Forty, Flirty & Frenched (Forty and Flirty Billionaires #6)

Chapter 1

INTERVIEW CANDIDATE NUMBER HELL NO

ROARKE

"Please tell me you've found someone."

I pace the bridge of the West Wind—my flagship yacht, the centerpiece of the soon-to-launch luxury charter division of Westward Maritime—still pulling streaks of rainbow finger paint out of my hair hours after the investor meeting imploded in a haze of seven-year-old chaos and parakeet shrieking.

The West Wind was supposed to impress today.

Sleek. State-of-the-art.

Outfitted to the nines to showcase the pinnacle of Mediterranean charter experiences.

Instead, my seven-year-old niece Isla turned it into a finger-painted art installation mid-presentation.

And just like that, the most critical business meeting of my career drowned in glitter and tempera paint.

My executive assistant Claire sits in the navigator’s chair like she’s watching a slow-motion yacht crash. “Define ‘someone.’”

“Someone competent. Someone who doesn’t let a seven-year-old turn a fifty-million-dollar yacht into an acid trip on the high seas. Someone who understands that finger paints are not appropriate business collateral when pitching a charter fleet to a room full of European venture capitalists.”

From somewhere below deck, there’s a distinct squawk followed by an even more distinct child’s giggle.

“And someone who can control that feathered menace,” I add, glaring down through the staircase toward the main salon. “Because between Isla and Captain Feathers, I’ve officially lost control of the ship—and the narrative.”

“Good news and bad news,” Claire says, setting her tablet aside like she’s about to lower the boom. “The good news is: I found someone. She’s hired. Starts immediately.”

“Thank God. When can she—”

“The bad news is it’s Mia Rossi.”

I freeze. “Mia Rossi. As in Interview Candidate Number Seven Mia Rossi?”

“That’s the one.”

"The one who spent twenty minutes of her interview explaining everything wrong with wealthy people in general and me specifically?"

"She was very thorough in her critique, yes."

Another squawk drifts up from below, this one distinctly triumphant. "PRETTY BIRD! PRETTY BIRD WINS!"

"I swear that parrot is teaching Isla new ways to cause a ruckus,” I mutter. "How did I let myself get talked into bringing a bird on a yacht?"

"Because you can't say no to Isla when she uses the sad eyes," Claire reminds me. "Also, Captain Feathers is technically a parakeet."

“Screw the parakeet, Cee. Back to the Rossi woman.” I grab the printed interview transcripts from the chart table, flipping to the relevant section.

“She literally said—and I quote—'Mr. West represents everything wrong with entitled rich men who think money solves problems that require actual human connection and emotional intelligence. '"

“Now, hold on. I don’t remember her saying—“

I read more. “She also said I seem to have the emotional range of a cucumber.”

“She said ‘sea cucumber.’ That was a compliment…I’m sure.”

“Her exact words?” My jaw clenches. Unclenches. “‘Mr. West is the kind of man who thinks money is a substitute for genuine connection and probably tips based on how well someone flatters him.’”

“She also said you have very nice eyes. And that Isla is delightful.”

"Claire, she hated me. I hated her. Why would you hire her?"

"Because she's the only one who lasted more than five minutes with Isla during the practical interview.

" Claire consults her notes. "The other candidates lasted exactly four minutes, two minutes, thirty seconds, seven minutes, and one memorable candidate who made it negative three minutes because Isla hid in the galley before the woman even introduced herself. "

"And Rossi?"

"Spent two hours with Isla. They made friendship bracelets. Isla taught her the entire Hamilton soundtrack. They built a fort out of life preservers and had a tea party with the bridge equipment."

I clear my throat, knocking loose the knot inside it. "Isla enjoyed it?"

"She asked if 'Miss Mia' could be her new best friend.”

"Claire—"

"Before you panic, I explained the job was temporary. Just until you find permanent arrangements."

Through the bridge windows, I watch the Monaco harbor approach as Captain Martinez guides us toward our berth.

Another day, another port, another failed attempt at launching the charter division that was supposed to honor my brother's memory.

"There has to be another option," I mutter, scanning the remaining candidate files. "What about Number Three? The one with references from the British Royal Family?"

"Quit after Isla put bubble solution in her tea."

"Number Five? The Mary Poppins wannabe?"

"Isla convinced her that the yacht was haunted. She left during the séance."

I run a hand through my paint-streaked hair. "How is one seven-year-old defeating highly trained childcare professionals?"

Claire stands and moves to the window, watching our approach to the dock. "Skill. Determination. An inherited talent for chaos?"

"She gets that from her father," I mutter, then immediately feel guilty.

My brother Daniel had been impulsive, yes, but he'd also been the kind of man who could make anyone smile.

Unlike me.

My hand moves to my temple, fingers dragging over what I now realize is a still-drying splotch of glitter paint.

“Claire, I need this charter division to launch successfully in four weeks. I’ve spent a year preparing to pitch Westward Charters as the Mediterranean’s premier luxury yacht experience.

I cannot afford to implode over nanny logistics. ”

“I know. Which is why I signed her to a one-month contract. Just enough time to get through the investor roadshow, the Cannes soft launch, and the Club Nautique reception.”

The yacht shudders slightly as we make contact with the dock, Monaco's glittering lights reflecting off the Mediterranean. Another perfect afternoon in paradise, and all I want to do is figure out how to fire a nanny I haven't officially onboarded yet.

"Look," Claire turns back to me, "I know Rossi wasn't your first choice—"

"She wasn't my tenth choice."

"But she's qualified. Former chief stewardess with fifteen years' experience in luxury hospitality. Speaks four languages. Has a degree in child development. And most importantly, Isla adores her."

"What about the part where she thinks I'm a soulless corporate villain?"

"Maybe she'll change her mind once she gets to know you?" Claire's smile is entirely too innocent.

She turns toward the window, watching as Monaco’s old harbor comes into view.

This launch was supposed to be flawless—my chance to expand Westward Maritime into high-end private chartering.

To prove I could create something beyond shipping routes and cold logistics. Something inspired by my brother Daniel’s dream of bringing our family’s maritime legacy into something warmer.

Something relatable.

But instead of elegance and polish, I have a yacht covered in handprints, an escaped parakeet with a musical theater obsession, and a nanny with a vendetta.

“I want a trial period,” I snap. “If she even looks at me the wrong way, she’s gone.”

“She already signed the contract for the month of August. First week’s salary is already paid. Her suitcase is being delivered from the taxi as we speak.”

I jerk around. “She’s here? Now?”

Claire shrugs. “Said she’d be here by dockage. Should be boarding any minute.”

As if on cue, Captain Martinez’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Mr. West? We’ve got someone on the dock requesting permission to board. Says she’s the new nanny.”

I step to the bridge window.

There she is.

Mia Rossi.

Petite. Poised. Dark hair pulled into a dense ponytail.

One hand grips her suitcase handle, the other shading her eyes as she surveys the West Wind like she’s assessing the world’s most wasteful tax write-off.

Even from this distance, I can feel her judgment.

“Permission to board?” Martinez repeats.

I sigh. “Granted.”

Claire grins, already halfway down the stairs. “I’ll go introduce her to Captain Feathers. And the deck schedule. She’ll want to coordinate nap times with housekeeping.”

“Claire?”

“Yes, Mr. West?”

“You’re fired.”

“No, I’m not. You’re too deep in shit to fire me. Also, someone’s got to prep Mia for meeting the world’s grumpiest billionaire who’s currently covered in sparkles.”

She vanishes down the companionway, and I’m left alone on the bridge—surrounded by bedlam, covered in paint, and fully aware that the only person who’s made Isla smile in weeks thinks I’m a walking trust fund with control issues.

This is going to be a long month.