“It’s a long story,” I say. “Actually, it’s not long at all. It’s just sad.”
“I’m the maker of sad stories.”
That catches my attention, but I don’t ask what he means. I just push myself clumsily to my feet. Mostly because my neck is hurting from craning to look up at him.
He’s even more beautiful up close. The intense way he watches me is more than a little bit unnerving, which is probably why I start babbling.
“I’ve catered at least a dozen dinners at this stupid fucking club,” I say. “Not sure I can stand to come back now.”
“Admitting defeat is never the answer.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’d keep catering?”
“I’m the one who hires caterers, not the one who works for them.”
“Are you offering me a job?” I joke bitterly.
He cocks his head to the side. “If you want it.”
I frown when he blinks. He’s not joking. “Excuse me?”
“You see that yacht over there by the far right dock?” he asks. I follow his pointing finger to see the biggest boat by far. It’s a glistening hull of purest white, catching the setting sun and the faceted sapphire reflection of the water below.
“The Medusa?”
He nods. “She’s mine. And I’m in need of a caterer.”
I stare at him in shock. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
His gray eyes are hypnotic. A shiver passes through me, but I’m not sure if I’m hot or cold.
“When?” I manage to croak out. “When are you leaving?”
He smirks. “Right now.”