“What’s your name?” he asked in lieu of commenting on the photograph.
But before I could answer, Joel jogged up beside us, half out of breath, his slight panting breaking the trance.
“Mr. Whitman,” Joel said, taking off his ball cap before he extended his right hand for the man in the gray suit. “Wow. It is such an honor to finally meet you in person, sir. I’m Joel Woods, your lead deck hand. Thank you for having me onboard,” he continued as they shook hands, and I could tell he was nervous, because his voice was a little more high pitched than usual, and his words came out a little too quickly. “I’m a hard worker, sir, I assure you. And your boat is in good hands.”
The man’s smile had all but disappeared, but there was a glint of it now as he dropped Joel’s hand and put his sunglasses back on. “I have no doubt.”
The two men couldn’t have been more opposite. Where Joel was just a few inches taller than me and stocky, with dark hair and charcoal eyes and a flashy, wide smile, the man in the suit towered over him, long and lean, with light hair and eyes I knew I’d never forget as long as I lived. They were both devastatingly handsome, but in such opposing ways that it seemed ludicrous to compare them at all.
“Here, babe,” Joel said, handing me a bottle of anti-nausea pills. He tossed his arm around my shoulders, kissing my temple. “A couple of these should help your stomach.”
I shook my head, tearing my eyes away from the man’s stare as I took the bottle and murmured something of a thank you to Joel. I wanted to get away from Mr. Whitman. I wanted to spend my last few moments with Joel alone and in peace.
I wanted to go back five minutes ago and remove my stupid finger from the stupid shutter button.
“Feeling sick?” Mr. Whitman asked, but my eyes stayed on the bottle of pills in my hand.
“Aspen’s never been on a boat like this,” Joel thankfully answered for me. “Sea sick without even leaving the dock,” he added with a laugh.
“Aspen,” Mr. Whitman repeated, like he was tasting my name, trying it on for size. Then, his hand reached forward, breaking into view where I stared down at the deck. “I’m Theo Whitman. A pleasure to meet you.”
My eyes flicked to his, now blessedly covered by dark lenses, and I tentatively met his hand with mine. He gave nothing more than a firm, polite handshake, but I once again found my chest tight, my breath throttled.
“I hope you don’t mind that I brought her aboard, sir,” Joel said, as if he just realized he might be in trouble. His hand grabbed for the back of his neck. “I’ve been working in Fort Lauderdale for four summers now but never got to share the experience with her.”
Theo smiled, flashing his teeth for the first time. “Oh, I don’t mind at all.” He turned to me then. “In fact, you should stay for the crew dinner.”
My eyes bulged in time with Joel’s.
“Really?!” he said, at the same time I murmured, “Oh, no, sir. That wouldn’t be—”
“I insist.”
Those two words were said with such power, in such a manner that there was nothing more to say, nothing more to do than nod and smile.
“Good,” Theo said, the decision made. “I’ll save a couple of seats for you two near the head of the table. I’d love to see more of your photography, Miss…”
“Dawn,” I muttered.
His lips curled at that. “Miss Dawn. If you don’t mind, of course,” he added.
I shook my head on an uncomfortable smile, which somehow seemed to make him smile even wider.
With a nod and an excuse me, Theo left me and Joel alone at the bow, his shoes tapping out that same steady rhythm as he made his way inside to the main deck bar.
And Joel wrapped me up in a swinging hug of celebration that we would get a few more hours together.
The afternoon blew by in a gust of Joel touring me around the yacht and introducing me to the rest of the crew. The boat was massive, with four decks and more amenities than any home or hotel I’d ever been to. There were two swimming pools, because obviously one wasn’t enough, a hot tub, a sauna, a full gym, a massage room, a theatre room, two sitting areas — which Joel called salons — to lounge or dine in, plenty of places to sunbathe and relax, and two fully stocked bars.
Those features were just the tip of the iceberg, I wagered more and more, as Joel gave me the full tour. For everything he showed me, I knew there were dozens of things he couldn’t show me — guest rooms, the owner’s suite on the upper deck, the jet skis that were housed somewhere below the main deck. It was as overwhelming as it was exhilarating, being surrounded by such grand opulence.
And as if that wasn’t enough, I was also meeting someone new at every turn.
Mr. Whitman’s yacht, which I learned was named Philautia, couldn’t just be taken out on the water with a few people. No, he needed a crew of fifteen to take care of everything that needed taking care of.
There was the Captain, of course, an older, weather-beaten gentleman with curly red hair and a matching, neatly trimmed beard. He introduced himself to me as Chuck with a wide, crooked-toothed grin and an accent I couldn’t quite place. His First Officer, Wayland, was from Jamaica. He seemed as overwhelmed as I did by meeting
