,” Captain Moss said. “It will be tough but the money’s good. We’ll just get to know what he likes quickly and then adjust accordingly. You’ve managed a lot worse, I’m sure.”
These details seemed odd but not so difficult. There had to be something else. I’d never had a free lunch. Never even been offered a menu.
“There’s one final thing.”
I knew there had to be something. There always was.
“We have to be in Saint Tropez in three days.”
I groaned. Freaking typical. There was no way I could do that. I shook my head. “I’m booked on a flight to Sacramento tonight.”
“You’re going to turn down a season with your own room at a forty percent pay bump just for a bit of downtime?”
It wasn’t just that I was tired. I wanted to see my family, spend some quality time with my brother and my dad. I hated that I spent most of the year away from them as it was. If I could earn what I did on yachts back in California, there was no way I’d be anywhere but home. However glamorous it sounded, yachting was hard work, and for me, all about the money.
Which was what made this offer so tempting.
“The European sun will revive you. And remember you’ve got a tip on top of your salary. And you know if a guest is going to all that trouble to background check us then the tip is likely to be good.”
I sighed. It was a promise of a lot of extra money. “I’ll need to speak to my dad.” Fact was, my father would be looking forward to a break, too. I spent my days looking after rich, entitled guests, but he spent his days looking after my twenty-five-year-old disabled brother. There was no escape for him, no days off, and he certainly didn’t get paid.
“I need an answer today. I have no doubt this will be a challenging charter, but if anyone can think on their feet and make the weirdest requests work, it’s you.” Captain Moss stood, our conversation over until I’d made my decision.
“Thank you. I’ll make the call now.”
I excused myself and headed back to the sleeping quarters. A forty percent raise and my own bedroom would have ordinarily had me busting out the champagne, but the last five months of the Caribbean season had taken its toll. I’d been so looking forward to a break, and the thought of going straight into another five-month season, the first eight weeks without a day off, sounded exhausting.
I scooped my phone from my nightstand, lay back on my bed and dialed my dad.
It stopped ringing but no one answered. “Dad, it’s Avery,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, honey, I just dropped the phone.” He sounded breathless.
“Were you running?”
“No, I just came in from the kitchen.”
My heart squeezed. The man used to toss me in the air as if I were a football, and now he was breathless walking from the kitchen into the living room. How long was he going to continue to care for my brother?
“How are things in Sacramento?” He hated when I fussed, and he’d have a fit if he knew how hard it was to call him every day when our hours on duty were so long and the guests were so demanding. But hearing his voice
made me feel less like I was abandoning him.
“Not as sunny as Florida.”
Despite being sixty-seven, my dad still hadn’t retired—couldn’t with my brother’s medical bills—but since I’d started taking on a lot of the expenses, he’d gone part time and no longer worked Fridays. “Did I wake you?”
“No, we’re just having breakfast.”
I grinned at the thought of them at the kitchen table. Right after the accident, Michael couldn’t move his arms and had to be fed, but after some time and with physical therapy, he’d made a lot of progress above the waist, although he still couldn’t walk.
“You do anything nice yesterday?” I asked.
“We kicked back and watched the game.”
I shook my head and smiled. Watching baseball, hockey, even football—it was the only time I saw the light back in my brother’s eyes.
“Did you order pizza?” I asked.
“Of course we ordered pizza.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course they had. “You’ve gotta try to stay healthy, Daddy.” I loved to cook for them when I was at home. Things like going grocery shopping, making soup, even watching sports with my family became special, something I craved when I was at sea, so far away from home.
“I’m as strong as an ox,” he replied.
I grinned as I imagined him standing straight, puffing out his chest. “I just want you to stay that way.”
“Stop your fussing. The Walker men are just fine. Tell me about what’s going on there with you. How many rich, spoiled asses have you wiped today?”
I laughed. “All the guests left yesterday.”
“Nice, so you doing a little sightseeing or sunbathing today before heading home?”
“Something like that. Did the physical therapist come yesterday?” Michael had someone come to the house three times a week to work with him.
“She sure did. He’s building up his muscles in his legs nicely—the weights help.” My dad sighed.
“What is it?”
“Oh, she’s nice and everything. It’s just she’s always talking about how more sessions would help and if Michael wants to make progress then . . .”
Michael mumbled something in the background, probably telling us to quit fussing.
“More therapy sessions? Like how many more?”
“I don’t know, honey. She was talking about having six months of six days a week. But I told her there was no way we could afford that. The insurance won’t pay.”
“She thinks it will make a difference?” I asked.
My father didn’t respond and the scrape of a chair and my father’s slight groan as he stood echoed down the phone, indicating that he was moving rooms so Michael couldn’t hear him.
“She said that if Michael had six sessions a week, after six months she’d be able to tell us whether it was realistic to believe Michael would walk again, and if it was possible, we’d be able to see the progress in that time.”
My brother’s accident seven years ago had changed things completely for my family. My mother had abandoned us shortly after, unable to cope with a life that revolved around her newly disabled son, and soon after the bills had started to pile up.
I’d been planning to start UCLA that fall, but suddenly my family had needed me, and I’d needed to earn money, fast.
A friend of a friend had spent a summer in Miami as a yachtie and came back after her first season with a Louis Vuitton bag. It seemed like a quick and easy way to earn a lot of money that didn’t require skills or experience. I’d been partly right. It was quick. But life on superyachts, catering to the rich and occasionally famous, was far from easy. I missed my dad. And my brother. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t stuck in a wheelchair, my whole future snatched from me.
Michael just wanted to walk again. And if I took the charter Captain Moss was offering, I might be able to give him that. Or at least find out whether it was possible.
“Six months of an additional three sessions a week?”
“Yeah, it’s completely impossible. I told her.”
I did the sums in my head. At a rough guess it was north of ten thousand dollars.
My stomach dropped.
“I was about to head to the airport, but Captain Moss has offered me a last-minute charter,” I said, then explained about being personally recruited.
“That’s an incredible compliment,” my dad responded. “Not that I would expect anything else from my amazing daughter.”
“I don’t know what to do. I was really looking forward to seeing you and Michael.”
“We were looking forward to seeing you too, honey. Come home. We complain about it, but we miss your fussing.”
I knew my dad was grateful for the financial help I provided, but I also knew it was hard for his ego to swallow. So we both liked to pretend that my job was more glamorous than it was.
“It’s a lot of money, Dad. It would pretty much cover the additional therapy.” I’d call the therapist to see if we could get a discounted rate, but I might be able to cover it. “But it would mean I didn’t get to see you for another five months.”
“If you don’t want to do it then you should say no. I want you to live your own life, honey. You don’t need to worry about Michael and me.” Dad said it as if worry was a tap I could just turn off. I was damned if I did or damned if I didn’t. More money meant better care for my brother but going home meant respite for my dad and a month of normalcy for me. It was lose, lose.
“I think I should take it,” I said. That would be the sensible decision. The one I could live with. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’d had the opportunity to help my brother walk again and not taken it. No matter how tired I was. No matter how much I wanted to sleep in my own bed, have drinks with my girlfriends and cook for my family.
“I think you should do what will make you happy.”
I stared up at the bunk above me. I’d be happy in Sacramento, but providing for my brother was the most important thing to me. Although earning the money this charter would provide wasn’t exactly happiness, it came close.
“I just wish I were closer to you and Michael.”
“You’re a good daughter and sister, Avery. But you need to worry about yourself more. Let someone fuss over you for a change. You’ve sacrificed an awful lot for your brother and you deserve a break.”
“I’m perfectly fine. I think I’m going to take this offer, but I’m going to miss you.”
“Are you sure? You sound tired and we miss you.”
“Did I tell you that I’d get my own room?” I had to focus on the positive. My own room was a huge win. “I’ll be able to video chat with you whenever I like.”
“Just to make this old man happy, promise me that if you decide to do this, you’ll find something just for you when you’re in Europe. You spend far too much time looking after everyone else.”
Like what? A trip to Zara was never going to happen now. A date? Dating was impractical and finding someone to love was impossible. Guests were strictly off-limits and relationships with another crew member never lasted long after my feet hit dry land. I didn’t want casual.
Just like I didn’t want to be heading to France in two days. But it looked like that was how life was panning out.
“I promise I’ll find something nice to do.” I rolled my eyes. Maybe a bowl of pasta and a new bottle of fake tan would qualify.
“That’s my girl. And try not to work too hard.”
Hard work came with the job, but I still had a few days off. I’d book myself into a nice hotel. Perhaps a couple nights’ sleep and a few days of room service would make up for another five months alone at sea.
Three
Avery
Another day, another blue sky, another superyacht. As I reached the main deck of the Athena, carrying a glass of champagne and a glass of orange juice, I glanced across at the Saint Tropez marina in the distance and took a deep breath to calm myself. I was usually well rested for the first charter of the season, and May was usually a beautiful month in the Med, but I still carried the exhaustion of the previous season with me. On top of fatigue, the lack of information that we’d been given about the first eight-week charter meant I was unprepared for this guest and it made me more than nervous.
We arranged ourselves into the welcome line. Captain Moss first, me next to him, Eric the bosun, then Chef Neill and the rest of the crew, excluding the engineers who disappeared back to the engine room rather than meet our guest.
The tinny sound of the tender grew louder from behind us, and from the corner of my eye I caught my stewardess, August, craning her neck to look. “Eyes forward,” I said. I hated riding my crew’s ass. Some of the chief stewardesses I’d worked under enjoyed wielding their power, but that wasn’t me. I just wanted the job done, the guests delighted and the tips huge.
The sound of footsteps headed up the stairs toward us. I plastered on a smile, careful to keep the tray I was holding steady.
As our guest appeared, I drew in a breath. He was young—around thirty, no more than thirty-five—and handsome with dark brown hair and wide shoulders. This guy wasn’t anything like the normal charter guest. But then this was nothing like a normal charter. He was tall—well over six feet. Sharp cheekbones framed his face and led down to a perfectly smooth, square jaw. His eyes were dark and serious. If his nose hadn’t been a little crooked, as if it had been broken at some point in his past, I might have even described him as pretty, but the unevenness tipped him toward handsome. It suggested there was a little rough beneath the oh-so-smooth.
I swallowed. I’d never found a guest attractive before. Not even a little bit. But then again, we never had charter guests who looked like this guy. When I first got into yachting, I’d expected to be surrounded by rich, beautiful people all the time. And while there was plenty of wealth, the attractive guests tended to be women. Although I was pretty flexible about a lot of stuff, I was strictly dickly when it came to my fantasies.
He strode toward Captain Moss and they shook hands. “Good to meet you,” the man said in a deep, gravelly voice that seemed to make my whole body vibrate.
“Good to have you on board,” Captain M
oss replied.
“I’m Hayden Wolf,” he said, turning to pin me with a stare so intense it was as if he were getting some sort of psychic reading. “Avery, right?”
How did he know my name? Maybe the background check had given him a photograph. And the way he said it—my name shouldn’t sound that different in a British accent, but the way he enunciated every syllable, coupled with the deep timbre, somehow made it sound important. “Yes, sir,” I replied.
He nodded and smiled. My nipples tightened. Fuck. Thank God I was wearing a t-shirt bra.
The first rule in yachting was never cross the line between personal and professional. Some crew found it difficult, especially when the guests were laid back and wanted the staff to join in the fun. Sometimes the lines got blurred, but never for me—it was the easiest way to get fired. I’d never seen a guest as anything other than the person responsible for my tip and the reason why I could send money home to my family.
But Hayden Wolf?
There was something about him that erased the line completely, and all of a sudden I was imagining him naked and sweaty. Shut it down, I told myself.
“May I offer you a glass of champagne or orange juice?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
My heart, which had been skipping in my chest, suddenly sank to the floor.
Please God, tell me he drinks.
A sober charter guest was the worst. I’d take someone who demanded all his sheets flown over from Italy and his whiskey from a distillery in the remote islands of Scotland over a guest who didn’t drink.
“You’ve disabled the Wi-Fi?” Hayden turned to ask Captain Moss.
“As you requested,” Captain Moss confirmed.
The Wi-Fi was disabled? Usually it was the other way around. Guests were always asking for a better connection, failing to understand that when you were afloat, there were things beyond our control—like the freaking ocean.