Page 16 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire (Billionaire Row #5)
Janet
Six months later
I stood in the kitchen of “Salvaged,” my new restaurant in downtown Seattle. The grand opening was just hours away, and even in the chaos of final preparations, I paused to take it all in.
The space was everything I’d dreamed of—intimate but not cramped, with an open kitchen that allowed diners to watch the cooking process. Natural materials dominated the design: reclaimed wood, stone, and metal that echoed our island experience without being kitschy.
“The flowers just arrived,” Melanie said, bustling in with a clipboard. My sister had unexpectedly taken on the role of a restaurant manager. “And the mayor confirmed he’ll be here for the ribbon cutting.”
“Of course, he will,” I muttered. “Nothing attracts politicians like free food and photo ops.”
Melanie ignored my cynicism. “The press list is full, too. Everyone wants to see what the ‘Castaway Chef’ has created.”
I winced at the nickname the media had bestowed on me.
The story of our island survival had captured the public’s imagination, propelling me to a level of fame I’d never anticipated or wanted.
Jonathan helped me navigate the attention, teaching me how to maintain privacy while leveraging the interest to promote the restaurant.
“Where is Jonathan, anyway?” Melanie asked, checking items off her list. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”
“He’s in a board meeting. He’ll be here by five.” I adjusted the arrangement of spices at my station, ensuring everything was within easy reach. “How’s the staff doing?”
“Nervous but ready. You’ve trained them well.”
I’d assembled a team of talented young chefs, many from disadvantaged backgrounds who wouldn’t usually have access to high-end restaurant opportunities. It was one of many ways Jonathan and I had found to combine our different worlds and resources.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jonathan: “This meeting is running long. I’ll be there by five thirty. I love you.”
I typed back a quick acknowledgment, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety. This opening meant everything to me—a second chance at the dream I’d almost abandoned and the first real test of whether Jonathan and I could maintain our connection amid the pressures of our respective careers.
The past six months had been a whirlwind. After Reynolds’ dramatic rescue and our return to civilization, we’d split our time between San Juan and Seattle, merging our lives in expected and surprising ways.
Jonathan had been true to his word about the restaurant being my vision. He’d provided capital and business connections but stayed out of creative decisions. When I’d chosen this location—more modest than what he’d initially suggested—he’d supported me without question.
“This one feels right,” I’d explained, walking through the space that would become Salvaged. “It’s about the food and the experience, not luxury for its own sake.”
He’d understood immediately. “It’s authentic. Like you.”
Our relationship had deepened, and the challenges of his corporate responsibilities and my restaurant development hadn’t interfered.
We’d established routines that kept us connected—cooking together on Sundays, holding regular video calls when travel separated us, and having honest discussions about expectations and boundaries.
Not that it had been perfect. Jonathan’s controlling tendencies occasionally resurfaced, especially when he was stressed about work.
My stubborn independence sometimes pushed him away when I should have let him in.
But unlike my past relationships, we faced these issues directly, learning to navigate our different approaches to life.
“Chef?” My sous chef’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “The fish delivery is here, but they’ve brought sea bass instead of the snapper we ordered.”
I switched immediately into problem-solving mode. “Let me see it.”
The sea bass was exceptional—firm, fresh, with clear eyes and bright gills. “We’ll adjust. Tell Marco to prep it with the ginger-scallion sauce instead of the citrus marinade.”
What I loved most about cooking was the constant adaptation and creativity that resulted from unexpected challenges. It reminded me of our island days, when we would make delicious meals from whatever resources we had available.
By five o’clock, the restaurant was transformed. Tables were set with simple but elegant place settings, staff were in their positions, and the bar was stocked with curated wines and spirits. Everything was ready except for one crucial element.
“He’ll be here,” Melanie reassured me, noting my frequent glances at the door.
“I know.” And I did know. Jonathan had never let me down when it mattered. But this opening represented more than just a restaurant launch—it was the public debut of our combined lives, the first step toward our future together.
At five-twenty-five, the door opened, and Jonathan walked in. He’d come straight from his meeting, still in his impeccable suit, but his eyes sought mine immediately, his smile warming me from across the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, crossing to me. “The board members and their endless questions stalled me.”
“You’re right on time.” I reached up to straighten his tie, a gesture that had become habitual between us. “Nervous?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” His hands settled on my waist. “It’s your night, after all.”
“Our night,” I corrected. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“You would have found your way back eventually.” His faith in me never wavered. “I just expedited the process.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I teased, some of my tension easing in his presence.
He laughed, then grew serious. “I have something for you. An opening night gift.”
“Jonathan, you didn’t need to?—”
“I know I didn’t need to. I wanted to.” He pulled a small package from his pocket.
Inside was a chef’s knife—not just any knife, but a perfect replica of the santoku my father had given me, which had been lost when the yacht sank.
My eyes watered and emotion hit me in my gut. “How did you find one of these?”
“I had a custom bladesmith recreate it based on your description.” He looked uncertain for the first time. “Is it close?”
I turned the knife in my hand, feeling its perfect balance, its weight like an extension of my arm. The tears dropped, one at a time. “It’s exactly right. Thank you.”
He brushed away the tears. “No crying in the kitchen, Chef. You have a restaurant to open.”
I tossed my arms around him and kissed him heavily.
The following hours kept me busy as a bee: the ribbon-cutting ceremony, the arrival of the first guests, and the rhythmic dance of service as orders flowed in and plates went out. I lost myself in the work, and the familiar pressure was challenging and comforting.
From my position at the expo station, I could see Jonathan charming investors and critics alike, occasionally catching my eye across the busy restaurant with a private smile that reminded me of quiet moments on our island.
The menu I’d created told our story without being obvious—dishes inspired by Caribbean flavors but refined through classical technique, simple ingredients elevated through careful preparation.
Many incorporated elements we’d discovered during our island time—herbs similar to those we’d foraged, cooking methods we’d developed out of necessity.
The signature dish—“Island Catch”—featured locally sourced fish prepared with techniques we’d perfected when cooking over open fires. Served with foraged greens and root vegetables, it captured the essence of our survival experience while transforming it into something elegant and accessible.
By the end of the service, it was clear that we had achieved success. The critics were making appreciative noises, the regular diners were already booking return visits, and the staff was riding high on the success of a flawless opening night.
As the last guests departed, Jonathan found me overseeing the final cleanup in the kitchen.
“Chef Banks,” he said formally, though his eyes danced with pride. “I believe congratulations are in order.”
I wiped my hands with a towel. “We pulled it off.”
“You pulled it off,” he corrected. “This is all you, Janet.”
The staff gathered around as Jonathan opened a bottle of champagne, pouring glasses for everyone. He raised his in a toast.
“To Salvaged, and to the extraordinary woman who created it. May this be the first of many successful nights.”
“To Salvaged!” They all shouted. “Congratulations Janet!”
Applause erupted and my tears were back as I glanced at them one by one, and in the midst of it all – Jonathan, now my rock, made my heart warm all the more.