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)
Usually between charters of the five-month season, crew had a day or so to kick back and regroup. I slept like the dead on those days off. Eight weeks was a long period with no guest-free time. But a forty percent uplift was worth considering. My savings had trickled away into nonexistence, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new pair of sandals or a new outfit. I sent all my money home and even then it was only just enough. More money meant building an emergency fund and maybe a trip to Zara to add a couple of pieces to my wardrobe.
“But the upside is there’s only one guest.”
“Really?” That sounded too good to be true. “For a 154-foot yacht? There must be six bedrooms.”
“Yup. The boat’s got capacity for twelve.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“The guest is very private, apparently. Wants a working vacation.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’ll have guests once he gets settled.”
“And how many interior crew will I have?” Maybe this was the big catch. “Would it just be me?”
“You’ll get two. So the crew won’t be different just because there’s one guest. But, if we lose a member—for illness or incompetence—there won’t be any replacements. We’ve been background checked.”
It was unusual but not unheard of to be background checked. “Is it some celebrity doing a detox or something?”
“I have no idea. I’ve also been advised that we won’t be given details of who it is or their preferences for food or drink.”
The whole reason guests went on these charters was to have every whim catered for, but if we didn’t even know what this guy liked to eat and drink, then how would we make sure he had the best possible experience?
“Is he Russian?” Sounded like this guy was super paranoid. Rich Russians were all paranoid and not without cause. I had a girlfriend who worked on Boris Kasanov’s Sunset for a few months. She’d thought working on the third biggest yacht in the world would be glamorous, but apparently the place had been full of scowling ex-FSB agents looking to take someone down. She’d left after a crew member had been accidentally shot in the leg and she’d been told to turn a blind eye or quit. She’d quit.
“No, British. From what I understand, the guest’s privacy trumps any concerns over what we’re serving them for dinner. I’ve only been made aware of preferences for privacy, and it’s clear that if there are any slipups in relation to his requests, he’ll leave and sure as hell we won’t be getting a tip.”
The last thing anyone wanted was an eight-week charter guest to leave—last minute bookings were rare. Even a forty percent uplift was not going to cover the lack of tip. It was a gamble, but one where I could tip the odds in our favor with great service.
“You know what these guests are like. I’m sure he’ll have other requests when he’s on board, and I think it’s safe to assume this guy is going to be picky,” Captain Moss said. “It will be tough but the money’s good. We’ll just get to know what he likes quickly and then adjust accordingly. You’ve managed a lot worse, I’m sure.”
These details seemed odd but not so difficult. There had to be something else. I’d never had a free lunch. Never even been offered a menu.
“There’s one final thing.”
I knew there had to be something. There always was.
“We have to be in Saint Tropez in three days.”
I groaned. Freaking typical. There was no way I could do that. I shook my head. “I’m booked on a flight to Sacramento tonight.”
“You’re going to turn down a season with your own room at a forty percent pay bump just for a bit of downtime?”
It wasn’t just that I was tired. I wanted to see my family, spend some quality time with my brother and my dad. I hated that I spent most of the year away from them as it was. If I could earn what I did on yachts back in California, there was no way I’d be anywhere but home. However glamorous it sounded, yachting was hard work, and for me, all about the money.
Which was what made this offer so tempting.
“The European sun will revive you. And remember you’ve got a tip on top of your salary. And you know if a guest is going to all that trouble to background check us then the tip is likely to be good.”
I sighed. It was a promise of a lot of extra money. “I’ll need to speak to my dad.” Fact was, my father would be looking forward to a break, too. I spent my days looking after rich, entitled guests, but he spent his days looking after my twenty-five-year-old disabled brother. There was no escape for him, no days off, and he certainly didn’t get paid.