“Got it, chef,” she says with a crisp nod. But her eyes keep drifting to Yulian.
I don’t bother removing my chef’s whites as I head upstairs behind Yulian. “Was there something wrong with the canapes?” I ask, feeling suddenly nervous.
I’d meant to only send up two different kinds of canapes, but I ended up making four. There was so much fresh seafood and so many choices. I have a tendency to overdo it. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew and compromised the quality.
“The canapes?” Yulian asks, throwing an amused look over his shoulder. “Hardly. Those were the best damn things I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
Feeling slightly more confident after that brazen praise, I let him lead me through a darkened nook before we finally resurface.
The ocean looks eerily calm as I step up into the fresh air. A flat plane of dark glass. But it’s not enough to hold my attention when I set eyes on Anton. He’s leaning against the railing of the yacht now, holding a thin flute of champagne.
“Thanks, Yulian,” Anton says, giving his brother a dismissive nod. “That’ll be all.”
“I’ll be below deck if you need anything,” Yulian says before immediately disappearing.
I look around, taking note of the fact that we seem to be alone. Then I remember the kitchen windows and look back.
Molly and Lisa are both openly staring at me through the slim pane of glass like we’re on a reality TV show. When I turn back to Anton, he gives me a lazy smile and starts walking around to the other side of the yacht, away from the curious eyes that follow us.
“You have admirers below deck,” I tell him, mostly to break the silence.
“Does that include you?”
I blink. Cat’s got my tongue, apparently.
He saves me by laughing. “Your canapes were extraordinary, Jessa,” he says. “The best I’ve ever eaten.”
Warmth floods through my body instantly. “Thank you,” I mumble, eyes downcast.
“Your talents are wasted doing corporate catering and one-time gigs. You should be the head chef of your own restaurant.”
I rest my hand against the cool metal railing. “That’s the dream. But it’s not a realistic one, unfortunately.”
“Money problems?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“For some,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Less so for others.” Then he offers me the flute of champagne in his hand. “Have a sip.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I—”
“Have a sip, Jessa.” It’s not a question.
Like I’m hypnotized—and hell, maybe I am—I find myself accepting the glass and placing my lips against the exact same spot his had rested only a few seconds ago.
I tilt it back. The rich liquid slides down my throat like silk.
“Whoa,” I breathe, staring at the glass in my hand.
“1959 Dom Perignon. Good, isn’t it?”
I nearly choke on my next breath. It takes everything I have not to bleat out, You must be fucking joking. Because if I remember my wines course from culinary school correctly, a 1959 Dom Perignon champagne runs a casual forty-something grand per bottle.
Who the hell is this guy?
Swallowing back my million and one questions, I just squeak, “Yeah. Incredible.”