I got up and cleaned the aftermath from my body and couldn't help but feel a little sheepish. It was the same adolescent feeling of having done something forbidden. It actually felt better than the last few encounters I'd had with a flesh and blood woman. There was no one in my bed requiring small talk. There would be no awkward moment of departure.
There was only a lovely fantasy. I relaxed and drifted off peacefully with a picture perfect image in my head. Softness surrounded me, misty and warm.
It seemed I'd been asleep just minutes when I woke in a drenching, cold sweat.
I sucked in great gulps of air as my consciousness struggled to right itself. The dream was as vivid as they always were. Over the years, the variations became less and less predictable as my subconscious added more and more experiences to the material it had to work with.
As a child, the dream was almost always the same but just as terrifying. The kind hands, the soft brown eyes, the hair, always trundled into a tidy bun. The white uniform. The silent protest and the helpless submission.
Only this time, the sweet face tending my fabricated illness was Rene's. It angered me that the angel of my waking fantasy dissolved into a life-sucking memory out of my surreal childhood.
Dreams can seem amazingly real; at least mine have always been so. As a kid, my dreams weren't always awful. Sometimes they'd take me far away to homes with wide green lawns where bikes and balls were strewn in every corner. Those were the times I'd hated waking up. I'd conjure golden retrievers begging at the table and tuxedo cats lounging on sunny windowsills. My sister was always there, only she was never the sickly, pale Dawn.
In boyish flights of imagination my sister was as sturdy as the big imaginary oak where she would swing and yelp with delight as I spun her around on an old truck tire. In the dark world of my nights, she ran through summer sun and winter snow, golden and glowing with the God-given energy of a healthy kid.
Endless hours of television and an enviable library of books helped me populate my subconscious with families fighting over drumsticks at Sunday tables, playing board games together on pizza night and, most bizarrely of all, camping in great mountain forests. Funny, when I finally got the chance to sleep under the stars, the reality didn't even come close to the fantasy.
The violet blue of first light meant I thankfully didn't have to fight for sleep anymore. I threw on a pair of shorts, brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face. I studied the stubble on my chin and wondered if I should clean myself up for Phoebe and 'the girls'. When I decided that those chicks would probably be into fashionable scruff, I picked up my razor and returned my face to baby-bottom smoothness. I was ornery and put out that Phoebe had forced herself on me again.
Women have always told me I'm handsome. Some have called me beautiful. Funny, but when I looked at myself—past the exterior—I never saw a good looking man. I always saw a weak little boy. My skin is tan and my muscles are strong, but there's a pale kid underneath with skinny arms. The kid's never far from the next fever, the next headache, the next rash. The kid doesn't catch big fish 'cause he's never well enough to go that far from shore. The kid doesn't have any friends because he might catch something from them. The only friend he has is a dark-haired little girl who's just as pale and just as frightened as he is.
Chapter 5—Rene
I wasn't prepared when Dylan popped into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning. I hadn't slept at all after our encounter in the kitchen. And I was still more than a little shaken up by the memory of his naked body a few feet away from me. Putting that sight out of my immediate thoughts was on my list of goals for the morning. Stowing away the provisions was my priority. I expected a parade of deliveries I hoped would arrive in time for us to keep to schedule and be under way on time. . The distraction of my stubborn obsession was not going to help me work more efficiently.
I was on my knees in the pantry rearranging some dry goods to make room for incoming supplies. Considering the positively nuclear effect his presence had on me, I'm surprised I didn't sense him before he spoke.
"Good morning, Chef."
My head hit the shelf above me with a resounding thwack at the sound of his voice.
"Good morning, Mr. Cruz." I rubbed the back of my skull. I was sure to have a knot there soon.
He reached down to help me to my feet. He took both of my hands in his and I wound up standing close enough to him to smell his just-showered morning scent and feel the heat of his body. The masculine lines of his face had been sharpened by a clean shave. I had the urge to lean right into him. He emanated an energy that pulled on me somewhere deep in the hidden corners of my psyche. My whole body knew him.
He took a step backward as if in retreat. Maybe he sensed my reaction.
"I'd like a couple of poached eggs on wheat toast. Coffee. O.J. And whatever fruit you've got that looks good." If he was at all embarrassed about being naked in front of me just hours before it didn't register on his face. He flashed his brilliant teeth at me as if a little voice had just whispered "you're supposed to smile now" in his ear. His canine teeth were quite prominent and they gave his mouth a slightly feral look.
He didn't give me a chance to answer. He just turned and left much like he had in the wee small hours. Under his crisp white shorts was a toosh that I could only manage to think of as 'biteable'. I stared after him as the door made smaller and smaller swings. Swoosh, swoosh, swoos, swoo, swo, sw, s. When it finally came to a stop I unfroze and went to peek through the small window into the dining room. I stood on my tiptoes and watched him. He was seated at the table with his back to me reading something on his tablet. His bare feet rested on another chair. Like his hands, his feet were long and graceful. There were white stripes where flip-flop straps had kept the sun away. I found that oddly sexy.
Dark hair curled over his collar in shiny spirals that seemed to beg to be wrapped around my fingers. The pale lemon-colored shirt he wore accentuated the deep tan of his arms. I would come to recognize the shirt as his 'uniform'. I knew the brand. It was the shirt every angler or anyone who wanted to look like a serious fisherman wore. I'd seen them in a dozen colors on hundreds of men. Somehow, none of them ever made the utilitarian garment look quite as fine. Somewhere, a Columbia ad was missing a model.
I gave myself a mental shake. Was there something completely screwed up in me that caused me to be stupidly and instantly attracted to all the wrong kinds of men? Because certainly there was nothing about Dylan Cruz's behavior or demeanor that suggested he even recognized me as an actual human being. I had already dismissed his body's reaction as simply a bizarre response to a surprise situation. No, I was just a cook who happened to be able to recognize a Renoir when I saw one. Big deal.
My idiotic and completely unrequited crush on my former arrogant chef had apparently taught me nothing. Nor had my disastrous liaisons with the only two 'boyfriends' I had ever had. I had almost come to the conclusion that I was better off utterly single and celibate. Almost. I knew enough to know I hadn't quite 'gotten' the whole picture. I had promised myself after Nathan that the next time I would choose wisely. I'd find someone who was less critical and quite frankly, less mean. That's how Jake happened. Then I actually took a step backward with the restaurant crush. He took ‘cruel’ to a whole new level. I was starting to lose faith in my ability to choose a decent man.
I told myself that it was perfectly natural to be somewhat overwhelmed by my new hot boss. My experience didn't include a lot of men like Dylan Cruz. In fact my experience didn't include a lot of men period.
Nathan had been my first. I dated a few guys in high school but they always struck me as way too focused on the destination rather than the journey. It wasn't prudishness on my part. I would have had sex with a guy if I felt connected. But I simply didn't feel it.
Nathan had been a year ahead of me at our university. He was dedicated to his studies and had a certain intensity. He had carefully cultivated a rough style that I mistook for an anti-
hero kind of charm. At nineteen, I thought I was way, way too old to be a virgin. After Nathan and I had dated for a while I made up my mind that I needed to get it over with.
When the time came, I wanted to back out but he pressured me. He used shame and a pouty attitude to get what he wanted. He made me feel so guilty that I went through with it, hating myself for being so weak and later hating him for pushing me. I idiotically thought that the act of sex would miraculously elevate a so-so relationship to love. Instead, when he rolled off my body the first time, all I felt was an urgent need to bathe.
We stayed a half-hearted couple until he graduated. He took it for granted that I'd be available and like a fool, I was. Physically it was never great, the friendship wasn't all that good, and love never happened. When he moved along I was happy to see him go. It was the end of a bad romance.
I thought I'd be able to work my way back to some kind of self respect when I met Jake.
Jake was the epitome of a nice guy. He was a good friend and there was a lot of mutual respect. We didn't argue. Ever. My family adored him. While most of the guys were fighting to mark their territories, Jake stood out like a steady sore thumb. He was jovial, intelligent and boring. It took me almost a year to figure out that I wanted more than nice.
With Jake, the physical part of the relationship was almost an afterthought. The earth did not move. It almost felt like a mutual obligation. We had this 'thing'. Adults who have a 'thing' have sex. We were mediocre between the sheets. Lukewarm at best. We parted with the same lack of drama that imbued the whole relationship. It added a nice measure of disappointment to what my parents already felt about my choices in life.
After that, I spent some much needed time alone. When I landed the Topanga gig I suppose my healthy young hormones were looking for somebody to rage for. That I chose Chef Asshole proved to me that I could indeed manage three strikes in a row. Licking my wounds and moving on was part of hopefully getting back in the game.
But not with Dylan Cruz. Okay, so the man made every nerve in my body stand straight up and say 'howdy!' That's what beautiful men are supposed to do to healthy young women. It was a freak encounter.
I rubbed the knot on my head. It wasn't about the man himself. It was about having my boss surprise me: first naked in the night and now silently. Yes, that was it. That's what rendered me speechless and slightly out of breath. Silly me.
I was actually laughing out loud at myself when Captain Stephen came in with Angelo, the steward who was assigned as my helper.
"You're in a good mood this morning." Stephen put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze. "I see the Boss didn't cut you any slack." He left his arm in place just a hair longer than he needed to. "Nice to finally have a sunny face in the kitchen after the Honduran troll."
"Care for some breakfast? I'm cooking eggs so if you want some . . ."
"Nah, I brought a bag of breakfast sandwiches and donuts and threw them in the crew mess. I figured you'd have enough to do this morning without feeding us." He flashed me a sweet smile. Stephen was a man who'd be hard not to like. Stephen was the kind of man I should have been attracted to.
"Thanks. I'm going to be swamped."
The first delivery from the seafood purveyor arrived just as the water for the eggs started to boil. The meat guy was right behind him. Thankfully, Angelo was as efficient as he was strong. I would have preferred to put the orders away myself, but it wasn't the right time to screw up something as simple as a couple of poached eggs on toast.
Stephen helped himself to a cup of coffee and poured another one. "I'll take this out. He takes it black." He sipped the steaming brew. "And strong just like this. Good call."
It was a lucky guess. The waitresses at the restaurant had handled that duty. Not being much of a coffee drinker, I wasn't quite sure how much to measure into the machine. Maybe I was attaching too much importance to getting every detail right. But I was relieved that the first thing of mine he tasted would suit him all the same.
"Good coffee, Chef. You're already an improvement over Rodrigo." Angelo had manhandled the protein orders into the cooler in record time. The guy was a machine. He watched me watching the water on the stove and sipped from his mug.
"So, you like working on El Loco?" I asked him.
"You kidding me? I came off an Italian cruise line. They work you like a slave, you eat garbage and the quarters aren't fit for dogs. Yeah, I like it here a lot."
"What's the boss like?" I had Stephen's perspective and now I wanted one from someone who was just a worker bee, not a childhood wharf buddy.
"I've never had a problem with him. All I do is put the plates in front of him. You're the one who'll take any heat he's got to give. The chef and the captain are really the only ones who deal with him directly."
"But Captain Stephen seems to get along well with him."
"The Captain is about as laid-back a guy as you'll ever meet. No matter what Cruz throws at him, it just slides right off." He took another swig from his cup. "Can't say as much for the last three chefs."
"Three? In how long?"
"Well, I've been working on the boat a little less than a year."
"I see. So, how can I avoid the 'heat' as you put it?"
"Be perfect."
"Thanks. You've now succeeded in making me a nervous wreck already."
"Don't take me too seriously. You'll be fine. Just do your best."
I soon had the simple meal prepared and plated as artfully as a couple of poached eggs allow. The two yellow eyes staring up at me looked plain and lonely. At least the fruit was bright and pretty. I sighed and handed the plate to Angelo who delivered it to the dining room. He came back with instructions for me to "go out and see the Boss". I gave him a questioning look and got a shoulder shrug in response.
"Not helpful, Angelo," I told him as I took a deep breath and went out to face Dylan Cruz.
He and Stephen sat at one end of the long dining table; Dylan at the head and Stephen to his right. I took a position between them and felt like I was standing at the judging table on some competitive cooking show. I've always hated those shows because I can imagine how hard it must be to have something you put your heart and soul into picked apart like they do.
There was an instance at Topanga where my executive chef had taken a single tiny taste of my creation and told me, "That tastes like a hairball." It was typical behavior. He took great delight in deflating any hint of pride any of us dared to show in our work.
I’d been tempted to ask him if he was a connoisseur of hairball flavors. Thankfully, I kept my yap shut because if I had said anything at all it would have invited a war of words that I could never have won. I can hold my own with most, but the supreme leader of Topanga's kitchen was a wizard at the obscene insult. He created new and imaginative ways to use the foulest words in the most scathing ways. It was a talent he cultivated and proudly exercised often.
I glanced at the plate and hoped that I wasn’t in for it. He was halfway through one of the eggs and it looked close to perfect to me. The yolk was runny and the white was fully cooked.
"Perfect poached eggs, Chef. I can't stand it when the white part looks like snot."
So far, so good. I thanked him and waited for the cleaver to fall. I shot a look at Stephen whose face was unreadable.
"Would it be too much trouble for you to serve my meals to me? I realize it's normally the steward's job, but you're so much better looking than Angelo." There was a hint of mischief playing on his face that I didn't want to find charming.
I thought Stephen stiffened slightly but it could have been my imagination.
Maybe the memo on sexual harassment hadn't reached the yachting set. It really didn't matter. It never reached the confines of the restaurant kitchen, either. I was way past taking offense at that kind of remark.
Besides, part of me got a little—no a pretty big—thrill that Dylan Cruz thought found me easy on his eyes. He was certainly not hurting mine. What po
ssible harm could it do? Besides, there wasn't a graceful way to refuse.
"It would be a pleasure," I purred back at him with a smile I hoped was seductive but subtle. "But right now, if you'll excuse me? I have a lot to do today if we're going to leave by early afternoon."
Dylan nodded. "By all means . . ."
I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I left the dining room. I was glad he couldn't see the crimson that burned up from my chest to my forehead.
Chapter 6—Dylan
"What the hell was that about?" I asked myself out loud.
"I was going to ask you the same damn thing." Stephen abruptly stood and took his coffee cup over to the starboard window. "I thought this trip was about getting away from all that."
"Actually, this trip is about going to London to throw myself on Dad's mercy. Again."
"I know that. It's just that last night you were talking about the sea and getting away from chicks like your cousin."
"In case you haven't noticed, Stephen, our new chef is about as much like my cousin and her ilk as it's possible to get and still have two X chromosomes."
Stephen stared out of the window. I couldn't see his face, but I realized he had taken a shine to her. I continued, "I didn't ask her to bed, Captain. I just requested she serve my meals. I think I'm entitled to that."
"Sure you are, Dylan. You're the Boss." Stephen put his coffee cup on the table with just a wee bit more force than necessary.
"Don't you have a checklist to go over somewhere?" I was annoyed that Stephen had already cast himself in some protective role for a woman who didn't seem to need it. The way she reacted the night before was hardly shy behavior. She could have backed right out of that kitchen. She could have screamed and hidden her face in her hands. Instead she took a good long look at me. And she decidedly did not avert her eyes from any part of my anatomy.
And so what if I'd rather have a good-looking female put my plate in front of me? I had every right to prefer a Renoir nude over some abstract masterpiece and I had every right to choose Rene over Angelo to serve my meals.
Tempest Tossed: A Love Unexpected Novel Page 4
