Chapter 9
CANNES YOU FEEL IT YET?
ROARKE
Four days after the gala disaster, the August sun beats down on the yacht's deck—the kind of heat that would make even experienced sailors question their life choices.
As for me, I should be reviewing investor materials or finalizing logistics for next week's launch.
Instead, I'm sitting cross-legged on the sun deck, holding a tiny keyboard while a seven-year-old and her delinquent parakeet attempt to teach me the musical scale.
"No, Uncle Roarke!" Isla sighs. Already, she’s far too young to sound this disappointed. "It's Do-Re-Mi, not Do-Re-Blah."
"BLAH BLAH BLAH!" Captain Feathers squawks, hopping from his perch to the keyboard and managing to hit three discordant notes simultaneously.
"See? Even Captain Feathers knows you're doing it wrong."
I look at the bird, who tilts his head and fixes me with one beady eye. "Are you ganging up on me?"
"UNCLE TONE DEAF! TONE DEAF!"
"That's it." I stand, brushing keyboard keys off my shorts. "I'm filing a complaint with your union representative."
"He doesn't have a union," Isla giggles. "But Mia says all artists need creative freedom."
At the mention of Mia—currently in Nice visiting her sisters for her one day off—my throat grows tight. Which is ridiculous, because her absence should be a relief.
I should be able to focus without constantly wondering what she's thinking. What she's wearing.
Whether she's remembering her beautiful thighs open for me as much as I am.
My phone buzzes with a group message from the guys.
CONNOR: Poker tonight at Club Nautique?
DONOVAN: I'm in. I’m warning you all now—I’ve been practicing
ZANDER: "Practicing" = losing money to your hotel staff?
PRESCOTT: Count me in. Connor, your lovely wife still helping with West's PR campaign?
I start to type a response about being busy, then delete it.
Type again. Delete again.
CONNOR: Roarke? You playing or what?
DONOVAN: He's probably too busy rehearsing show tunes
ZANDER: Saw the gala photos in Monaco Social. Nice plus-one, by the way
PRESCOTT: Very nice. If only you didn’t look like you're about to devour her in every pic
CONNOR: "Professional relationship" my ass
I stare at the phone in horror.
There are photos of the Champagne étoilée Investor Gala. Of course there are photos.
I saw the photographers. Except…it was hard to pay attention to anything but Mia.
ME: Can't make poker. Busy with launch prep.
DONOVAN: "Launch prep.” Meaning you’re avoiding questions about your mysterious nanny?
ZANDER: Who, according to Monaco Social, is "stunning" and "clearly smitten"
PRESCOTT: They also mentioned excellent chemistry. Almost like you two have been—
I don’t read the rest, silencing the phone and shoving it in my pocket. But the damage is done.
If there are photos in the social pages, it's only a matter of time before investors start asking questions about my "personal life" affecting my professional judgment.
"Uncle Roarke?" Isla appears at my elbow. "Are you okay? You look grumpy again."
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Just thinking about work."
"Mia says thinking too much about work makes your face get all wrinkly."
"Does she now?"
"She also says you should practice smiling more. Want me to help?"
Before I can answer, she's demonstrating an exaggerated grin that makes her look slightly unhinged.
"PRACTICE SMILING! PRACTICE SMILING!" Captain Feathers contributes.
"I think my smiling is adequate," I tell them both.
"That's what you said about your singing," Isla points out. "And we all know how that turned out."
Defeated by a seven-year-old and her feathered accomplice, I make my escape to the bridge, where Captain Martinez is reviewing weather reports.
"Afternoon, Mr. West. We're all set for the harbor tour tomorrow if you'd like to take her out."
I nod absently, then find myself moving toward the helm.
My hands settle on the wheel automatically, muscle memory from countless hours spent here in my teens, my twenties, my thirties.
A lifetime, really.
Daniel used to joke that I was born with salt water in my veins instead of blood.
And then a memory hits me like a rogue wave.
Daniel laughing as he adjusted the sails, completely fearless in the face of a sudden squall. "Come on, Roarke! Live a little! The best sailing happens when you stop trying to control everything!"
I'd told him to be more careful.
To think about safety protocols. To consider the risks.
Six weeks later, a freak storm caught his boat in the Med and he never came home.
"Mr. West?"
I turn to find Claire standing behind me, her hazel eyes expectant.
"Sorry. Just checking our position."
"How are you feeling about the launch?"
"Confident. The numbers are solid, the venues are booked, and the PR strategy is—" I stop. "Why are you asking?"
"Because you spent the morning learning show tunes from a parakeet instead of reviewing investor presentations."
"Point taken."
Claire steps closer, lowering her voice. "The nanny replacement interviews. Do you want me to move forward with scheduling them?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge.
I should say yes. Mia’s contract is only for the month.
And I should be lining up her replacement. Someone competent. Professional.
Forgettable.
Someone who won't make Isla laugh like that. Who won't challenge me or make me remember what it feels like to want something more than quarterly profits.
"Sir?"
"Hold off," I hear myself say. "Until after the launch. I don't want any disruptions before then."
Claire's smile is curious. "Of course. No disruptions."
As she leaves, I grip the wheel tighter and stare out at the Mediterranean horizon.
In a week and a half, the charter division will launch—hopefully successfully.
Mia will move on to whatever comes next. And I'll go back to my singularly focused, routine life.
The thought should be comforting.
Instead, it feels like drowning.