Nope.I take it upon myself to clean up the mess I allowed to be made.
On my hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water, I’m proving that I can handle one small crisis without requiring a full interior restoration.
So far, whether or not the luxury boat requires one remains to be seen.
"This is exactly why there are protocols," Roarke lectures from somewhere above me, his perfectly polished shoes appearing in my peripheral vision."Proper containment procedures.Safety measures.Basic common sense."
I scrub harder at a particularly stubborn claw print."Yes, because everyone knows parakeets are notorious for following ‘containment protocols.’”
"A responsible caregiver would have secured the bird before allowing it access to?—"
"A responsible yacht owner would have invested in bird-proof furniture."I sit back on my heels, blowing hair out of my face."Just saying."
He steps closer, and I can feel his disapproval radiating downward, much like his expensive cologne."Miss Rossi, are you suggesting this is my fault?"
"I'm suggesting that maybe, just maybe, expecting a seven-year-old and her pet bird to maintain yacht-showroom standards is slightly unrealistic."I dip my sponge back in the bucket."Children are messy.Birds are beaked panic-demons.If you wanted pristine, you probably should have hired a museum curator, not a nanny."
"I hired someone who claimed fifteen years of luxury hospitality experience."
"And you got someone with fifteen years of experience dealing with entitled clients who think money solves everything."I scrub another paint spot, fingers burning."The difference is, children don't respond to being managed like business acquisitions."
I’ve taken it too far.I know I have.
Ricardo always said my mouth gets me in trouble.I expect this is no different.
I freeze, fully expecting Roarke West to have his crew throw me overboard.
But instead silence settles in the salon around us.It’s thick—heavy.Punctuated only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.
Waves I’ve spent my life loving…
Until now.
Focusing my attention back on the floor, I keep scrubbing.
Until I feel something beside me.
I glance up and see my new boss.My new, shiny, perfectly polished, not-a-single-dark-hair-out-of-place boss crouching down beside me, his long lean fingers reaching into the bucket a foot away.
I stare.“What are you doing?"
"Helping."He takes a spare cloth inside the soapy container.
“You’re…helping?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re going to clean?”
“Yes.”He stops, blue eyes lifting to meet mine.“Contrary to what you might think of me, I am familiar with the practice.”
My cheeks burn, gaze dropping as I continue scrubbing.“Huh.”
"Huh what?"
"Nothing.Just...I figured you'd call in a professional cleaning crew and charge me for it."
"I considered it."He works at a stubborn spot near the coffee table leg."But then I realized Isla would never forgive me if I fired her new favorite person over abstract art."
