Had the hen party enjoyed their lunch? It was a question that bothered Connor as he and Luca cleared up. Certainly they’d eaten a lot of the food, which he’d chosen specifically for its links to Cape Cod: apple, cheese, walnut, and cranberry salad, lobster cooked in butter and served in freshly baked rolls, fried clams, Cape Cod potato chips—or crisps if you were British. His Instagram had gone crazy, with over two thousand likes, so at least it hadlookedthe dog’s bollocks.
You need to have more faith in your ability.He could hear Aaron’s voice in his ears from his last review. It was hard to convince others he was a great chef if he hadn’t convinced himself. And if he dared to look beyond the bistro, to one day opening his own restaurant, he would need to convince someone to invest in it...
He heaved out a sigh, the thought too heavy for a sunny day on the water. Instead of pondering the future, he allowed his gaze to drift up the beach to the slender figure in the plain black bikini. A woman he’d just shared the most devastating kiss of his life with.
“Which one are you checking out?”
With a guilty start, he snapped his attention back to packing away the leftovers. “I’m making sure they’re enjoying themselves.”
Luca laughed. “Right. I’ve got my eyes on the redhead, Chloe. Seems like a good laugh, and she’s rocking that string bikini.”
“You know the hotel rules.” Yeah, he was a hypocrite, but he was here for only three more weeks and no stranger to breaking rules. Luca was here for the whole summer, and while he might talk big, he was a good kid at heart.
“They can’t stop me looking.”
He flashed Connor a grin and Connor laughed. “Right. Why don’t you let them know we’ll need to set off in about ten minutes. Oh, and Luca?” he added as the man began to walk away. “Make sure that looking doesn’t cross the line into ogling.”
Once again, Connor’s eyes strayed to the ponytailed woman in the black bikini. Yep, definitely a hypocrite.
The boat got underway again, and, clearing up completed, Connor set off to join Ned and Luca on the bridge. As he walked past the sundeck, Chloe called him over.
“Come and join us.” She pointed to the spare seat and gave him a flirty smile.
He knew, because he couldn’t help but keep track of her, that Olivia was sitting downstairs with Ashley and Jessica. Still, figuring it was more fun than being with the guys, he changed direction and joined Chloe and her friends.
“Tell us more about yourself,” Chloe said as he sat down. “Aside from being an awesome chef, obviously.”
“Yeah, the food today has been legit the best I’ve eaten in ages,” Sophie added, and the others all shouted their agreement.
He wasn’t going to lie, the praise felt good. Really fucking good. “Thanks, glad you enjoyed it.”
“So, come on, we want to know more about the hot chef.” Chloe waggled her eyebrows. “You’re clearly English.”
He laughed. “What gave it away?”
“Not the potbelly or the sunburn, that’s for sure,” one of the other girls said dryly—he thought her name was Nicole. “You’re really hot.”
He smiled his thanks, enjoying the boost to his ego, which had taken a hit since he’d been turned down by the woman he’d just spotted climbing the stairs with her sisters.
“Are you single?” Sophie asked.
“Wouldn’t have asked your aunt out if I weren’t.” He was aware Olivia could now overhear everything he said, even though she seemed to be stuck in a protracted discussion with her sisters about where they were going to sit.
“You prefer older women, then, huh?” Chloe pouted. “That’s not fair on us youngies.”
“I don’t have a preference. Age doesn’t matter to me.” He forced himself not to turn and look at Olivia. He’d said his piece. The next move, if it came, had to be hers.
“So how come you’re in Nantucket?” Gabrielle asked. He remembered her name because she always wore really bright colors. The other end of the spectrum to Olivia.
Stop thinking of her.
“I’m here for a month,” he told Gabrielle. “Learning new cooking techniques from Chef Felix.”
“That’s what you do in England, then, work in a hotel kitchen?” Sophie again.
“No, I work in a small restaurant, the Palm Bistro in Chiswick. I want to learn to be a better chef, though, open my own place one day.” Ten years. Ellie would be eighteen. Enough time to have planned it out, secured the finances. And to feel like a chef and not a bartender masquerading as a chef.
“But surely there are loads of places where you can learn new techniques,” Gabrielle argued. “You don’t have to come all the way out here.”
