11. A Force To Be Reckoned With （Ryan） #2
“Oh,” was all she managed to say. Quickly regaining composure, she said, “How did you know about the clause?”
“Because it’s what I would have added if I had a daughter I was going to leave everything.”
“I never knew you wanted children,” she said.
“There’s a whole lot about me that nobody knows,” I said, taking her arm and tucking it in mine.
For a while, we just walked, the brisk wind on our faces and the crunchy gravel under our feet.
The pier was just up ahead, lit by the small lamps along its length.
I had the captain of the yacht shut down all the lights on board so Melissa would get one hell of a surprise at the very end.
“The clause states that if I become a billionaire on my own, like, by investing the money available to me in some venture, I get access to the entire trust fund,” Melissa explained after much deliberation.
I could tell that she had had an internal monologue with herself, where she’d decided to share this information after all.
“As I said earlier, you are a force to be reckoned with. I am sure that you will get there in your own time. I really mean it. In the short time I have known you, I have learned…how do I say it without getting all cotton-mouthed? You are your father’s daughter through and through.
A the same time, you are your own person.
Powerful and filled with potential. Personally, I am excited to see what you’ll do. ”
“You’re actually being quite genuine right now, aren’t you?” Melissa asked. We weren’t walking anymore. We just stood in front of each other at the end of the pier, her eyes looking for honesty in mine. I was looking for signs of any unsaid affection she felt toward me.
“I am. But I am also being assertive. Just for now, though. We’re not going to talk shop for the rest of the night. Is that okay?”
Melissa smiled and squeezed my hands, saying, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Then you’ll absolutely love this,” I said, lifting my hand up and snapping loudly.
The suddenness of it all caught her off-guard, making her take a big step back and gasp as all the lights on the dark yacht lit up. It looked like a shimmering castle floating atop the surface of the sea.
“Welcome,” I said, waving my arm at the three-hundred-foot-long mega-yacht bobbing in the water, “to S.S. Fiddler’s Green.”
“Holy fucking shit,” Melissa gasped, holding her hand above her mouth, her eyes wide as buttons, her face pulled back in incredulity
I sat with my tie loose at the bar, a glass of Glenfiddich in my hand, my ears perked for the thumps of Melissa’s feet as she ran from one end of the yacht to the other.
She had taken off her heels. Between the bartender and me, we had shared quite a few amused stares as we heard her run above deck, below on the floors with the bedrooms and the movie theater, and even at the last floor, which held a secret that I had been yearning to show her.
But seeing as how it was still early in the night, I had resigned myself to the bar and waited for her to tire herself out and come back up.
A five-course dinner was waiting for us on the deck, courtesy of a Michelin star chef who had flown from Madrid just for this occasion.
Having Pierre on the payroll meant you could ring him and have him come to New York whenever you needed him.
He made food better than all of the chefs I’d tried in the States, which was why he had the honor of being my one and only international chef extraordinaire.
The scent of the food he was cooking was perfuming the air, making my mouth wet. It was causing my stomach to grumble in anticipation of the gastronomic treat he had in store.
“Top you off, boss?” the bartender asked, holding the bottle near my glass.
“Just one more, Reeves. I still need my wits for what’s to come,” I said, tilting my glass.
“Right you are, boss,” he said and poured me a single, neat.
The glass had barely left my mouth and was still hovering over the oak top of the bar when Melissa charged in barefooted and came to a halt mere inches away with a smooth slide.
“Whoo!” she yelled, her face flushed red, her eyes maniacally excited, and her chest heaving up and down as she panted — all decorum thrown to the wind. “Freaking twenty bedrooms! What was this, Hugh Hefner’s personal yacht?”
“I had it custom built,” I said, passing her a water bottle I’d put out half an hour ago. “Speaking of Hugh, did you get a chance to see the grotto on the floor below?”
“Get out! There’s a grotto inside a yacht? Man, I was just running around counting rooms. And I’m so tired! But I’m so excited! I’ve never been on a yacht before,” she said.
“It shows,” I said, grinning and tipping my glass to her.
“Shut up,” she said, slapping me on the arm with her water bottle. She promptly took its lid off and drank it in one long gulp. “Tell me you didn’t run the entire length the first time you were on a yacht.”
“I was thirty-five. I didn’t have the knees or the back to run like you just did,” I said.
“Boo-hoo! Wah-wah!” Melissa mimicked, wiping her face with the back of her fists as she stuck her tongue out.
“What are you, six?” I laughed.
“What are you, six?” She mimicked.
Even the bartender couldn’t help but giggle.
“No, seriously, though. This was a blessing,” she said, sitting down next to me, facing the big neon mirror wall.
“The fun’s just begun,” I said, clinking my glass with hers.
“Holy hell, what is that smell?” Melissa sniffed and turned her head in every direction.
“I am almost envious of you right now,” I said, taking her arm and discovering that I had already done it five or six times tonight. It was no longer a question of having her arm around mine. “Tonight, the world changes for your taste buds. Your palette will never be the same again.”
“Ooh, entice me,” Melissa said, walking with me, still barefoot. For some reason, it wasn’t the put-off that I’d initially thought it would be. Hell, given how nimbly she was walking around, I was tempted to take off my shoes and walk around without clomping about.
“How about we both let Pierre entice us?” Having her run around below deck had given Pierre and his waitstaff the time they needed to set the table on the deck with plates, tabletop décor, candles, bottles of vintage wines, and all.
The man with the earnest smile and a singular mustache stood by the table, his sleeves folded to the elbows, a slight sweat on his forehead.
“Mademoiselle, monsieur,” he greeted as he pulled the seats for us.
“Melissa, Pierre. Pierre, Melissa,” I said.
“Enchante,” Pierre said, taking her hand and kissing it.
“I thought Pierre was from Madrid,” Melissa said, slowly sitting down.
“Pierre is from many places, miss,” Pierre said, referring to himself in the third person.
“Born in Italy, raised in France, and pursuing a career in the culinary crafts in Madrid. Pierre also loves spending the latter half of the year in Munich. Unless, that is, when Mr. Hellerman calls. Then Pierre comes running to New York.”
“Um. That sounds hectic, Pierre,” Melissa said, looking from Pierre to me, then back to Pierre, wondering if his constant third-person referencing was a result of her pissing him off.
“Pierre likes talking about himself,” I noted. “It’s one of the things that make Pierre, well, Pierre.”
“That’s because, young lady, Pierre is a brand. And tonight you will taste Pierre.”
“Er,” Melissa said, barely able to keep her face straight.
“The lady thinks I jest? I will transform her night with courses fit for the gods,” Pierre said, then bowed briefly as he walked towards the kitchen.
“Don’t worry; all geniuses are somewhat eccentric. That man owns five of the best restaurants in Europe. And his food…” Before I could get to the point, Pierre and his waitstaff came on the deck, with trolleys rolling in front of them.
Needless to say, the night took a welcome turn from there. With the fine flowing freely, our moods oscillated between amazed and amused as Pierre entertained us.
“Paired with arugula, radicchio, and fennel, this Italian crab salad is one of the dishes I am most famous for, and you will see why,” Pierre explained as a waiter served us both.
While having dinner, we soon realized that it was going to be difficult to hold a conversation while Pierre constantly demanded our attention.
He went on to present us with the shish taouk, mushroom and sage stuffed spatchcocks with truffle cream sauce, and for dessert a delectable cheesecake with strawberry sauce and the most mouth-watering treacle tart I’d ever eaten.
Tears ran down Melissa’s face as she finished the last bite of cheesecake and set her fork down. Seeing the tears alarmed both me and Pierre, who immediately stopped talking about how he had once served this same tart to Gordon Ramsey and made him sing praises.
“Why does the mademoiselle weep?” Pierre asked softly before I ever had a chance to pipe up.
“Oh, no, I’m not sad or anything,” Melissa said. “Well, I am somewhat sad at the sight of seeing all the glorious food disappear. I honestly haven’t tasted anything so good before.”
“Pierre is deeply moved by your emotion, miss. Tears are often the purest of feelings, unable to be put into words, so therefore they flow. I will take these tears as the highest compliment,” Pierre said, bowing.
He added, “Don’t be sad at the thought of scarcity.
Pierre has everything packed and will be sending it over to your house once this voyage ends. ”
“You are a godsend, Pierre,” Melissa said. He smiled politely as he poured her one last glass of wine.
“Better than the standard dinner and a movie?” I asked.
“Dude. Holy fuck. What was in that spatchcock thing? I swear I am high right now.”
“That’d be the dopamine running through your body. Pierre’s very traditional about how he makes his food. I doubt he mixed a dose of MDMA in our treacle tart. It’s just super good food, and our bodies are thanking us.”