Chapter 2
CHAMPAGNE AND CATASTROPHES
MIA
The late afternoon Mediterranean sun glints off Monaco's harbor like scattered diamonds, and I'm standing on a dock wondering how my life became a cautionary tale about mixing business with pleasure.
Again.
"You're overthinking this," Julianna's voice crackles through my phone, tinged with that older-sister authority that's kept me out of trouble for forty-three years. "It's just a job, Mia."
"A job working for a man who probably thinks I'm some kind of anti-wealth revolutionary.” I adjust my grip on my single suitcase. "Did I mention his assistant said he’d be reading my interview transcripts after the interview was over?”
“Yikes. You mean the interview where you compared him to an ‘investment portfolio that grew legs and glared’?” My younger sister Bianca chimes in from the three-way call, and I can practically hear her grinning from her art studio in Nice.
"Because honestly, that might be your best pickup line yet. "
"This isn't a pickup, Bianca. This is employment. Professional, temporary employment that pays enough to keep me out of Jules's guest room. And out of my ex’s place, thank you very much.”
“Hey! My guest room is lovely," Julianna protests. "Though admittedly, it's getting crowded with all your emotional baggage."
A uniformed crew member approaches, clipboard in hand. "Miss Rossi? I'm here to escort you aboard."
I hold up a finger. "One second." Into the phone: "I have to go. The luxury yacht brigade is here to collect me."
"Just remember," Julianna says, "you're brilliant at this. You spent fifteen years making entitled rich people happy on boats. One grumpy billionaire and his niece should be easy."
"And if he's single and attractive," Bianca adds, "maybe consider that not all wealthy men are lying cheaters whose dicks deserve a sturdy blender.”
She doesn’t say his name.
She knows better by now.
Ricardo’s name causes nausea. Instantly.
“Thank you for the graphic visual, B.” I shift my suitcase from hand to hand. “But looking for a man—any man—is the last item on my long list of to-do’s.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss this. All I’m saying is sometimes the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."
“Thanks for the pep talk, guys.”
I end the call and follow the crew member up the gangway, trying not to gawk at the yacht's sleek lines and obvious expense.
Everything about West Wind screams money.
From the pristine teak decking to the crystal-clear windows that are worth more than my last car.
"Miss Rossi!" A familiar voice calls out as I reach the deck. Blonde and bubbly, Claire—shipping billionaire Roarke West's executive assistant—approaches with a welcoming smile. "So glad you could start immediately."
"Well, when someone offers triple the going rate for nanny services, it's hard to refuse." I set down my suitcase, taking in the yacht's impressive size. “Now, I have to ask—is the hazard pay included, or is that separate?"
Claire laughs. "Mr. West is currently...
debriefing from this afternoon's events.
He'll be with you shortly." She gestures toward an elegant spread laid out on the stern deck—fresh fruit, artisanal cheeses, champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
"Please, help yourself. The crew prepared a little welcome reception. "
"That's very thoughtful." My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since my nervous breakfast this morning.
"I'll just go let him know you've boarded.” Claire heads toward the bridge. "Make yourself comfortable!"
Alone on the deck, I survey the impressive spread.
After weeks of ramen noodles and grocery store wine, this looks like heaven.
I reach for a delicate pastry topped with what appears to be fig jam, trying not to drool at the sight of actual quality food.
The yacht chooses that moment to shift slightly in the harbor swell.
Stumbling forward, I catch myself against the table.
But not before the pastry smooshes directly into my crotch area, leaving a very obvious red stain across the front of my white pants.
"Perfect," I mutter, grabbing a napkin. "Nothing says 'professional' like jam crotch."
I reach for the seltzer water to help get out the stain, but instead, I knock over the nearby champagne bottle. And a wave of golden-colored alcohol washes down the front of my cream-colored blouse.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I knew there would be a seven-year-old on board. I didn’t think the ‘child’ in question would be me.
“Good…afternoon.”
I spin around to find a tall, broad-shouldered man watching me from the companionway, and even from this distance, he's devastatingly attractive.
Dark hair with silver at the temples. Gray-blue eyes that seem to catalog every detail.
Not to mention, the kind of bone structure that probably makes photographers weep with joy.
Oh God. Of all the people to walk in at this second…
Roarke West. My new boss.
And he's watching me drip champagne onto his pristine deck.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Rossi,” he says, stepping onto the deck. He extends his hand. “Your interview was… memorable, to say the least.”
“Mr. West.” I shake his hand before dabbing at my blouse. “I can explain—”
“Can you?” His gaze flicks from my sticky pants to the puddle of champagne. “Because from here, it looks like you’re auditioning for some avant-garde performance piece about childcare chaos.”
“Actually, I was trying to eat your thoughtful welcome spread without incident.”
“Ah.” He surveys the scene with infuriating calm. “And failing spectacularly.”
“At least I commit. I’m sure most people wait until day two before wrecking your yacht.”
“My yacht will survive. My question is whether you will.” He steps closer, the scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around me. “Tell me, Miss Rossi—do you intend to bring this…expertise…to caring for my niece?”
“Only if she’s particularly difficult.” My heart beats an unfamiliar rhythm in my chest. “Though based on our interview, stubborn streaks seem to be a family trait.”
For a split second, I think I see his mouth twitch.
Not a smile, exactly—more like his face considered it and then decided against it.
“Understood.” His tone stays clipped, but the engines hum to life, pulling us out of port. “I should warn you—we’ll be at sea for the next month. Along the Riviera.”
A month. With the Thundering God of Disapproval.
Awesome.
“Then I should warn you,” I reply, blotting at my shirt, “that I may not be the most coordinated person on board. But I’m damn good at my job. Your niece will be safe and cared for.”
He studies me. “Even if you can’t manage a pastry without incident?”
“Especially then. Children like adults who aren’t afraid to look ridiculous.”
“Well. You certainly have that qualification covered.”
The Monaco harbor grows smaller behind us, the French Riviera coastline spreading out in golden splendor as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon.
It's beautiful—romantic.
And completely wasted on this shit show of an introduction.
“Look, to be honest, I can’t make any promises about the yacht.
” I smirk, but he doesn’t smirk back. "But, again, I’m great with kids.
I have a degree in this. And as I’m sure you know, I was a chief steward aboard luxury charters for fifteen years, and I’ve had my share of taking care of special guests.
And their special children. Trust me, Mr. West. Your niece will be in great hands. ”
"She'd better be." His voice carries an undertone that makes me look at him more carefully. There's something protective, almost fierce, in his expression when he mentions Isla. "She's been through enough."
Before I can ask what he means, Claire reappears. "Mr. West? The satellite phone is for you. Something about rescheduling tomorrow's client call."
He nods, then looks back at me. "Welcome aboard, Miss Rossi.” Pausing, his stormy blue eyes narrow. “It’d be an absolute pleasure if you could manage not to sink us before Saint-Tropez."
He disappears below deck, leaving me alone with Claire and the growing realization that this month is going to be a lot more complicated than I anticipated.
"Your quarters are just this way," Claire says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to my disheveled state. "Isla's very excited to see you again.”
As I follow her below deck, champagne still dripping from my blouse and jam still decorating my pants, I make a mental note…
The less I see of Roarke West, the better.
But after the look he cast me before leaving, something tells me that's going to be easier said than done.