Argh. My fingers tightened instinctively around the railing and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep the panic at bay.
“Don’t do it.” It was a male voice—unwelcome and authoritative.
“Do what?” I turned toward it, but the sun was in my eyes, so I couldn’t see his face—just a dark silhouette. With a strange looking mini-hat on his head.
“Whatever you’re planning to do, it’s not worth it.” He moved then, and I made out tanned arms, a white shirt, and black pants. And it wasn’t a hat. It was a half-ponytail, half man-bun.
My anxiety latched on to it like it was the last life raft on the Titanic. Focusing on something outside of myself always helped. I allowed myself a moment to contemplate this controversial beast.
As far as I was concerned, the only guys who looked good in a man-bun were so insanely masculine, the long hair added a warrior-like vibe. Good, thick hair was vital or it risked looking like an olive. On the other hand, too much texture and it could be mistaken for a small, furry, nesting mammal. A sexy beard or stubble completed the look. Needless to say, man-bunners were always surfing on thin ice with me. But when it worked, it freaking worked. Cue the lusty gazes.
“If you really want to do it, you should go up on one of the higher decks,” Mr. Man-bun was saying. “And even then, it’s best to wait until we’re at sea, not while we’re anchored at a marina.”
What the hell is he going on about?And then it dawned on me.He thinks I’m planning to jump off the boat and plunge to my death. Half-ponytailed dingbat.“It doesn’t matter where I jump from. I can’t swim.”
His body tensed for a moment, the wind ruffling his sun-drenched hair. “In that case, I highly recommend the swimming pool on the sun deck. It’s much cleaner than whatever goop is floating down there. Temperature-controlled too. Plus, there’s no one up there right now so no chance of anyone diving in to save you.”
I gritted my teeth. I didn’t know what peeved me off more—his wise-ass comments or the fact that he’d just plagiarized my Beyonce-on-stage, wind-blown look. Outdone by a man who, I bet, had not even bothered looking up the wind forecast.
“Look, Miss, if you don’t make a decision soon, I’ll have to escort you off the boat myself.” Something glinted in his hand as he came closer. A big, sharp butcher knife.
“What the hell? Don’t come any closer! I amnottrying to kill myself and I amnota stowaway. I’m a passenger on this yacht, so stop waving that knife at me.”
“What kn—” He stopped and looked at it. “Oh, this. I was just getting ready to…” he trailed off and then chuckled. “You’re one of our guests?” His brown eyes creased softly at the corners. He looked like he’d spent a lot of time squinting at distant horizons.
“Yes.” I sniffed, although I couldn’t blame him for assuming otherwise. I looked like I had just crawled out of a well. “Some idiot drove through a puddle and splashed me.”
“Well…” He gave me a quick appraisal. “It’s not exactly a red-carpet look, but it’s not so bad.” If his smile wasn’t so genuine, I would’ve resented the dimple that formed on his cheek. When I was little, I prayed for dimples. And now I had them. On my ass. Naturally, people with properly-placed dimples irritated me.
“I’m Alex,” he said, tossing the knife in the air. He caught it as it curved around his shoulder, then proceeded to slice and dice an army of invisible ninjas before giving me a slick bow. “Your onboard Executive Chef.”
Show-offs irritated me, but half-bunned, half-dimpled guy was giving me major warrior vibes. What I’d initially thought was a white shirt was actually a chef’s overcoat. Chefs aren’t meant to be all Lean, Mean Cuisine, are they? When I thought of a chef, I pictured someone soft and homely. I hated it when people made me question my beloved stereotypes.
“I’m Moti,” I said.
“Ah. No fish heads, snails, tentacles, or anything that looks remotely like it lived or breathed or was capable of having babies. Fillets, boneless cuts, boiled eggs, rice cakes, steamed veggies. No butter, potatoes, pasta, bread, or pastries.”
“Impressive.” I blinked. He repeated the preference sheet I’d filled out, word for word.
He tilted his head and looked at me. “So, what are you doing out here, Moti?”
“Waiting.” My skin flushed under his scrutiny, so I focused on his man-bun and pictured a blue robin’s egg hiding in it.
“Waiting for…?”
I tensed as Nikos and Thomas laughed at something.
“Ah.” Alex backtracked and peered around the corner. “Which one? The blond or brunette? Wait. Don’t tell me. The dark-haired one is the groom. So, it must be the other guy.”
“For your information, I’m waiting to see the Captain. And would you please put that knife down?”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” Alex grinned. Yep. Just one dimple. “Would you please step away from the railing? I know you said you’re not planning to jump, but I just met you and you could be a total nut job, you know?”
“Are you allowed to talk to your passengers like that?”
“Where safety is a concern, yes.”
“Said the man wielding a butcher knife.”
