“Oh, um, I’m looking for the main office. I’m supposed to be meeting, uh…” I squint down at Sora’s note again, trying to make out the name. “Executive Chef…Bedrock?”
The woman raises a brow, as if she doesn’t believe me at first, then nods and sets down her knife, wiping her hands on the apron I now notice tied around her waist.
“Braddock,” she corrects. As she moves closer to me, I realize that she’s a bit older than I first guessed—maybe in her fifties. Crow’s feet fan out from the corners of her eyes, and her hair is actually a light shade of gray, rather than the dishwater blond it looked like under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Right, Chef Braddock.”
“It’s a bit of a maze back here,” she says matter-of-factly, in an easy Southern drawl. “You’re just going to get lost if I give you directions. I’ll walk you over, come on.”
Before I can even mumble out my thanks, she’s striding away down the long corridor, feet moving quickly and with minimal effort. She’sfast. I mean, I guess you have to be, on a ship this big. She probably does 20,000 steps a day, easy, and without breaking a sweat.
“You’re with theLovecrew?” she asks over her shoulder as she turns down a shorter hallway that leads to what appears to be an empty kitchen, identical to the one we just came from.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Are you a server? Or do you work in the kitchen?”
She lets out a husky laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I get the impression that this woman wears many hats, just by the way she walks—like she’s got too much to do and not enough time to do it all.
“I’m the front-of-house manager for the dining areas,” she answers. “But I like to help out in the back when I can. They’re short-staffed as it is, and I like prepping. It’s therapeutic.”
“I can definitely see that,” I offer with a smile. I’m not lying to her. Idosee the appeal—in theory. There’s just no way in hellIcould ever do that job. I know I would quickly find myself bored to tears and spiraling into my own thoughts. By the time I finished prepping, I’d probably be deep into an imaginary argument with a person I interacted with ten years ago. And, more than likely, losing.
Even though I’m a step behind her, the energy emanating from this woman is warm and welcoming. I know she’s slowed her pace considerably for me, and I’m grateful.
“I’m Chloe, by the way,” I say from behind her. She stops sharply and I nearly collide with her back. Unfazed, she spins around and sticks out her hand for me to shake.
“I’m Shayla,” she says, beaming at me. “But you can call me Mama.”
My brows raise. “Mama?”
“Everyone here is my kid. I’m the oldest in this department, and I’ve been here since this ship first hit the water. I’ve trained them all. I’ve been here for everything. And I do whatever I can to keep my kids happy.”
Her handshake is firm, but not aggressive. I decide on the spot that I really like Shayla, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
After zigzagging through a few more narrow corridors and a third kitchen—this one buzzing with at least twenty kitchen staff members rushing about and shouting over each other—Mama Shayla finally pauses outside a white steel door, nondescript other than being scuffed from years of use. She raises her hand to knock.
She hesitates, though, as we both catch the thudding beat of music coming from behind the door. Something about it seems…vaguely familiar, and I cock my head to the side as I strain to make out exactly what I’m hearing. I meet Mama Shayla’s eyes just as my brain identifies the melody of Chumbawamba’s 1997 hit songTubthumping.
“Um…” I start, but before I can continue, whoever is behind the door starts singing along to the tune.
Loudly. Enthusiastically. And off-key.
Shayla and I cringe in tandem.
“Should we let them finish the chorus, at least?” I quip. She chuckles, then lands two quick, loud knocks on the door.
Almost immediately, it swings open to reveal a cramped, messy office, with papers pinned to, seemingly, every available surface. I can’t tell if the walls are covered in corkboard or if the papers have just been pinned directly into the drywall, but the clutter immediately gives me a spinning sensation of claustrophobia.
“Mama!” A warm, familiar voice booms from inside. I peek around the doorframe and my gaze lands on Nolan, the chef from the dock. His dark eyes meet mine, and his lopsided smile spreads into a full-blown grin.
“The melon murderer,” he says in that lilting Australian drawl; playfully serious, brows waggling. “We meet again.”
I feel my chest grow hot, and I just know my cheeks have gone crimson.
Goddamnit.
“Oh, hi,” I say, trying to keep my stupid little smirk looking natural, and not at all over-the-top.
Be cool, Chloe.
