I laugh, still half in shock, as Harry walks me back towards the stairs.
“My mother is quite the collector—each of the state rooms has a piece from her personal collection. You’ll have plenty to explore while you’re here.”
“What’s in here?” I ask, placing my hand across a lacquered door behind the staircase that practically blends into the wall.
“Oh, that’s the galley. That means kitchen in yacht lingo. And the crew quarters,” Harry tells me hurriedly. “Crew only, I’m afraid! But there isn’t much to see below deck. Between you and me, I think they could have given poor chef Russ a little more space to prep. He’s a genius in the kitchen—even bakes his own sourdough on board!”
With the size of this thing, he could probably grow his own wheat here, too. Maybe even keep a few chickens.
After showing me the dining room, elevator, and even a small movie theater, Harry brings me to the bottom floor where Yara the engineer gives us a tour of the massive engine room. I’m going to need a map to find any of it again, but if the zombieapocalypse ever materializes, the Vela Bianca seems like a pretty safe hideout.
“The boat has its own desalination system,” Yara explains over the churning of the massive dual engines. “Which means all the water on board is safe to drink.”
This place really is a floating palace.
“Don’t tell my father, but this is my favorite room on the ship,” Harry tells me. “If I could do it all over, I’d have been an engineer like Yara so I could see the world.”
If he wasn’t inheriting his family’s media empire, he means. An empire, I remember with a wince, my sister will soon be a part of. How will I fit into her life when she’s planning charity galas and gallivanting around the world on yachts and private planes like a member of the royal family? I can’t even pack the right shoes.
Harry leads me into the mirrored elevator just big enough for two up to the third story where a large cockpit not unlike that of an airplane looks over the marina beyond.
“That’sthe bridge,” Harry tells me as he walks me over. “It’s my favorite place to sit while we’re underway because you can watch everything the captain’s doing. Jules tells me this is your first time on a ship?”
“Does the Pirates of the Carribean ride count?”
Harry doesn’t get the joke. I’ve dreamed about sailing the world ever since I was a little girl—my bachelor’s thesis was on maritime art, for god’s sake— but the only boats I’ve ever been on are the whale watching tugs my dad used to buy us discounted weekday tickets for. Until now.
“Not to worry, we’ll make a seafarer of you yet!” Harry assures me.
As we get closer, I can see a white-uniformed man standing in front of an instrument panel so complex it looks like it belongs in a spaceship. This must be the captain. I picture one of the grizzled old men from Rembrandt’s paintings andmentally resist the urge to ask him if he’s ever encountered a kraken.
“You should sit up here while we cast off. Maybe if you’re lucky our fearless captain will teach you a thing or two about motor yachting!” Harry says. “Whatdya say, Cap?”
The captain chuckles as he spins around. “Happy to show you around. Your wish is my?—”
The sentence flatlines as the captain turns towards us, and my heartbeat almost goes with it. Because he’s not a crusty old man—far from it. His curly hair is brushed this time, his crisp white uniform doing little to show off the devilishly toned body I know is hiding underneath. But there’s no mistaking him. Our captain isCaleb, the runner who saved my foot.
For a second, I stand open-mouthed like a caught fish, and I have to blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I can’t help myself—this day is feeling more and more unreal with each passing moment. Caleb is acaptain?Ourcaptain? Caleb’s mouth twists as he takes me in, his eyes widening so dramatically I’m worried they might end up on deck.
“Stella, I’d like to introduce the backbone of this ship, Captain Caleb!”
“Hi!” I beam at him, my chest swelling with the thrill of serendipity. Isthiswhat fate feels like? Was Marianne’s insistence on the universe conspiring in my favornota load of bullshit? I step towards him as if compelled, waiting for his blank expression to mirror mine, but before I can say another word, Caleb extends his hand robotically as if to bar me from coming any closer.
“Caleb Scott. Pleasure.”
I wait to catch a glimpse of humor in his gaze—some acknowledgement of yesterday’s encounter. But he’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. For a second, I’m stunned. Am I going crazy? Did someone put something in my drink?
I hesitate before holding out my hand to shake his. His grip is weak, and he pulls away so quickly I’d think he might be allergic to human contact. There’s no way he’s forgotten what happened on the beach yesterday. Why is he pretending he doesn’t know who I am?
I look at him sideways, my eyes questioning him, but he turns away with no hint of recognition. What the actual?—
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to prep for cast-off. Don’t want to fall behind schedule,” he says mechanically.
“Gia,” Caleb barks into his walkie, burying his attention in the instrument panel. “Make sure the porthole in stateroom three is closed, please.”
And just like that, all the butterflies exploding in my stomach metamorphosize right back into worms.
If only I’d read the damned welcome manual.
