You’re trying to get me in trouble.
PRODUCER
I just mean that it’s an important relationship, no? Chief stew and chef… they work pretty closely together.
BERNARD
I’ll say.
Bernard smirks, arches eyebrow as he takes a drink of water.
PRODUCER
Care to elaborate on that?
BERNARD
There was something… electric between those two from the moment we all stepped foot on the boat. They got in each other’s face, pushed each other’s buttons. There were few nights we didn’t hear them screaming at each other. But by the middle of the season, they had a rhythm. They crushed it as a team.
PRODUCER
You said there was something electric between them. What do you mean by that?
Bernard chuckles, shakes head as he drinks water before sitting back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest.
BERNARD
I mean, we all should have seen what was coming. Where there is smoke, there’s fire — and those two were fanning the flames from day one.
The main salon exuded opulence, from the high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and a stunning chandelier to the dark mahogany bar with sleek granite countertops. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view of the marina beyond, natural light flooding the room and warming my already slick neck. Rich, polished wood accents complemented the soft, creamy beige of the sitting area where the crew was now gathered — all of us squished together on one of the couches as we faced Captain Gary and waited for him to kick off our season.
I, of course, sat as far away from Finn as possible.
He was at the edge of the couch opposite me, his arm draped lazily over the armrest and one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. We’d all changed into our polos since arriving, each of us working diligently in our respective areas to get the boat ready for our first charter. But it didn’t matter that he no longer sported a posh button-up or that he’d broken a sweat getting the galley in order.
Even in a stupid red polo with a stained apron around his waist, he was hot.
I hated that fact as much as I hated that I noticed.
My brain still felt like it was short-circuiting at his proximity. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how the hell this had happened.
I was never supposed to see him again.
He was supposed to be in Ireland.
He was supposed to be running some stupid fancy restaurant.
He was supposed to be done with yachting.
He was supposed to be done withme.
I reminded myself — quickly, and with much emphasis — that hewasdone with me. Just because we’d somehow ended up on the same yacht in the Mediterranean didn’t mean anything had changed.
In fact, it likely only meant that the producers of this show were out for blood when it came to packing their season with drama.
I didn’t knowhowthe hell they knew about us, but judging by the way they’d had cameras trained on my face when he showed up, they weren’t oblivious. I wondered if they’d gone through our Instagrams, if they’d seen photos of us together two years ago —that sunset picture on the beach with his sunburned shoulders and my drunken grin; a crew night out where we were both dressed in all white, his fingers curled around my hip as he kissed my cheek; a quick selfie captured before dinner service, me in my blacks and him in his chef’s jacket, our tongues out and eyes crossed.
I swallowed, the memories scattering like dry leaves caught in the wind — impossible to catch, impossible to ignore.