1
INTERVIEW CANDIDATE NUMBER HELL NO
ROARKE
"Please tell me you've found someone."
I pace the bridge of theWest Wind—my flagship yacht, the centerpiece of the soon-to-launch luxury charter division of Westward Maritime—still pulling streaks of rainbow finger paint out of my hair hours after the investor meeting imploded in a haze of seven-year-old chaos and parakeet shrieking.
The West Wind was supposed to impress today.
Sleek.State-of-the-art.
Outfitted to the nines to showcase the pinnacle of Mediterranean charter experiences.
Instead, my seven-year-old niece Isla turned it into a finger-painted art installation mid-presentation.
And just like that, the most critical business meeting of my career drowned in glitter and tempera paint.
My executive assistant Claire sits in the navigator’s chair like she’s watching a slow-motion yacht crash.“Define ‘someone.’”
“Someone competent.Someone who doesn’t let a seven-year-old turn a fifty-million-dollar yacht into an acid trip on the high seas.Someone who understands that finger paints are not appropriate business collateral when pitching a charter fleet to a room full of European venture capitalists.”
From somewhere below deck, there’s a distinct squawk followed by an even more distinct child’s giggle.
“And someone who can control that feathered menace,” I add, glaring down through the staircase toward the main salon.“Because between Isla and Captain Feathers, I’ve officially lost control of the ship—and the narrative.”
“Good news and bad news,” Claire says, setting her tablet aside like she’s about to lower the boom.“The good news is: I found someone.She’s hired.Starts immediately.”
“Thank God.When can she?—”
“The bad news is it’s Mia Rossi.”
I freeze.“Mia Rossi.As in Interview Candidate Number Seven Mia Rossi?”
“That’s the one.”
"The one who spent twenty minutes of her interview explaining everything wrong with wealthy people in general and me specifically?"
"She was very thorough in her critique, yes."
Another squawk drifts up from below, this one distinctly triumphant."PRETTY BIRD!PRETTY BIRD WINS!"
"I swear that parrot is teaching Isla new ways to cause a ruckus,” I mutter."How did I let myself get talked into bringing a bird on a yacht?"
"Because you can't say no to Isla when she uses the sad eyes," Claire reminds me."Also, Captain Feathers is technically a parakeet."
“Screw the parakeet, Cee.Back to the Rossi woman.”I grab the printed interview transcripts from the chart table, flipping to the relevant section.“She literally said—and I quote—'Mr.West represents everything wrong with entitled rich men who think money solves problems that require actual human connection and emotional intelligence.'"
“Now, hold on.I don’t remember her saying?—“
I read more.“She also said I seem to have the emotional range of a cucumber.”
“She said ‘sea cucumber.’That was a compliment…I’m sure.”
“Her exact words?”My jaw clenches.Unclenches.“‘Mr.West is the kind of man who thinks money is a substitute for genuine connection and probably tips based on how well someone flatters him.’”
“She also said you have very nice eyes.And that Isla is delightful.”
