Chapter 6
WHEN THE YACHT’S ROCKIN’…
MIA
The morning after kissing my boss dawns with the kind of perfect Cannes sunshine that makes everything look like a movie set.
Unfortunately, my life feels more like a disaster film than anything else.
The August weather outside is warm, but it’s nothing compared to the Hell I’m experiencing inside my room on the West Wind.
I pace the length of my cabin, and clutch my phone to my ear as my sisters conduct their weekly interrogation disguised as a check-in call.
"So let me understand this correctly," Julianna's voice carries that particular tone that means I'm about to get the practical older sister lecture. "You kissed your employer. On his yacht. While caring for his niece."
"It wasn't planned, Jules.” I stop in front of my tiny porthole, looking out at the world. "It just... happened."
"Oh, it just happened," Bianca chimes in with obvious delight. "Like accidentally ordering dessert or accidentally buying shoes. Except this was accidentally kissing a billionaire."
“Thanks, B. That’s really very helpful to the conversation.”
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to live vicariously. Was there tongue?"
"Bianca.”
"That's a yes," she sing-songs. "Our wayward sister is finally moving on from Chef Disaster."
The mention of Ricardo makes my stomach clench. "This is exactly like Ricardo. I'm making the same mistake again—getting involved with someone I work for, someone who holds all the power."
"Is it though?" Julianna's voice gentles. "Because from what you've told us, this Roarke actually seems to care about your opinion. Ricardo barely acknowledged you existed outside the bedroom."
Blowing out a breath, I try not to let the comment sink in too hard.
Truthfully? I’d never been one for long-term commitment. Or marriage.
For most of my life, I’ve too been busy serving champagne on other people’s honeymoons to ever have my own.
Ricardo didn’t seem to mind, and I used to think that was perfect.
It wasn’t.
But this thing with Roarke…
I flop onto my narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling. "Jules, I'm forty-three years old. I'm too old for workplace romance disasters and too old to pretend they end in fairy tales and gumdrop dreams.”
"You're also too old to be living in your ex's apartment in Sorrento," Bianca points out. "Isn't that why you took this job? To get enough money for your own place?"
She's right.
After Ricardo's affair with the food blogger client from the yacht charter we’d both worked on, I'd been stuck crashing in the apartment we'd shared, too broke to afford the deposit on something new.
This job was supposed to be my ticket to independence, not another complicated entanglement.
"Besides," Julianna adds, "Mamma and Papa would have loved this. Their little sea sprite finally back on the Mediterranean, falling for someone who actually appreciates her."
My throat tightens at the mention of our parents.
They'd died when I was sixteen, their dream of sailing around the world cut short by a drunk driver in Naples.
But they'd given us fifteen years of homeschooling on various boats, showing us that life could be an adventure instead of an itinerary.
"I'm not falling for anyone," I lie.
"Sure you're not," Bianca laughs. "And I'm not currently painting a portrait of the hot guy from the marina café."
A knock on my cabin door saves me from further interrogation. "I have to go. Roarke's grandmother is taking us to lunch."
"His grandmother?" Julianna perks up. "That's serious girlfriend territory, Mia."
"It's not serious anything. It's lunch."
But as I hang up and open the door to find Roarke waiting in the corridor, looking devastatingly handsome in linen pants and a blue shirt that matches his eyes, I'm not sure I believe my own words.
Three hours later, I'm sitting in a charming bistro overlooking Cannes harbor, completely enchanted by Mémé Ada, who's regaling us with stories about Roarke's childhood while Isla feeds Captain Feathers pieces of her croissant.
"He was always so serious, this one," Ada says, patting Roarke's hand affectionately. "Even as a little boy, making lists and organizing his brother's toys by color."
"His brother?" I ask, glancing at Roarke curiously.
Ada's expression grows wistful. "Daniel was the opposite. All laughter and chaos, like our little Isla here." She reaches over to squeeze Isla's hand. "He would have loved seeing you so happy, ma petite."
Something passes over Roarke's face, a shadow that makes my chest tighten.
"Daniel sounds wonderful," I say carefully, sensing delicate ground.
"He was Isla's papa," Ada says gently. “Roarke’s younger brother. My grandson. We lost him in a sailing accident last year."
The words suck all the air from my lungs.
I look at Roarke, seeing the careful mask he wears, understanding now why he needs such control, such order.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I didn't know."
Roarke's jaw tightens. “The man truly was fearless.” He glances at Isla who’s too busy cooing at Captain Feathers. “She’s all him and none of me, that’s for sure.”
"Nonsense!" Ada says firmly. "You’re the best parts of Isla. The parts with stability. Love. Protection. And look what Daniel's fearlessness gave us." She smiles at Isla. "Sometimes the best gifts come from taking risks, but sometimes they come from the courage to stay and fight."
As the afternoon fades into evening, Ada announces she's taking Isla and Captain Feathers back to her villa for a sleepover, despite Roarke's protests about propriety and schedules.
"Pah!" she waves him off. "The child needs grandmotherly spoiling, and you two need to stop looking at each other like teenagers afraid to hold hands."
Before either of us can protest, she's swept Isla away, leaving us standing on the cobblestone street like we've been marooned.
"So," I say, suddenly nervous. "That was subtle."
"About as subtle as Captain Feathers in a library." Roarke runs a hand through his hair. "We could go back to the yacht, or..."
"Or we could walk.” I nod toward the promenade. "It's a beautiful evening."
To my utter shock, Roarke agrees.
We stroll in silence for a few moments, the Croisette lit with soft golden lamplight, the last sliver of sun dipping below the horizon and setting the Mediterranean on fire.
The sea air smells like citrus and salt, and the buzz of Cannes at twilight surrounds us.
Couples laughing over wine. The clink of glasses.
The echo of a saxophone from somewhere near the marina.
Just as I start to think we’re heading back to the yacht, Roarke slows in front of a small, tucked-away wine bar carved into an old stone building draped in bougainvillea.
“La Cave du Nord,” the hand-painted sign reads in faded gold script.
The place is dimly lit and quiet, the interior glowing with amber light that spills from wide arched windows onto the narrow terrace lined with a handful of bistro tables.
Roarke glances at the entrance, then at me. “You hungry?”
“Starving. I—You know this place?”
His mouth quirks. “Jean-Pierre and Sylvie—the owners—were friends of my brother’s. We used to come here after long sails. Daniel would flirt with Sylvie and charm free bottles out of her until she chased us off with a dishtowel.”
The softness in his voice wraps around me.
This isn’t the Roarke West I first met.
This man is all memory and melancholy and quiet reverence.
As we step inside, a silver-haired woman behind the counter looks up—and lights up.
“Roarke West!” she exclaims, coming around the bar with open arms. “Mon Dieu, it’s been too long!”
He lets her pull him into a hug. “Hi, Sylvie.”
“You still frown too much,” she scolds affectionately. “But at least you brought someone beautiful this time.”
He glances at me. “This is Mia.”
“Ah,” Sylvie says, looking me over with a warm smile. “Bienvenue, Mia. Come, I’ll open the terrace for you.”
Within minutes, we’re led up a spiral staircase to the closed upper patio, half-hidden behind flowering vines.
Strings of fairy lights flicker overhead, and below us, the harbor sparkles like a blanket of stars scattered across dark water.
It’s quiet. Secluded.
Perfect.
“I hope this is okay,” Roarke says, pulling out my chair like the damn gentleman I’m afraid he might be.
“This is… incredible.”
We sit, sipping the wine Sylvie insisted we try—an earthy Bandol rosé that tastes like strawberries and secrets.
He tells me more about Daniel. I tell him more about growing up on boats, homeschooled by hippie parents who thought geography should be learned by anchor and tide.
“Sounds like freedom,” he murmurs.
“Sometimes it was. Sometimes it was chaos.” I take another sip. “But it always felt like love.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks again, his voice low. “That’s what I want for Isla. I just… don’t always know how.”
“You’re doing better than you think. She adores you.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and I swear the whole world hushes.
“She adores you,” he says, quiet but certain. “And I’m starting to see why.”
I don’t breathe for a second.
Then I lean in. And so does he.
The kiss starts soft.
But there’s nothing soft about what follows.
His mouth devours mine with a hunger that’s been building for weeks, and suddenly we’re on our feet, hands in each other’s hair, against each other’s bodies, until the tension snaps and he pulls back, breathless.
“Come here,” he growls, taking my hand and leading me toward the far end of the terrace, where a long, cushioned bench sits in shadow beneath the vines.
Before I can blink, he’s lifting me, setting me down gently, his mouth already on my neck.
“Roarke—” I gasp, head tilting back as he kisses a path from my jaw to my collarbone.
“Shh.” His fingers trail down my thighs, pushing up the hem of my dress. “Let me take care of you.”
He sinks to his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like worship—and spreads me open with careful hands.
I gasp as the night air brushes against my bare skin.
“Oh my God…”
But then his mouth is on me and I forget how to speak entirely.
He starts slow—deliberate. Teasing. His tongue moves—circling, stroking, savoring, like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s learning what undoes me just to do it again.
“Fuck, Mia,” he murmurs against me, voice low and gritty. “You taste like summer.”
I moan, hips arching into him. My fingers curl into his thick hair, fastening me to the only thing keeping me from flying apart.
He licks and sucks, groans deep when I moan his name, and when he slides two fingers inside me, curving just right, I come apart like a wave crashing against the Riviera cliffs.
Hard. Loud. Shaking with the force of it.
Stars blur above me. My vision goes white.
He holds me through it—his hands strong, his mouth soft against my thigh, kissing me gently as I catch my breath.
When I open my eyes, he’s looking up at me like I’ve undone him, too.
“We shouldn’t have—“ I stop. “That was definitely—“
“The best thing I’ve ever done,” he says, climbing up beside me, kissing the corner of my mouth.
And for the first time in years—and for the first time since Ricardo's betrayal—I let myself believe that I’m more than just the help.
That, maybe…I belong right here.
In this moment.
With him.