"This isn't a pickup, Bianca.This is employment.Professional, temporary employment that pays enough to keep me out of Jules's guest room.And out of my ex’s place, thank you very much.”
“Hey!My guest room is lovely," Julianna protests."Though admittedly, it's getting crowded with all your emotional baggage."
A uniformed crew member approaches, clipboard in hand."Miss Rossi?I'm here to escort you aboard."
I hold up a finger."One second."Into the phone: "I have to go.The luxury yacht brigade is here to collect me."
"Just remember," Julianna says, "you're brilliant at this.You spent fifteen years making entitled rich people happy on boats.One grumpy billionaire and his niece should be easy."
"And if he's single and attractive," Bianca adds, "maybe consider that not all wealthy men are lying cheaters whose dicks deserve a sturdy blender.”
She doesn’t say his name.
She knows better by now.
Ricardo’s name causes nausea.Instantly.
“Thank you for the graphic visual, B.”I shift my suitcase from hand to hand.“But looking for a man—any man—is the last item on my long list of to-do’s.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss this.All I’m saying is sometimes the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."
“Thanks for the pep talk, guys.”
I end the call and follow the crew member up the gangway, trying not to gawk at the yacht's sleek lines and obvious expense.
Everything aboutWest Windscreams money.
From the pristine teak decking to the crystal-clear windows that are worth more than my last car.
"Miss Rossi!"A familiar voice calls out as I reach the deck.Blonde and bubbly, Claire—shipping billionaire Roarke West's executive assistant—approaches with a welcoming smile."So glad you could start immediately."
"Well, when someone offers triple the going rate for nanny services, it's hard to refuse."I set down my suitcase, taking in the yacht's impressive size.“Now, I have to ask—is the hazard pay included, or is that separate?"
Claire laughs."Mr.West is currently...debriefing from this afternoon's events.He'll be with you shortly."She gestures toward an elegant spread laid out on the stern deck—fresh fruit, artisanal cheeses, champagne chilling in a silver bucket."Please, help yourself.The crew prepared a little welcome reception."
"That's very thoughtful."My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since my nervous breakfast this morning.
"I'll just go let him know you've boarded.”Claire heads toward the bridge."Make yourself comfortable!"
Alone on the deck, I survey the impressive spread.
After weeks of ramen noodles and grocery store wine, this looks like heaven.
I reach for a delicate pastry topped with what appears to be fig jam, trying not to drool at the sight of actual quality food.
The yacht chooses that moment to shift slightly in the harbor swell.
Stumbling forward, I catch myself against the table.
But not before the pastry smooshes directly into my crotch area, leaving a very obvious red stain across the front of my white pants.
"Perfect," I mutter, grabbing a napkin."Nothing says 'professional' like jam crotch."
I reach for the seltzer water to help get out the stain, but instead, I knock over the nearby champagne bottle.And a wave of golden-colored alcohol washes down the front of my cream-colored blouse.
Perfect.Just perfect.
I knew there would be a seven-year-old on board.I didn’t think the ‘child’ in question would be me.
