15. Hardtack
Chapter 15
Hardtack
Dante
“ W hat the fuck, Haley? Let me know when you’re going to bring someone into the galley.” I reach for my phone in my back pocket to turn the music off. I slap the paper in my hand back on the wall.
“I told you before I went upstairs that he might come back with me.”
I grit my teeth because I told her to leave the pretty boy upstairs and she knows I did.
“Don’t yell at her.” Pretty Boy is smitten with her too. Well, get in line. But I bet he’s used to moving to the front of the line, with his father’s money moving him there.
The atmosphere in the galley has an added tension now, more than just between me and Haley. There’s a vibe that resonates, likely the result of money and privilege entering our little world.
I slam my spatula down on the counter. “She is the chief stew. I’m a chef. That’s how we communicate. She yells at me, and I yell back.” I point to Haley.
Pretty Boy turns to her.
She cocks her head. “He’s kind of right. But I tend to be on the less yelling side. But chefs expect it.”
“Really?” Pretty Boy is stunned.
“She’s not lying to you. What do you want?” I rip the preference sheet off the wall. I can feel a mix of anger and curiosity bubble up inside me. Why does this guy, with all his money, even care about the minutiae of yacht etiquette? I’m stepping way out of bounds here and slam his paper down on the counter. From what everyone has told me, the guy has been really useful today, and I’m treating him like a normal wanker who rents a yacht for a week, not the son of the owner. I’m not sure why.
Pretty Boy reads down the sheet. “Who gave this to you?”
Haley steps in. “It’s from the preference sheet packet that was given to the captain.”
“This is what I told Candy I ate last year because she wanted me to go out to eat with her and her friends at the country club. They don’t do simple food at the club. I mean, they might if I asked. But I’m not an a-hole who orders things not on the menu.” This time it’s Pretty Boy slapping the counter. His statement surprises me. Despite his background, he seems to understand the world and its unwritten rules better than most.
“Good.” That’s all I can muster up. Because I’m the champion of never backing the fuck down.
“What did you make the crew for dinner?” he asks.
“Pasta Alfredo with scallops, garlic bread, and salad.”
“I’ll have that too.”
“Good.” I glare at him. I think I won this round, but I’m not sure.
“Fine. Whatever you have, I have. I’m not picky.” He crumples the paper into a ball and shoots it into the bin. He misses by a good six inches. “My gold is in swimming, not basketball.”
“I can tell. I’ll have your food out for you in twenty minutes.”
He glances out at the main salon and back at Haley. “I can eat with all of you tonight.”
It’s a statement. Not a request. Pretty Boy knows how to command a room without raising his voice. And I wait for the chief stew to shoot him down with her grace.
“We’d love to have you,” she says.
My mouth drops open.
“What time?” Pretty Boy smiles at her.
“When we’re getting ready, we don’t all eat together. But I imagine in an hour. Is that good with you, Dante?”
I glance back at Pretty Boy and then Haley. “Yes.”
I wait for him to make his way up the stairs.
“I know,” she says before I can get a word in. “I know. It’s not ideal, and no one wants to eat with the guests. We need downtime. But he’s been through a lot today. He’s helped us out. But most of all, we don’t say no to the owner or guests unless it’s a safety issue. And this clearly isn’t a safety issue. In fact, it makes dinner service easier for you.”
“I’m not plating things up fancy,” I growl.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She smiles at me.
“I’m not making him dessert.” I hate baking. With more than a passion. I can make a twelve-course tasting menu fit for kings. But my cake looks like a kindergartener slaughtered a store-bought cake with a butter knife. And I only wish I was exaggerating.
“He didn’t ask for one, and he doesn’t look like he eats them too often.” Haley’s back with a reasonable response and that stunning smile. She knows how to diffuse every tense situation, making it all feel so normal. It pisses me off because I want to complain about something else. “I’m free if you would like me to wash some of your pots.” She gives a little shrug, and I just wish it wasn’t only the pots she wanted to wash.
“You know, Haley, you’re not a typical stew.” I nod at her like I’ve said something earth-shattering. The girl has to know how special she is. Few chief stews who are running a boat that needs ten stewardesses would take the time to do something that is a chef’s job. She’s running water into the big kitchen sink, filling it to wash without me asking her to.
“Oh really? Why is that?” Her shoulders go up in an adorable shrug.
“Because you’re so damn agreeable.” Another fact she has to already know.
“Well, good. Because I like it when I get along with my chef.” She’s got the big pasta pot in the water and is squirting it down.
“As well as you get along with the captain?”
Water sprays over my shoes. She turned to look at me, and the sprayer came with her hand when she did. It’s dripping over the counter and puddling around my feet.
“Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.” Haley’s running for the butler’s pantry on the other side of the kitchen, then she’s mopping the floor around my feet.
Unlike the rest of the crew who go barefoot, I wear plastic clogs onboard. Mine don’t have ventilation holes like theirs for safety in the galley―can’t risk burning my feet while cooking over hot stoves. The clogs let me focus on the job instead of having unprotected feet around scalding equipment.
I kick them off. And the next thing I know, she’s drying my clogs with a clean rag. Her on the floor looking up at me with soulful eyes... Fuck me. I’m getting hard in my chef pants. Luckily, they’re loose.
“It’s fine, Haley, you don’t have to dry my feet.” But when she sits up on her knees and wipes the water off the cabinets, her face is inches away from my growing cock.
She sucks her lips in.
I’m blessed in the sausage area. Well, packing, as they say. And I could be a gentleman and step back. But I don’t. And now I really want to know how she’s getting along with the captain.
“Why did you say that?”
“Say what?” I give her a wink. A wink that would send her to my cabin door tonight if she wasn’t already entangled with someone else. But chefs and chief stews are never a good mix, I remind myself.
I t’s four a.m. and I pull myself out of my bunk, feeling the effects of yesterday’s long shift. I’ve managed to get a solo room, which feels like a luxury aboard this ship, since we’re missing so many stews. Another one since the captain sent Brianna packing on a jet plane. Brianna, with her too-loud laugh and endless chatter.
I have muffins to bake, golden-brown tops waiting to emerge from the oven, pastry dough to roll out and a bunch of other shit. I’m not a breakfast fan. I’m not a fan of baking, I even say I’m terrible at it. But I’m good at it. I just fucking hate it and try to do it as little as possible. Baking takes way more time and effort than any guest understands. No one remembers the baked goods, and they don’t bring in a bigger tip. It’s the glamorous dinners and sunlit lunches that get all the praise. I’d much rather have them eat a croissant, flaky and buttery, and have a cup of coffee. But no. It’s three lobster egg benny’s and two egg white omelets, this one with cheese, that one with no tomatoes. And the timing of everything is atrocious. Trying to get everything perfect, down to the last sprinkle of parsley, is a dance I’m constantly perfecting.
So I’m in a rip-roaring mood when I get to the galley. The owner, Pretty Boy’s dad, is going to be on board at eight. But Easton says that when Candy the fiancée is in play, eight means ten. Late starts are a chef’s worst nightmare. Which is another thing I hate. I can understand why last year’s chef didn’t come back. This isn’t a restaurant. I don’t have a team of cooks to cook your meal over if you don’t show up on time. Or an unlimited supply of ingredients. Hello, we’re in the middle of the ocean―there’s no chance for a quick run to the store. So no, I’m not a fan of guests showing up late.
Somewhere around six, Haley’s up, her hair pulled back in a tight pony. The early light catches the glint of her eyes. She’s wearing her white uniform for our official greeting of the owner. And she looks so damn perfect I want to rub a chocolate scone over her, just to break that pristine image.
“Good morning,” she sings, as in actual notes. And it’s infuriatingly good.
“Wow, you have a voice.”
“I like to sing, but not songs. And not in front of people. But thanks. What can I do to help?”
I guess I don’t count as people. Interesting . I’ll have to do something about that.
I give her a smirk and whisk my sauce some more. The aroma fills the air, a teasing hint of spices and cream. “I’ve got it under control. Wait, taste this.” I dip a teaspoon into the pot. “What do you think?”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” She licks the back end of the spoon and I’m totally going to hell like my Catholic grandma always told me I would. Because I knew the sauce was fantastic; I just wanted to watch her lick the spoon.
“All crew, all crew. Meet on the back deck for the official welcome in five minutes,” the captain says over the radio.
“Looks like Easton was wrong. They’re early.”
“Are you ready to meet them?” Haley’s face scrunches up in question, her eyes searching mine for any sign of apprehension.
I’ve got this. I’ve always got this. Owners love me. They’re in awe of my food because it’s absolutely perfect. I could have my own restaurant, but why would I want to? Being a yacht chef, I take the contracts I want and spend the rest of my time on beaches around the world, eating and strolling my way through Europe and Asia between jobs. My life is perfect. Who wouldn’t want to be me? One picky owner―that’s nothing.
“Everyone’s talking Candy up like she’s some sort of terror,” I say. “I should be fine with her. Her food preference sheet reads like a dream.”
On the back deck, we’re all lined up ready to receive the owners. Easton isn’t here. Captain straightens the lapels of a kid from Engineering. The morning sun makes his brass buttons shine. I’ve met him, but I don’t remember his name.
“Make sure you get your shirt to the laundry room so it’s pressed next time,” the captain tells the kid. Then he strolls to the end of the line to be the first to greet the owner.