Chapter 4
DOCKSIDE DIRTY THOUGHTS
MIA
The afternoon Mediterranean sun bakes a path through the salon's windows, highlighting every single green paint splatter that Captain Feathers has drip-dropped across Roarke's yacht—the West Wind’s— pristine white furniture.
There’s a crew, of course. But I don’t get them involved.
Nope. I take it upon myself to clean up the mess I allowed to be made.
On my hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water, I’m proving that I can handle one small crisis without requiring a full interior restoration.
So far, whether or not the luxury boat requires one remains to be seen.
"This is exactly why there are protocols," Roarke lectures from somewhere above me, his perfectly polished shoes appearing in my peripheral vision. "Proper containment procedures. Safety measures. Basic common sense."
I scrub harder at a particularly stubborn claw print. "Yes, because everyone knows parakeets are notorious for following ‘containment protocols.’”
"A responsible caregiver would have secured the bird before allowing it access to—"
"A responsible yacht owner would have invested in bird-proof furniture." I sit back on my heels, blowing hair out of my face. "Just saying."
He steps closer, and I can feel his disapproval radiating downward, much like his expensive cologne. "Miss Rossi, are you suggesting this is my fault?"
"I'm suggesting that maybe, just maybe, expecting a seven-year-old and her pet bird to maintain yacht-showroom standards is slightly unrealistic.
" I dip my sponge back in the bucket. "Children are messy.
Birds are beaked panic-demons. If you wanted pristine, you probably should have hired a museum curator, not a nanny. "
"I hired someone who claimed fifteen years of luxury hospitality experience."
"And you got someone with fifteen years of experience dealing with entitled clients who think money solves everything." I scrub another paint spot, fingers burning. "The difference is, children don't respond to being managed like business acquisitions."
I’ve taken it too far. I know I have.
Ricardo always said my mouth gets me in trouble. I expect this is no different.
I freeze, fully expecting Roarke West to have his crew throw me overboard.
But instead silence settles in the salon around us. It’s thick—heavy. Punctuated only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.
Waves I’ve spent my life loving…
Until now.
Focusing my attention back on the floor, I keep scrubbing.
Until I feel something beside me.
I glance up and see my new boss. My new, shiny, perfectly polished, not-a-single-dark-hair-out-of-place boss crouching down beside me, his long lean fingers reaching into the bucket a foot away.
I stare. “What are you doing?"
"Helping." He takes a spare cloth inside the soapy container.
“You’re…helping?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re going to clean?”
“Yes.” He stops, blue eyes lifting to meet mine. “Contrary to what you might think of me, I am familiar with the practice.”
My cheeks burn, gaze dropping as I continue scrubbing. “Huh.”
"Huh what?"
"Nothing. Just... I figured you'd call in a professional cleaning crew and charge me for it."
"I considered it." He works at a stubborn spot near the coffee table leg. "But then I realized Isla would never forgive me if I fired her new favorite person over abstract art."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Her favorite person?"
"Don't let it go to your head. Last month, her favorite person was the gelato vendor in Portofino."
He goes back to aggressively scrubbing. I join him.
Side by side, Roarke West and I clean, saying nothing. With the late afternoon light casting golden patterns across the salon floor, it’s almost peaceful.
This shared task.
And against my better judgment, I sneak glances at him.
Without the stern executive mask, he looks younger, more approachable. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and there's a small paint smudge on his jaw that he hasn't noticed.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture, scrubbing at a paw print shaped suspiciously like Italy.
"Depends on what it is."
"Isla’s parents. Where are they? It’s just—she never mentions her mom, and I want to make sure I’m not stepping on any emotional land mines.”
Roarke’s cloth stills.
His eyes drop to the floor he’s polishing. “Her mother…” His voice goes cool, distant. “Chose not to be involved. She decided raising a child didn’t fit with her lifestyle and signed over custody to Isla’s father.”
“She just… walked away?”
“She walked away.” There’s no emotion in his tone—so controlled it’s almost clinical—but the muscle ticking in his jaw says otherwise.
I hesitate. “And her dad?”
His gaze flickers to mine, and for a moment I’m not sure he’ll answer. “His name was Daniel.”
“Daniel,” I repeat, waiting.
“My brother.”
“Your…brother?”
He nods once, reluctantly, as if the act of talking requires muscles he forgot how to use. “Last year, there was a—”
A metallic crash from somewhere forward cuts him off, followed by Isla’s unmistakable giggle and an ecstatic squawk.
"COOKIES FOR CAPTAIN! COOKIES FOR EVERYONE!"
We both freeze, staring at each other in horror.
"Please tell me you secured the bird," Roarke says slowly.
"I thought you secured the bird."
Another crash, this one accompanied by what sounds like pots and pans hitting the floor.
"PRETTY BIRD CHEF! PRETTY BIRD GORDON RAMSAY!"
We scramble to our feet simultaneously, racing toward the galley.
I reach the doorway first, but Roarke is right behind me, and when I stop short at the sight of flour exploding across the galley like a snowstorm, he crashes into me.
His hands automatically go to my waist to steady us both, and suddenly I'm pressed against his chest, flour-dusted and breathing hard.
He smells like smoke, cotton, and sea salt, and his hands are warm and strong against my back.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
His gray-blue eyes darken as they meet mine, and I feel something electric pulse between us.
Something that has nothing to do with parakeet-induced chaos and everything to do with the way his gaze drops to my lips.
"PRETTY BIRD MAKES SOUP! FLOUR SOUP!"
The spell breaks.
Roarke steps back abruptly, his hands dropping from my waist like I've burned him.
"We should..." he clears his throat. "The bird."
"Right. The bird."
But as we move into the flour-bomb disaster zone that used to be a galley, I can still feel the warmth of his large hands on my waist, and the way my skin practically hummed being pressed up against his.
I close my eyes and count to three, as if it will chase both away.
As if this job wasn’t already complicated enough…