Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
She transferred her weight from one foot to the next, trying to decide if she was going to do what she was told, and I didn’t rush her. Tentatively, she pulled out the chair I’d indicated and took a seat, sitting forward uncomfortably.
“Have you eaten?” I asked.
“I have, actually.”
Of course she had.
“What did you eat?”
Her eyes narrowed, and I couldn’t figure out whether she didn’t want to tell me because I had no right to ask or if she was simply avoiding sharing anything, not wanting to take the next step because we both knew there was a next step.
“A cheese sandwich.”
I picked up my bread roll. “Like this?” I was basically having a ham and cheese sandwich, which worked for me.
“Grated cheddar.”
I nodded, taking another mouthful, wanting her to say more.
“Bread and cheese is . . .” She looked dreamily out over the ocean and sighed.
I chuckled. “Well there’s plenty here. And you have a plate,” I lifted my chin at the extra place setting she’d set in front of her as I’d asked. “Join me.”
Her mouth twisted as she fought the need to remain professional with her desire to do exactly what a guest wanted her to do. She didn’t take any food—for now—and I didn’t push. Our exchange on the deck below had sent her running and I wanted her right next to me. I didn’t want to frighten her off.
“What else?” I asked.
“What else?” she questioned me back. She knew I was asking for more than just a rundown of her dietary habits. I wanted more of her.
“What else do you like to do in your free time when you’re not eating bread and cheese?”
She shrugged. “During the season there’s not much free time. So dinner and dancing with the crew is about as far as it gets.” She sat back in her chair.
“And between seasons when everyone else goes exploring, what is it you do?” Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe even a husband waiting for her?
A smile curled at the edges of her mouth. “The first night, sometimes I like to check myself into a really nice hotel. I know it’s extravagant, but it’s my treat to myself—one night when my bed’s made, my dinner is served to me, and my drink is made by someone else.” She ran her fingers down the wood grain beside her fork.
“I can imagine that’s nice after running around after guests all season.”
“It is, but it’s more than that, too. It’s about being me again—Avery Walker.”
“And you’re not Avery on the boat?”
She pulled her lip into her mouth as she thought about her answer. I enjoyed these pauses she took, the thought she put into what she said. I appreciated the effort she made to think about what I’d asked her.
She glanced at me and sat back in her chair, adjusting to this arrangement between us. “Yacht crew are invisible but available on charter. We blend into the background. Generally guests aren’t rude, but they are guests, right? I mean, this is my job. I’m not here to have fun. As a crew member, we’re here to ensure the guests enjoy their vacation. So we’re part of the package, just like the fresh sheets, the good food, and the strong cocktails.”
“But you’re not a thing,” I said, uncomfortable at the idea she thought she was an object and that I may share that view.
She squinted. “Not exactly, no, but if we’re doing our job well, we’re invisible when we need to be, and helpful when it’s required.”
I regarded her while I continued to chew, wanting to hear her talk more, to know more about the Avery behind the professional gloss.
“And that night at the hotel—it’s like I come back into focus. I become Avery Walker again.”
“And then?”
“Then I go back to Sacramento.”
“California.” For some reason it was hard to picture her anywhere but on this yacht. “And you’re invisible again at home?” Why did she need that night alone? Who did she belong to that she wasn’t vibrant and authentic when she was sleeping in her own bed?
“No,” she snapped, a little too quickly. “I didn’t mean that.” She reached out to take a pickle from one of the serving plates. I grinned—she was relaxing.
“I like being home. It’s less . . .” She peered at her lap and then shrugged.
“You live alone?”
She shook her head and my pulse began to throb in my neck.
“Nope, with my dad. And brother. I’m only there a couple of months of the year so it doesn’t make sense to have a place of my own.” The way her words tumbled out, she sounded well-rehearsed. I wasn’t sure if she’d said it out loud a lot or just in her own mind. “I like spending as much time as possible with them when I’m back. So it works.”