Chapter Eight
CHARTER CONFESSIONAL
CLOSE QUARTERS
PALMER HUGHES: BOSUN
PRODUCER:
Are you happy with your deck team after this first charter? Feeling confident in a good season?
PALMER:
I’m feeling… cautiously optimistic. We had a good start, but I’ve got a green deckie, and his roommate likes to horse around more than work. Still, they got the job done, and I think with a little guidance, they’ll all make Captain proud.
PRODUCER:
And what about Gisella? You two hitting it off?
Palmer shifts, sips water.
PALMER:
Gisella is interesting. I haven’t quite figured her out yet. But like I said… I’m cautiously optimistic. At least, until someone gives me a reason not to be.
“All crew, all crew — meet me in the main salon for our first tip meeting.”
Captain Gary’s voice crackled over the radio on my hip as I stripped the bedding in one of the guest cabins, and I smiled a bit when I heard various hoots and hollers ringing out from around the boat. It was everyone’s favorite part of any charter.
We’d made it.
It was time to turn the boat, count our cash, and enjoy a night out.
I poured up tall glasses of champagne for everyone, delivering them to the main salon on a tray and letting Bernard hand them out. We all clinked our glasses together in a rowdy cheers! before kicking back on the couches, all our attention on Captain and the fat envelope in his hand.
He crossed an ankle over the opposite knee, slapping the envelope against his palm with a smirk. “Well, team, first charter’s in the books.”
A small round of cheers rippled through the crew, though we were all waiting for the real celebration — the number. We all got paid a salary, and we also got a bonus incentive for agreeing to be filmed for the show.
But the real money was in the tips.
Captain smiled at our antics, waiting until we calmed before he continued.
“Look, docking went smoothly, cabins were spotless, drinks flowed, and as you saw when the guests disembarked, they left happy. That’s what matters.
Now, we all know dinner service the first night wasn’t exactly textbook, but you lot turned it around.
The bacchanal was a smash hit — seriously, they didn’t stop talking about it.
And Theodora told me this was the most ‘high vibrational’ trip she’s ever had. ”
“Guess that means we’re all spiritually richer,” Eli said.
The crew laughed, but I barely heard it.
Because as soon as Captain mentioned dinner service, my gaze flicked to Finn.
He was already looking at me.
The sharp edges of the night we’d torn each other apart in the galley had dulled just slightly, softened by exhaustion and time.
There was something unspoken in his eyes — something close to regret, but not quite.
His lips pressed together, his jaw flexing, and then he gave me the smallest nod, like a peace offering.
And I smiled. Just a little.
Because the truth was, whatever disaster dinner had been, we’d found our rhythm again last night during the bacchanal.
I hadn’t expected the bacchanal to go as well as it did — not after the disaster that was our first dinner service. But somehow, between the last-minute scramble to get the gold togas steamed and the wine list reprinted, everything had clicked.
Even me and Finn.
Of course, we’d nearly killed each other before we got there.
It started just before service, when I was checking the place settings one last time on the sundeck and Max — the broody, aloof older brother of our primary guest — wandered over with a glass of red in hand.
He’d barely said ten words the entire charter, always lurking at the edge of the group like he regretted agreeing to come in the first place.
I figured he’d hole up in his cabin again until dinner was over.
But instead, he stopped next to me, looking uncharacteristically… amused.
“This table is like something out of a magazine,” he’d said, nodding to the elaborate Roman-inspired décor. “I imagine that’s your doing.”
I’d smiled, brushing imaginary crumbs off one of the chargers. “Part of it, yes, but it’s a team effort for sure. We aim to impress.”
He’d looked at me for a long moment, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, consider me impressed.”
And then, without warning, he’d lifted my hand and pressed a warm, slow kiss to the back of it.
The kiss itself meant nothing. He was tipsy.
Grateful, maybe. And judging by the way his gaze dropped just slightly to my lips before he turned and walked off toward the deck bar, I’d say the wine had made him bold.
My cheeks had flamed purely from the surprise of it, and maybe a little from the compliments.
What girl didn’t love to be doted on every now and then?
But the second I turned back toward the galley, ready to grab the amuse-bouches, I nearly collided with Finn.
Who had a tight jaw, pursed lips, and narrowed gaze aimed right at me.
It put me on the defensive before I even knew what I was being defensive about.
“What?” I’d snapped.
“Nothing,” he’d clipped right back, brushing past me.
Except it wasn’t nothing.
It was very much a something.
And that something came to a head ten minutes later when I popped into the galley to grab the first course, only to find Finn plating with slightly more aggression than usual.
“What’s the ETA on the beet salad?” I’d asked lightly, already bracing for another round of whatever this stupid fight was we had going between us.
He hadn’t answered right away — just wiped the edge of a plate and adjusted the microgreens with unnecessary force.
“Can I help with anything?” I’d tried again, softer this time.
“Are we serving all the guests?” he’d asked, still not looking at me. “Or just the ones who kiss your hand?”
Those words might as well have been the bell ringing.
I’d stared at him, stunned but ready to fight. “Excuse me?”
When Finn finally turned to face me, his expression was unreadable — not angry, not hurt, just… blank.
I couldn’t figure it out.
“Forget it,” he’d said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forget I said anything. I’m just— It’s been a long day.”
“No, say it,” I’d pushed. “You think I was being unprofessional.”
Strangely, it was like that accusation shocked him — which had me second-guessing that I was correct in the assumption.
But if he wasn’t judging my professionalism, then what the hell was his problem?
“I think,” he’d said, exhaling hard, “that you’re amazing at your job. And I think you know that. But I also think you’re completely oblivious to how people look at you when you’re in your element.”
I’d blinked, throat tightening, caught off guard by the way his voice dipped on the word “amazing.” But before I could respond, he’d closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.
“Okay. Okay. Let’s… it’s fine. I’m sorry. Let’s just work together on this, okay? We have one night to save this charter. Are you with me?”
I’d nodded slowly, my chest still tight, brain scrambling to catch up with wherever the hell he was. “Yes. I’m with you.”
And somehow, with those words and a silent agreement to push pause on our feud — we’d found our groove.
From that moment on, we moved in sync, passing plates and glances like we hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours circling each other like animals backed into a corner and ready to strike.
The guests were delighted. The food was phenomenal.
The wine flowed. The bacchanal was everything they’d hoped for — indulgent, lavish, a little ridiculous in the best way.
Even Max raised a toast to the crew before disappearing back to his cabin.
The guests went to bed full and happy, high on gluten-free truffle gnocchi and thousand-euro bottles of Chianti.
And me and Finn?
We didn’t say a word to each other once the last plate was cleared.
But I think we both knew — we’d done it.
We’d saved the damn charter.
No, we hadn’t been exactly friendly to each other, but it seemed we both had learned from the night before — even if we would never agree on who was to blame for the chaos.
The way he plated and adjusted based on my timing, the way I read his body language without him having to say a word… it had been seamless, electric.
Just like before.
We were good together in a galley. Always had been.
When we weren’t trying to choke each other, anyway.
And if we were going to make this season a success, we needed to find a way to keep that rhythm — without burning the whole damn boat down in the process.
I was still holding Finn’s gaze at the tip meeting, still lost in the weight of it, when Gisella leaned over and kissed his cheek.
It wasn’t possessive, wasn’t anything more than an affectionate, absentminded gesture. But it hit like a match striking dry kindling, setting off a fire in my chest before I could stop it.
I tore my gaze away, back to Cap, to the money, to anything that wasn’t Finn Pearson and his lingering looks and the infuriating way they still made my breath catch.
Gary smirked, lifting the envelope again. “Alright, speaking of being richer — let’s talk numbers.”
The entire crew leaned forward, collective breath held.
“Our first charter tip is… twenty-three-thousand euros.”
The room erupted.
Bernard threw his head back with a whoop, Eli smacked the table like he was trying to wake up the spirits of yachts past, and Gisella and Leah let out almost identical squeals before crushing each other in a hug.
I smiled, and again, my gaze caught Finn’s.
I didn’t let that one linger.
“Bloody good start,” Captain said over the chaos, lifting a hand for some semblance of order. “That comes out to about 2,180 US dollars each.”
More cheers, claps, and whistles rang out as Captain Gary stood to distribute the tips. Off camera, I knew he’d already given our engineers theirs.
Bernard waggled his brows as he accepted his share. “Anyone else feel the sudden urge to make bad decisions tonight?”
Eli clinked his champagne against Bernard’s. “Already ahead of you there, mate.”
Captain Gary rolled his eyes, but his grin said he expected nothing less. “Alright, take your cash, enjoy your night, and let’s make sure we’re not dragging too hard tomorrow. We’re turning the boat and getting ready for round two.”
With that, he left us with a salute and a pointed look to not show up hungover in the morning. The energy in the room was palpable — our first tip in hand, a successful charter behind us, and a night of celebration ahead.
And as I clutched my own cut, I found myself exhaling for the first time since we left the dock.
I needed the break tonight.
I needed to figure out how to make the next charter stronger.
More than anything — I needed a drink.