Chapter 11 The Longest Yacht Corridor Known to Man
THE LONGEST YACHT CORRIDOR KNOWN TO MAN
ROARKE
The morning before the Cannes soft launch of WestWard Maritime’s luxury charter division is kind of perfect.
Clear skies. Calm seas.
Sunlight spilling over the marina like someone just polished the C?te d’Azur.
Everything’s ready.
Venue booked. Investors confirmed. Presentations triple-backed-up because Claire believes paranoia is a virtue.
Everything except the one thing I actually care about.
Mia.
She still isn’t back.
“Family emergency,” Claire said a few days ago, sliding my itinerary across the desk. And then, in the cruelest twist of fate, she arranged temporary childcare coverage.
Which turned out to be my ninety-two-year-old grandmother.
Grand-mère is currently in the salon attempting to french-braid Isla’s hair while scolding both my breakfast habits and my life choices.
“Café and croissants again?” she demands, fingers weaving expertly. “You eat like a tourist. Where are the eggs? The fresh bread? The fruit from the market?”
“When you were my age, you were running a hotel kitchen and terrorizing line cooks,” I remind her.
“Exactamente! I had passion. Purpose. You? Meetings.”
“BORING MEETINGS!” Captain Feathers caws from his perch.
“Vois? Even the bird knows,” Grand-mère says, smug.
I check my phone for the fifteenth time. Still nothing from Mia.
“Uncle Roarke,” Isla asks, keeping her head still, “when’s Mia coming back? Captain Feathers keeps asking for her.”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“But she’s coming to the big party tomorrow, right? She promised to teach me how to curtsy for your important friends.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t think she’ll make it to the launch.”
Grand-mère freezes mid-braid. “What do you mean?”
“She’s…dealing with family matters in Nice.”
“Family matters,” she scoffs. “What could be more important than being here?”
And there it is—the question I’ve been ducking like a rookie sailor in a hailstorm.
Why would she stay here—with me—after the way I’ve been?
Hot. Cold. Back. Forth.
Close enough to touch. And far enough to keep her wondering.
“Claire,” I bark into the intercom, “my office. Now.”
Five minutes later, she’s standing there with her tablet, looking like she’s been waiting for this shoe to drop.
“Where exactly is Mia?”
“Nice. Still.”
“And the family emergency?”
Her pause says it all. “She asked me not to share details.”
“Is she coming back at all?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t—or won’t?”
She folds her arms. “Both.”
The answer lands like a grenade to the chest. And maybe that’s because I already know it’s true.
If I were her, I wouldn’t come back either.
Not after the way I’ve been pushing her away.
I’m halfway through another frustrated rake of my hair when the words come out. “Have Captain Martinez and crew prep the speedboat. I’m going to Nice.”
Claire blinks. “Sir, the launch is tomorrow—”
“You can handle it.”
“What if the investors—”
“Tell them I’m on a personal recruitment mission.”
“You haven’t been at the helm since—”
Since Daniel.
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.
For once, the thought doesn’t freeze me—it focuses me.
“Daniel used to say fear’s just proof the thing matters.” I steady my voice, feel the truth of it settle in my chest. “And this matters, Cee.” I meet Claire’s eyes. “Have the boat ready in thirty minutes.”
An hour later, I’m gripping the wheel of the speedboat, the French coastline streaking past like a watercolored postcard.
Salt air stings my skin, the hum of the engine in my bones.
For the first time in years, I’m not thinking about the accident.
I’m thinking about the woman who turned my orderly life into something chaotic, messy—and better.
By the time I dock in Nice and hail a cab, my hands have stopped shaking.
Her sister Bianca’s street is narrow, sun-warmed, with pastel buildings and window boxes spilling with geraniums. I take the stairs to the third floor two at a time and knock.
The woman who answers has a sharp bob, sharper eyes.
“You must be Julianna,” I say.
“And you must be the man my sister pretends not to check her phone for.” She steps aside. “She’s in the living room. Packing.”
The apartment smells faintly of burned garlic, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains over half-packed boxes.
And then—her.
Cross-legged on the floor. Dark hair in a messy knot. Wearing worn jeans and a striped tee that’s slipping off one shoulder.
Her bare feet are tucked under her, toes painted that deep red I remember from Cannes.
A streak of packing tape decorates her left cheek.
She’s rumpled. And still manages to knock the air out of my lungs.
Granted, I’ve seen her polished and dolled up.
But this?
This is Mia unguarded—and, holy Hell, I want her so badly my hands curl into fists just to keep from crossing the room.
She looks up, those soft, almond brown eyes widening in my direction.
“Roarke? What—what are you doing here?”
“I came to bring you home.”
Her brows knit together. “Home?”
“The yacht. With me. Isla. Captain Feathers. That’s your home now—if you want it.”
Her laugh is soft, disbelieving. “You can’t just—”
“I can. And I am.” I step closer. “I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.”
She crosses her arms. “Which things?”
Hell, all of them, I want to say.
Instead, I say the one thing I’ve never wanted to admit. The one thing Daniel has never been.
That I’ve always been.
I inhale. “Mia, trust me when I tell you that I was…” My teeth grind in my mouth. “Scared. Fucking terrified, actually. Of way too many damn things. Scared of being unprofessional. Of wanting you too much. Of losing control.”
She rises to her feet, gaze lowered. “And now?”
“Now I’m scared of what happens if I let you go.
” I take her hands, forcing her to look at me.
“I’m crazy about you, Mia Rossi. Absolutely gone.
I love that you make Isla laugh. That you made my grandmother break her pasta-for-one rule.
That you taught a parakeet to tango. You make me want to take risks again. ”
Her eyes shine. “Roarke, I’m crazy about you too.” She releases my hold on her. “But I can't go back to being just the nanny who you sleep with when it’s convenient."
“You’re not a convenience. Outside of my family, Mia Rossi,” I scoff, my head shaking, “you…are the most inconvenient, impossible, irreplaceable thing in my life. And I’ve never wanted anything more.”
"What are you saying?"
“I’m saying I want us—both of us—to have something a hell of a lot more permanent.”
“Like?”
“Like a promotion.” I slide my hands along her jaw, tilting her face up to mine.
“New titles. For both of us. I’m thinking ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend.’” My mouth curves.
“Comes with a full benefits package—breakfast in bed, parakeet collision insurance.” My voice drops, heat threading through it.
“And unlimited paid time off. Preferably spent in my bed. With me.”
Her laugh catches on a tear. “That might be the strangest job description I’ve ever heard.”
“I can sweeten the offer, if you’d like. Unlimited wine nights. Occasional meddling grandmother visits. And a CEO on board who will spend every damn day making sure you know you’re essential.”
She bites her lip, like she’s weighing it. “Do I get medical?”
“Only if you count me carrying you to bed when you’re tired.”
“Vacation days?”
“Mandatory. Preferably somewhere with fewer birds.”
Her smile tilts sly. “And what about the contract?”
“Contract?”
She nods, clearly enjoying herself. “I called Claire a few days ago to confirm my revised terms. I negotiated a little hazard pay for parakeet-related injuries, two personal days per month for gelato emergencies, and an ironclad clause stating that my employer will not avoid me when things get complicated.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Claire agreed to that?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘About damn time.’ Why do you think I was packing?” She peers around at the boxes. “All this is coming on the yacht.”
“Ah. Of course. But on one condition,” I say, pulling her closer. “Your new title goes on all official documents: Chief Executive of My Heart.”
Her laugh is the exact sound I’ve been missing for days. “That’s ridiculous.”
“And accurate.”
She grins, tears and mischief all tangled together. “Fine. I accept the position.”
She kisses me—warm. Deep.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine. “Kinda feels like I’m your boss now, West.”
I grin, mentally finalizing the deal in a way that feels better than any contract I’ve ever signed. “I can live with that.”