Chapter 12 Networking Event, Necking Optional
NETWORKING EVENT, NECKING OPTIONAL
MIA
The early October evening is absurdly perfect.
A dusky pink horizon bleeds into the endless blue of the Mediterranean, the air warm but threaded with a sea breeze that smells like salt and champagne.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscross above the open-air lounge, casting a golden glow over guests lounging on white leather sectionals, flutes in hand.
Below deck, there’s a glass-bottomed pool, a cinema, and a spiral staircase carved from Italian marble.
Above us, the party spills from the aft deck into an open dance floor where a jazz quartet is just giving way to a DJ.
Ariana’s signature touch.
Impossibly chic. Effortlessly expensive.
The official excuse for the gathering?
A “Thank You” fête for the sponsors, investors, and crew who made the WestWard launch a smash hit.
The real reason?
Connor likes to throw the kind of parties people name-drop years later.
And the launch itself?
Flawless.
The Carlton Hotel rooftop sparkling with fairy lights. The champagne towers. The Mediterranean framed in every photo.
Roarke spoke like he’d been born with a mic in his hand.
Charming. Commanding.
Completely in control.
And yes, he sailed.
Not a full regatta, but a short, high-speed showcase around the Cannes harbor, all caught by drone footage that went viral in yachting circles within hours.
Even I, watching from the VIP deck with Isla and Mémé Ada, could feel it…
He’d reclaimed something that day. And so did I.
“So this is the famous nanny who tamed the West Wind terror,” Alex Drake says, approaching with his wife Mackenzie Drake and his third glass of wine. “Though I hear your title’s been updated?”
“Officially, Director of Family Operations,” I reply, taking the air-kiss Mackenzie offers. “Unofficially, the woman keeping a certain billionaire from being murdered by a parakeet.”
“That tracks. And how is the little princess and her flying pea?” Mackenzie asks, laughing. "Ariana mentioned she's developed strong opinions about yacht interior design."
"Isla's with Mémé Ada for the evening. They're having a grandmother-granddaughter sleepover at her villa in Cannes. Something involving homemade pasta and French fairy tales. Mémé Ada insisted this party was 'for the grown-ups' and wouldn't take no for an answer."
"Smart woman," Grayson Dixon adds, joining our group with his wife Roz. "Adult parties need adult conversations. Speaking of which, where’s this pet bird I’ve heard so much about?”
"Captain Feathers is also enjoying the evening with Mémé Ada. Last I heard, he was teaching her some colorful maritime expressions he picked up from the crew."
"ARTISTIC VISION! ARTISTIC VISION!" Roz mimics perfectly, making us all burst into laughter.
"How did you—" I start, then sigh. "Let me guess. He's become famous in yachting circles?"
"Connor's been sharing videos," Alex grins. "That bird's got better comedic timing than most stand-up comedians."
The party is in full swing—guests spilling from the aft deck dance floor to the quieter cocktail tables near the rail. I’m half-listening to Alex and Mackenzie talk about Portofino when Roarke excuses himself to greet a couple threading their way through the crowd.
They’re hard to miss.
She’s striking, with sun-kissed auburn hair twisted up in an effortless knot and a bright coral dress. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who could pass for an outdoorsy catalog model if you dressed him in plaid and handed him a canoe paddle.
“Mia, this is Luke Sterling and Sage Winters,” Roarke says, the warmth in his tone making it clear they’ve met before. “Old friends of Connor’s.”
Sage offers a smile that’s both gracious and conspiratorial. “We heard all about your Cannes debut. Impressive work. I do suspect keeping a certain Mr. West in line might be your real job.”
Luke chuckles. “And if you see a goat wandering the decks later tonight, that’s ours. Her name’s Buttercup. She’s…uh…a free spirit.”
Roarke arches a brow. “You brought the goat onto a yacht?”
Sage just laughs. “She’s better behaved than half the guests. Besides—” she tips her head toward Luke “—we’re in the middle of wedding planning, and apparently Buttercup’s already RSVP’d.”
Luke gives her a sidelong look that’s both affectionate and resigned. “We’re narrowing it down between the Amalfi Coast and a certain cliffside vineyard in Santorini. But after tonight, I have a feeling Sage is going to start a Pinterest board called Mediterranean Yacht Wedding.”
“Oh, I don’t need a board,” Sage says breezily. “I already know the menu, the floral palette, and the playlist. I just need to figure out how to keep the goat from eating the centerpieces.”
I’m still laughing as they move on toward the champagne bar, but the image of a glamorous yacht, champagne toasts, and a flower-crowned goat in the middle of it all sticks with me.
Eventually, I drift toward the quieter side deck, the music dimming under the rhythmic slap of water against Elysium’s hull.
A month ago, I was on my sister’s couch.
Now? I wake up in Roarke’s arms on the West Wind. Living the nomadic life that my parents once started.
I’ve had breakfast in Portofino. Swum in Corsican coves. Danced on Cinque Terre beaches at midnight.
“Mia?”
I turn to find Saskia—yes, that Saskia—looking uneasy in a designer gown that hangs haphazardly over her thin frame. It takes me a moment to recognize her without Ricardo draped over her arm.
"Saskia, hi. I-I…didn't expect to see you here."
“Oh. Yes, um, Connor, Ariana and I have some mutual friends. I just kinda slipped into an invitation.”
“I see.”
She fidgets with her champagne flute. "I was hoping I might run into you, actually."
"Oh?"
"I wanted to apologize. For... you know. The whole situation with Ricardo."
I study her face, seeing something that looks genuinely contrite. "You don't need to apologize. Ricardo made his choices."
"Yes, well, about that." Saskia takes a large gulp of champagne. "Turns out you dodged a massive bullet. I certainly didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"We broke up two weeks ago. Caught him with a charter guest's wife in the galley of their yacht. Apparently, it's become a pattern." She laughs bitterly. "The yacht company fired him on the spot, and the client husband went postal. He's basically blacklisted from the industry now."
I feel a surge of satisfaction that I try to keep off my face. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Don't be. I should have listened when people warned me about him. Including you, probably, if I'd bothered to ask." She looks around the yacht, taking in the sights—the sea, the gleaming boat and sky. "Seems like you landed on your feet though."
"I did."
"Is it serious? With the shipping mogul?"
Before I can answer, warm hands slide around my waist from behind, and Roarke's familiar scent—sea salt and warm cotton and sex—envelops me.
"Sorry about that,” he murmurs against my ear, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. "Had to make sure our guests were settled properly with Mémé Ada."
"Roarke, this is Saskia," I say, leaning back against his chest. "Saskia, my boyfriend, Roarke West."
"Pleasure to meet you," Roarke says with the kind of polite charm that probably takes years to perfect. "Any friend of Mia's is welcome."
Saskia's eyes widen slightly as she takes in Roarke—all six feet three inches of Mediterranean-tanned billionaire boyfriend. "I... yes. Lovely to meet you too."
"Saskia was just telling me about some recent career changes in the culinary world," I say innocently.
"Ah." Roarke's voice carries just the right note of polite interest. "The food industry can be quite volatile, I understand. Reputation is everything."
The subtle warning in his tone isn't lost on Saskia, whose cheeks flush slightly.
"Yes, well," she says quickly, "I should probably... mingle. Enjoy your evening."
She practically flees toward the other end of the yacht, leaving us alone under the stars.
"Should I ask what that was about?" Roarke asks, turning me in his arms so I'm facing him.
“Oh, nothing.” I shrug. “Sometimes the universe has a sense of humor about these things."
"Mmm." His hands slide down to rest on my hips. "And how are you feeling about your place in this universe?"
I look around at the yacht full of people who've become friends, at the south of France stretching endlessly around us, at the man holding me and making my heart beat a million reps per minute.
"Like I finally belong somewhere," I say honestly.
"Good." He leans down to kiss me. "Because I have plans for you, Miss Rossi."
"What kind of plans?"
"The kind that involve showing you exactly how much I love having you in my life." His voice drops to that low rumble that still makes my pulse race. "Starting with some alone time. Right now."
"Roarke," I laugh, "we can't just disappear from Connor and Ariana's party."
"Watch us.” He tilts his head toward a shadowed alcove off the main corridor. “Come with me.”
The alcove is tucked behind a glass wine wall, dimly lit, quiet except for the muted bass from the DJ.
The view through the porthole is all moonlight and shifting water. His large hands are on my waist, sliding up my spine, his mouth claiming mine with the kind of kiss that makes my knees threaten mutiny.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says against my lips, his deep voice gravelly and rough.
“Pretty sure I do,” I murmur, fisting the lapel of his jacket.
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” The words are warm—heavy as he kisses me once. Twice. Wrapping his muscular arms around me.
“You have,” I groan out loud. “But it never hurts to hear again. I love you too, Roarke.”
We’re half a second from forgetting the party entirely when—
“Baaaahhh.”
We both freeze.
A blur of cream-colored fur and sequins ambles into view, head cocked like she’s just stumbled upon the most scandalous thing she’s seen all evening. Which, given that this is Connor’s party, is saying something.
I blink. “Is that… a goat?”
Roarke exhales slowly. “Unless there’s another couture-wearing Nubian with a gold bow in yachting circles, that’s Buttercup.”
Buttercup bleats again—louder this time—then plants herself squarely between us, clearly not planning to leave without food or attention.
I bite my lip, grinning. “Well, Captain Cockblock, I think our audience is ready.”
Roarke’s smoky blue gaze slides to the goat, then back to me. “I don’t perform for anyone but you, Miss Rossi.”
“Good,” I whisper, leaning in—only for Buttercup to nudge me hard enough to stumble a step back.
“For fuck’s—” Roarke drags a hand over his face. “Alright. I vote we table this, gorgeous. At least until we’re in a goat-free zone.”
I smooth my dress back into place, still laughing. “And here I thought you thrived under pressure.”
“Trust me,” he says, voice low and promising as he takes my hand, “later tonight, when it’s just you and me, I’ll show you exactly how well I perform under pressure.”
We step back into the glow and music of the party, his fingers laced through mine, and suddenly the wait feels delicious.