Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
One of them was also a chef at a Michelin-Star restaurant in Chicago.
And as soon as Captain said it, my eyes flicked to Finn again.
“Oof,” Palmer said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Bet you love to hear that.”
Finn offered a flat-lipped grin that fell quickly, his eyes focused on the list of food restrictions and desires from each guest. It was never a good time for a chef when another chef came aboard. Inevitably, they would be the harshest critic of the season when it came to the food, and the pressure to perform and impress was extremely high.
Which was not ideal, considering what Finn had already had to face this morning.
“On night one, the guests would like a seven-course tasting menu and a celebratory birthday cake,” Captain continued. He smiled at Finn. “Ah, nothing for you, Cheffy. You got this.”
Finn nodded at Captain like he wasn’t worried, but I saw his hands under the table.
He was twisting his grandmother’s ring, his knee bouncing uncontrollably.
“Deborah would like to have an 80’s themed pajama party after dinner,” I noted, trying to take the focus off Finn so he could catch his breath. “Oh, that will be fun! I can get provisions to bring some black lights and make a little glow corner. We’ll set up bean bags and sleeping bags, but make it luxe. Bernard can whip up some retro cocktails with fun names, we’ll do a candy bar… Oh! We can set up Sixteen Candles on the projector! And I’ll have leg warmers and big scrunchies ready for them. Maybe I could convince Eli to dress like John Cusack and do a bit with a boombox.”
“I don’t think much convincing will be necessary,” Palmer said with a grin.
“That’s brilliant, Em.” Captain beamed. “You’re gonna smash it. We all are,” he added, rolling up the preference packet and playfully smacking Finn’s arm with it. “Right. Let’s get to it, shall we?”
Palmer and Captain hopped up first, chatting about where to anchor as they made their way up to the bridge. But I stayed back, waiting until they were gone to turn and face Finn.
My chest caved in when I finally let myself really look at him.
“Hey,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his forearm. “Captain’s right, okay? You’ve got this. Don’t stress.”
He swallowed, nodding, but couldn’t even manage a smile.
He couldn’t look at me, either.
Instead, he slid out of the booth, pulling away from my grasp and trudging up to the galley with his shoulders slumped like a prisoner sent to walk the plank.
“Don’t say a word when we get back to the galley,” I whispered to Bernard, both of us balancing plates and flatware in our hands.
“You mean, don’t tell Finn that our little Michelin-Star chef friend called his rustic potato soup sewage water?”
I grimaced. “Exactly that.”
It was our first dinner with our new charter guests, and while most of them were pleased, a couple were not — and those voices seemed to be the loudest. First, Marley — the dentist — wrinkled her nose and picked at the salad presented as the first course, like all the lettuce was still covered in dirt. She barely took two bites, which Finn noticed when we brought her full plate back to the galley.
And Regina, the chef, had sent hers back nearly untouched, as well.
Bernard carried her full bowl of soup back now, and I knew if Finn saw it, the night would spiral.
“Get rid of that before he sees it,” I said to Bernard, nodding to the bowl. “We can save this, but not if—”
My thought was cut short by a frustrated growl from the galley, followed by a clattering of dishes. Bernard and I shared a look before he went one way into the pantry and I ducked around him, dropping off my stack of plates to be washed before I found Finn.
He was a man unglued.
His hands splayed wide on the stainless-steel island, the muscles in his arms strained, his head hanging between his shoulders. The remaining courses stretched out in various stages of prep all around him. He breathed heavily, eyes manic as he scanned each ingredient with a tight jaw. Gisella was next to him, and she tried to touch his shoulder, to whisper something I assumed was encouraging, but he shrugged her off.
His stormy blue-green eyes caught mine only briefly before he stormed over to the stove.
“You can save your breath,” he called over his shoulder, fire lapping at the edges of the pan in his hand as he sautéed something that smelled incredible. “Gi already told me the soup was trash.”
“I didn’t say that!” Gisella let out an exasperated sigh. “And I don’t know why you’re getting all huffy at me right now. I’m just trying to help.”
He spun in place to face her. “By telling me I should maybe do a little better with a chef on board?”