Heaven help us all.
THE YACHT WHISPERER
Seven months later
SAGE
Connor Reeves has a very loose definition of “low-key.”
In my world, “low-key” means tea with Luke in the Cascade View Inn library, maybe Buttercup dozing by the fire, and—if I’m feeling wild—breaking out the good shortbread.
In Connor’s world, “low-key” apparently means flying Luke and me to Monaco for the “softest of soft launches” of his friend’s new luxury yacht charter business.
The moment we step onto the dock, I realize I’ve been lied to.
The yacht in front of me isn’t just a boat.It’s a gleaming, floating palace with chrome railings that probably cost more than my first car and a hull that looks like it’s been buffed by angels.And from the upper deck, I can hear music.Not “light background jazz” music.Musical theater.Specifically,Hamilton.
Luke leans toward me, his sunglasses glinting in the Mediterranean sun.“Do you hear that?”
“Pretty sure someone’s rapping about the Battle of Yorktown,” I say, adjusting my sunhat against the glare.
The water glitters like a million sequins, and for the first time since we got here, I think—maybe Connor had a point.We’ve been looking at wedding venues for months, and nothing has quite fit.
But standing here, in Monaco, with the Mediterranean breeze curling through my hair?I can almost see it.
Tables on the deck.Candlelight.
Buttercup in a flower crown.
Luke catches my expression and smirks.“Don’t even say it.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“You were picturing us getting married on a boat.”
“Maybe.It’s very… cinematic.”
He leans in, low enough that only I can hear.“It’s also very unstable.And you’ve seen what happens when your goat gets seasick.”
Before I can respond, we climb the gangway—and that’s when we see him.
Roarke West.Tall.Broad-shouldered.Tan like a man who owns multiple yachts and uses them.Wearing a crisp white linen shirt and the kind of scowl that suggests the linen isn’t doing its job.
He’s standing in the middle of what I assume was meant to be a spotless deck… except it’s currently decorated with glitter, rainbow handprints, and what appears to be a life preserver fort.
Beside him is a seven-year-old girl with mischievous brown eyes and a smudge of blue paint on her cheek.She’s conducting a small green parakeet that’s bobbing along to the beat like it’s auditioning forAmerica’s Got Talent.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to Luke.“It’s yacht daycare.”
The girl notices us and waves.“Hi!I’m Isla!This is Captain Feathers.He knows thewholeshow.”
The parakeet squawks on cue:“Not throwing away my shot!”
Roarke drags a hand down his face, leaving a faint streak of glitter across his temple.“Isla, maybe give the Captain a break.”
She beams.“He likes it.Right, Captain Feathers?”
The bird answers with what I swear is a perfectly timed“Work!”
