Chapter Eleven
CHARTER CONFESSIONAL
CLOSE QUARTERS
CAMERON DUNN: DECKHAND
PRODUCER
Charter two under your belt! How are you feeling?
CAMERON
Like a bloody pack mule after a week in the Highlands.
PRODUCER
Tell us about beach picnics. Are they common on yachts?
CAMERON
Aye, beach picnics are a right pain in the arse.
First, you’ve got to find a beach in the first place, which is a nightmare, because these guests all want something ‘exclusive’ — white sand, crystal-clear water, nae a soul in sight.
Then, you’ve got to haul every bit of furniture and food over like we’re setting up a five-star restaurant in the middle of the feckin’ jungle.
After that, serve them, cater to their every whim, break it all down again, and then drag it all back to the boat just in time to do more work.
Cameron shakes head.
CAMERON
It’s never fun for the crew. But if you pull it off right, it can mean a hefty tip.
PRODUCER
How do you think this one went?
CAMERON
It was about perfect, wudn’t it? The food was spot on, the beach was a stunner, and service was smooth as a fresh pint of Tennent’s Lager. Not much more you could ask for.
PRODUCER
Did the guests seem happy? And what did you think about them?
CAMERON
This was one of those charters you thank God for. The guests were sound — proper nice, easygoing, and up for a laugh. I had a blast with them on that beach, and you could see they were loving every second of it. Of course… they weren’t the only ones, were they?
Cameron smirks.
PRODUCER
What do you mean by that?
CAMERON
Oh, come on… I’m not the only one with eyes.
The beach picnic was going off without a hitch, which was both a relief and a small miracle.
The guests — a wealthy family from the Midwest celebrating the father’s sixtieth birthday — were easygoing, the kind of laidback rich that made for a drama-free charter.
They didn’t have any outrageous demands, there were no passive-aggressive complaints, and they seemed genuinely excited over the setup Cameron and I had put together.
White linen tablecloths flapped in the salty breeze, the crystal glassware catching the golden sunlight, and Finn’s spread of fresh seafood and gourmet sandwiches had been met with enthusiastic approval.
And for the first time since this charter kicked off, I had a break from Gisella.
Maybe that was why things were going so smoothly.
I pushed the thought away as I worked on clearing the table, surveying the guests where they now lounged near the shoreline.
John, the primary, was waist-deep in the water with his wife and son, all three of them laughing at something Cameron was saying from where he stood on the shore.
The rest of the family was sprawled out on the lounge chairs the guys had set up, sipping the light spritzer I’d whipped up and soaking in the late afternoon sun.
“Not bad for your first official beach picnic as chief stew.” Finn’s voice came from behind me, low and warm like the sunshine hitting my neck.
I turned to find him standing close, arms folded over his chest, a small smirk playing on his lips.
He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing forearms dusted with flour and a small streak of something — maybe olive oil?
— on his wrist. His apron was long discarded, leaving him in just his white polo and tailored navy shorts.
The sight of him like that made sparks flutter low in my belly.
He was relaxed, his job done for now, the guests fed and happy.
Food wasn’t just his job, it was his passion, his love language.
Up until now, I swore I felt something dark and weighted holding onto him. Maybe it was the death of his restaurant. He just seemed… lost. Half-whole, almost. But now, standing in the shade of the pop-up tent covering the leftover food, he looked like the old Finn.
The one I fell for years ago on a boat miles from here.
“Not bad at all,” I agreed, exhaling. “Though I can’t help but wonder if that’s because Gisella had nothing to do with it.”
I cringed internally as soon as I said the words.
The last thing I wanted was Finn to think I was some jealous ex, but my comment had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the fact that Gisella was supposed to be making this charter easier on me, and so far had done nothing but the opposite.
“Harsh,” he said, but it was with a laugh that made the stress of explaining myself float away. Gisella was his girlfriend, but maybe he could see past that and acknowledge that she wasn’t exactly an A+ student on this yacht.
“Honest,” I corrected.
Finn hummed in response, his smirk deepening.
I crossed my arms, mimicking his stance. “Still, with the way things have been going, I half-expected some kind of disaster. A tipped-over champagne bucket, a seagull stealing a sandwich, a rogue wave sweeping the whole table out to sea.”
“All things out of your control, even if they did happen.”
“As chief stew, it’s my job to be in control of everything.”
“You’re doing a great job, Ember.” Finn’s voice was quieter now, sincere. “Really. You should be proud.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the praise. For some reason, it meant more coming from Finn, just like I knew it would if it came from my father.
Because they knew me. They knew how hard I’d worked over the last several years, how much this chance meant to me, how far I was willing to go to make my dreams happen.
No one in the world knows you like I do.
I swallowed, muttering a thanks before I finished clearing the table. I ran out to check on the guests, refilling drink orders and double-checking on what time they wanted to head back to the boat. When they were content again, I joined Finn under the shade once more.
“They won’t stop talking about the food,” I told him, my smile widening when his cheeks flushed a little. “John is making jokes about offering you a job as head chef for the family.”
“Is he joking, or is he serious?”
“If it’s the latter, you’re going to break his heart. I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t be satisfied cooking for just one family.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the Midwest is where I’m meant to be. I feel like I could thrive in… where was it they’re from again?”
I blinked. “Illinois.”
“I’ve heard Chicago is great.”
“Southern Illinois.”
“I’m not sure what the difference is.”
I laughed a little as I dug my fingers into the muscle running from my neck to my shoulder, trying to work out the tension. “You’d figure it out real fast.”
“Here, let me.”
I didn’t have time to react before Finn reached out and pressed his hands to my shoulders, thumbs kneading into the muscle.
There was no time for me to be shocked at him offering, no chance for my body to buzz to life once he touched me.
One second, it was my hand massaging my neck, and the next, it was his.
I melted.
I was so tense, so sore, so fucking exhausted that just that minor touch from another human had me sighing.
My eyes fluttered shut for half a second, body going as limp as it could while still keeping me upright.
The stress of the last few days turned to liquid under his touch, rolling off me like a slow-trickling waterfall with each careful roll of his thumbs.
“Mmm,” I exhaled, my body leaning into him without my cue. “God, I forgot how good you are at this. Remember the first time you massaged my feet after that charter where the guests demanded an all-night dance party?”
I let my head drop back against the wall, groaning as Finn digs his thumbs into the arch of my left foot. “Fuck, Finn. That feels so good.”
He swallows, nostrils flaring, his eyes lifting to mine.
“I’d like to hear you say those words when we’re both wearing less clothing.”
“Dirty,” I tease with a smile.
“Like your feet.”
Then he tickles me as I squeal and laugh, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grasp. Soon, I stop trying. Soon, I pull him into me, instead — hands fisted in his shirt and tugging him in until he’s on top of me, until our laughs turn to kisses, until I feel him harden between my thighs.
I blinked out of the memory, peeking over my shoulder. I expected to find Finn smirking at the memory, too, but his gaze was focused on the back of my neck.
“This one is new,” he mused, thumb gliding over where I knew delicate black ink stretched over my skin.
It was a tiny northern lapwing bird.
The bird of Ireland.
My chest strained with the effort to breathe properly because I had no idea what to say. Finn was well aware that I used piercings and micro tattoos as a way to sort through or, sometimes, avoid pesky emotions. It was another thing about me I was sure my father didn’t love.
But I didn’t want to admit out loud what I knew Finn had just figured out.
That one was for him.
One of the guests let out a peal of high-pitched laughter as a wave soaked her up to her chest, and Finn and I both snapped our gazes to the sound.
That’s when we saw the camera duo that was sent to the beach with us.
Their lenses were pointed right at where we stood.
My stomach lurched, and Finn hastily removed his hands, quickly busying himself with cleaning the grill while I awkwardly cleared my throat and pulled my ponytail behind my shoulder again, as if it could hide the tattoo I’d nearly forgotten was there.
Needing to move, I pretended like there was still packing up to do, opening and closing coolers like an idiot.
When neither of us had anything left to fake it with, Finn sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know it’s not my job to do it, but… I want to apologize for Gisella. Safe to assume she hasn’t been the saving grace you expected when Leah went down.”
I was surprised by his acknowledgement of the situation, my eyebrows creeping up into my hairline as I folded my arms over my chest, eyes on the guests in the water.
I was also relieved that we were moving on from the tattoo, that my body was cooling a bit now that his hands were no longer on my shoulders.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Hopefully Leah will be good as new in the morning. I will admit… I was hoping for the version of Gisella that we had the first charter. Not sure what happened in between.”
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “She… doesn’t really take anything too seriously.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We shared a smile, the tension from before floating away on the soft breeze. I relaxed a little, enough so that I finally asked what I’d been wondering since that first crew meeting.
“How long have you been with her?”
Finn’s throat bobbed. “It’s pretty new. Just a few months.”
Even though I’d asked, the answer didn’t bring me any sort of relief. I stared out at the horizon, letting the sound of the waves fill the space between us, wondering how serious a few months could really be.
Then I remembered we’d only been together four months, and my stomach pitched more.
“So… why is she here? If she doesn’t take this seriously, I’m assuming that means she doesn’t really care to advance. What’s her end goal?”
Finn shrugged. “She loves to travel. The money’s good. She thought being on a show would be fun.”
“So she doesn’t really have any ambition?”
Finn’s expression flickered, his shoulders tensing slightly. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, sorry,” I backtracked, suddenly feeling like I’d stepped on a nerve. “I just… you have so much desire, so many dreams. I guess I’m a little surprised you’d be with someone who…”
Finn was watching me closely as the words died on my tongue, his jaw tightening.
“But I guess that’s kind of nice,” I added quickly, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Because I’m sure she supports your dreams. And if she’s not tied down, that means she can follow you wherever you want to go.”
The last words were quieter, the bitter truth of them like an ice pick to my chest.
She would follow him.
Like I didn’t.
A muscle in Finn’s jaw ticced. He was silent for a long moment before he blew out a slow breath. “Actually… Gisella helped me see that the restaurant was a mistake.”
My head snapped toward him, brows furrowing. “What?”
Finn didn’t meet my gaze.
I scoffed, shaking my head. “Please tell me that’s a joke…”
He still wouldn’t look at me, his body tight from the muscle straining his neck all the way down to where his feet were planted in the sand.
“Look, I don’t know what happened, but that restaurant wasn’t a mistake, Finn. It was your dream. I mean, it meant so much to you that you walked away from yachting.”
It meant so much that you walked away from me.
He finally looked at me then, his expression dark, something simmering beneath the surface. “You’re right. You don’t know what happened.”
The accusation in his voice turned me to stone.
“Because you weren’t there.”
My breath stalled in my throat.
The air between us was dry and hot, crackling with everything we had left unsaid for two years. And that betrayal I’d almost forgotten about seeped in like sludge, slowing my heart.
He was right. I didn’t go with him.
Because I didn’t know he would be going in a different direction until the night before we were set to leave.
And he was forgetting to mention a big piece of this puzzle: he didn’t come with me, either.
Now, he was back in yachting with another woman.
Which told me loud and clear that I had never been enough for him.
I let out a hollow laugh, my mouth falling open. “Right. Because I’m a woman, so it’s me who should drop everything to cater to whatever you want, right? Fuck my own aspirations?”
Finn blinked, like he’d been in a spell and my words had snapped him out of it. Regret shaded his gaze. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Save it,” I spat. “We’ve already had this fight, remember? No need to do it again.”
I turned before he could say another word, my pulse roaring in my ears as I grabbed the pitcher of spritzer and headed toward the guests, plastering a smile on my face.
Business as usual.
Even if everything inside me was still burning.