Chapter Nineteen Embrace the Chaos
Chapter Nineteen
Embrace the Chaos
Frankie
Our second evening on board, and I’m halfway through my first glass of wine, watching the sky melt into soft purples and pinks over the harbor, when I hear footsteps on the deck behind me. I assume it’s Charles, or maybe a member of the crew. But when I turn, I don’t see Charles.
I see Hayes.
I blink, convinced the wine is playing tricks on me.
But no, it’s definitely him, standing on the deck of this ridiculous yacht like he belongs here.
Which, of course, he does. He’s probably been sailing on superyachts since birth, while I only recently learned that they don’t have hatches to batten.
Hayes takes a slow glance around, his expression unreadable.
He looks irritatingly good—pressed linen shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his strong forearms, hair perfectly tousled like the sea breeze personally styled it for him.
Meanwhile, I’m barefoot, slightly tipsy, and still trying to comprehend why he’s here.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, setting my wine down before I accidentally spill it all over the very expensive teak deck.
Hayes’s eyes flick to me. “Nice to see you, too, Francesca.”
I cross my arms. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but why are you here?”
Charles, who has suddenly materialized beside me, answers for him. “I invited him.”
I snap my head toward Charles. “You what?”
Charles sighs like I’m being unreasonable. “Hayes was in Nice for business, and I thought, why not extend an invitation? I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”
I turn back to Hayes. “And you accepted?”
Hayes shrugs. “Free dinner.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re a billionaire.”
He smirks. “Doesn’t mean I turn down a good meal.”
I groan and rub my temples. “Of course not.”
Charles pats my shoulder in an infuriatingly paternal way. “Be nice, Frankie.” Then he turns to Hayes. “We’re having dinner on the aft deck. You’ll love it.”
Hayes nods like this is all perfectly normal, like we were all expecting him, and I’m the only one who finds this turn of events completely insane.
I exhale sharply, grab my wine, and take a long sip. It’s going to be a very long dinner.
Charles shows Hayes around, and together they geek out over some smart control panel. He must sense my mood, because he leans close and whispers near my ear, “Don’t worry, I’m not staying, I just came to see you off since I was in the area.”
He just happened to be in France? I don’t pry, but that seems unlikely. The truce we called in Hawaii seems a million miles ago, and all I feel now is that he’s checking up on me again—here to make sure I don’t screw up.
Captain Laurent emerges and shakes Hayes’s hand, and they exchange pleasantries before launching into a long conversation on the benefits of a twin-turbine engine vs. an inboard diesel.
I focus on my wine.
The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the marina as we settle in for dinner on the aft deck.
The table is set with flickering candles and polished silverware, the kind of setting that makes me feel like I should sit up straighter and pretend I know which wine pairs best with fish.
Hayes sits across from me, looking completely at ease, like dining on a yacht in the South of France is as routine as grabbing takeout. Charles, of course, is perfectly in his element. Meanwhile, I’m just hoping I don’t accidentally knock over a crystal glass or burp or something.
The chef, a tall, wiry Frenchman named Luc, steps onto the deck with a serious expression, clasping his hands together like he’s about to announce a royal decree.
“?e soir,” he begins, accent thick, “we start with seared scallops in saffron sauce, followed by wagyu steak sous vide with foie gras and truffles, and we finish with a dark chocolate tarte with raspberry coulis. Bon appétit.” Our plates are set before us, and he waltzes away.
One bite, and I let out a long moan.
“I don’t even know like half the words he just said, but one thing is for certain—I need to marry a chef.”
Charles smiles, watching me with a look of amusement.
“How are you settling into the boat?” Hayes asks, directing the question to me.
“Good, I guess. It’s just that they have all this staff here, what do they possibly need me for?”
He meets my eyes. “That staff takes care of the boat. You are there to take care of him.” He looks at his uncle.
Right.
Duh.
“Noted,” I say, nodding once and hoping my smile conveys a sense of confidence.
While we eat, the conversation flows easily—Charles steers discussions toward business, art, and a bunch of other things that make me wish I’d paid more attention in school.
We’ve talked a lot over the past few weeks, just the two of us, and I usually keep up pretty well. But tonight the topics—business, art, global whatever—start to blend into background noise.
Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m just distracted.
I poke at my food, half listening, until something shifts in the tone of Hayes’s voice. It’s quieter now, more thoughtful—like he’s letting something slip he didn’t mean to share.
“I just . . . I don’t know what to do. I hate feeling helpless,” he says, and I can hear the raw edge in his tone. He pushes his wineglass aside, his fingers gripping the stem.
I pause, staring at him. I lean forward a bit, unsure where this conversation is headed.
“About what?” Charles asks, frowning.
“It’s my assistant, Greta. She’s a single mom.”
I remember meeting Greta when I went in for my interview. She was sweet and tried her best to make me feel at ease.
“She was just diagnosed with leukemia.” His jaw tightens, and he pauses.
Wait. What’s this? There’s a vulnerable side to the one-dimensional Hayes?
He’s still talking, though, his brows knitted together in concern.
“I’ve already told her to take as much time off as she needs, but it’s hard.
She’s not great at accepting help. I’ve promised her she’ll always have her job, and I’m covering her medical bills.
” He pauses, cutting into his steak. His voice is steady, but his grip on the knife is a little tighter than necessary. “I just don’t know what else to do.”
I blink, feeling a rush of warmth. Hayes, the guy I’ve been annoyed with for weeks, the guy I’ve always pegged as self-absorbed, is plagued with concern, helplessness, and fear of not being able to do more. I’m caught off guard.
“That’s . . . a lot,” I say, almost stumbling over my words. “It’s a kind offer.”
“I don’t want her to go through this alone,” he interrupts, and there’s a fierceness in his voice that surprises me. “She’s been there for me, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. I just wish I could do more.”
Something in his voice tugs at me. It’s strange, seeing this side of him—the part that isn’t completely sure of himself. The part that isn’t an unshakable force.
His eyes meet mine, full of an unfamiliar vulnerability.
I stare at him for a beat, unsure of how to respond, because I wasn’t prepared for this side of him. This man who’s been so guarded, so reserved in everything we’ve talked about. Now, suddenly, I feel like I’m seeing the real person underneath.
“You know,” I say, setting down my fork, “for someone who acts like he has all the answers, you’re actually just as clueless as the rest of us.”
Hayes snorts. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
“A little.”
He shakes his head, but there’s something almost amused in his expression. Charles watches us like we’re an experiment he’s observing, sipping his wine in silence.
Then, just as the mood threatens to get too heavy, something very unfortunate happens.
Hayes reaches for his glass of water at the exact moment I shift my plate, and in a ridiculous chain reaction, the entire glass tips over—spilling straight into his lap.
For a beat, there’s silence.
Then Charles, in the most unhelpful way possible, says, “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
Hayes jerks back, shaking ice water off his linen pants. “Geez, Frankie.”
“I—oh my gosh,” I sputter, slapping a napkin against his thigh in pure panic. “I didn’t—”
“Stop helping,” Hayes groans, snatching the napkin from me and dabbing at himself.
Charles, completely unbothered, watches this unfold like it’s the best entertainment he’s had all week. “This is wonderful. I’m so glad I invited you, Hayes.”
And just like that, the whole night shifts. I start laughing—actual, genuine laughter—and before I know it, Charles joins in, and then, after a moment of reluctant defeat, Hayes lets out a deep chuckle too.
The three of us sit there, the tension from earlier dissolving into easy laughter, and for the first time all night, I don’t feel out of place on this ridiculous yacht.
I just feel . . . like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Which is probably crazy, but it’s the truth.