Page 2 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire (Billionaire Row #5)

Janet

T he gleaming stainless-steel kitchen became my sanctuary in the midst of all the luxury I couldn’t relate to.

My fingers traced the edge of the commercial-grade stovetop, appreciating its craftsmanship more than the gold-plated fixtures in my quarters.

This kitchen was every chef’s dream—with more counter space than I’d had in my entire restaurant.

“Is everything to your liking?”

I jumped at the sound of Jonathan’s deep voice behind me, my hand still clutching the santoku knife I’d been unpacking from my roll.

“Jesus! You move awfully quietly for such a large man.”

“I’m a former basketball player,” he said, moving further into the kitchen, his presence immediately shrinking the expansive kitchen. “You learn to be light on your feet.”

I turned back to my unpacking, trying to ignore how his subtle but distinctly masculine cologne seemed to wrap around me. My fingers curled around my favorite knife as I unwrapped it from its protective cloth.

“That’s a unique blade,” he said, moving closer to inspect it, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“My father gave it to me when I graduated culinary school.” I held it up, the overhead lights dancing along the Damascus steel pattern. “Japanese steel. Holds an edge better than anything I’ve ever used.”

“May I?” he asked, extending his hand.

I hesitated. Letting someone handle my knives was like letting a stranger hold my baby. But I decided to trust him, placing the handle in his palm.

“The balance is perfect,” he murmured, testing its weight with reverence. His massive hands cradled my most prized possession with unexpected gentleness. “You keep it immaculate.”

“Believe it or not, a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one,” I said, watching him admire the blade.

He returned it with care, handle first. “How did you become a chef?”

“My father was military. We moved constantly,” I slid the knife back into its protective sleeve. “But food always grounded us—made every new place feel like home. I’d incorporate different cultures through ingredients but shape those flavors in a way that still reminded us of who we were.”

“And you? How does one become a pharmaceutical magnate?”

He leaned against the counter, crossing arms so thick they strained the fabric of his shirt. “My sister nearly died from an antibiotic-resistant infection while I was in college. I changed my major from business to biochemistry the next semester.”

“That’s quite a pivot.”

“Life has a way of redirecting our paths.” His dark brown eyes locked with mine for a beat longer than necessary and heat slipped down my vertebrae. “I’ll let you get settled. We’ll discuss the menu for the trip after you’ve had time to familiarize yourself with the kitchen.”

He pushed away from the counter and his arm brushed against mine, sending an electric jolt straight to my pussy. I worked hard not to moan, surprised at my body’s response to his bump. If that was all it took to arouse me, I wondered what a real bump with him would be like.

Seriously, Janet?

I cleared my thoughts and focused on his mouth, voice, and the words that slipped through those kissable lips.

“Your skills are exactly what I need for this trip,” he said, his vocals dropping to a tone that made my stomach flutter. “Many applied, but your intensity caught my attention.”

The heat in his gaze lingered for another long moment before he turned and strode from the kitchen, leaving me standing there with my pulse racing and warmth spreading through my body that had nothing to do with the kitchen temperature.

Two hours later, I had every cabinet memorized and a preliminary menu drafted. Fresh seafood that still smelled of the ocean, prime cuts of meat, and produce so perfect it looked artificial.

“Knock, knock,” Sandra called from the doorway. “Mr. Black would like to review the menus with you in the main salon.”

I wiped my hands on a nearby towel. “Lead the way.”

The main salon oozed understated luxury—cream leather seating, polished wood accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the marina. Jonathan sat at a glass table, reviewing documents with the focused intensity of a surgeon prepping for an operation.

“Janet,” he said, looking up as I entered. “Please, sit.”

I took the chair across from him, sliding my menu draft between us. His presence felt even more imposing in this intimate setting, and I caught myself sitting straighter.

“I’ve prepared several options based on your preferences,” I explained. “High-protein meals with an emphasis on fresh ingredients and lighter desserts.”

He reviewed the document expressionless. “You’ve included fish every day.”

“Fresh catches will be available at each port,” I replied. “I can adjust if you prefer.”

“No, I appreciate seafood. Just an observation.” He flipped to the second page. “Breakfast seems... elaborate.”

“I believe in starting the day right,” I said, unconsciously squaring my shoulders. “But if you’d prefer something simpler?—”

“I didn’t say that.” A hint of amusement played at the corners of his mouth, softening his serious demeanor. “I’m actually surprised to find someone who takes breakfast as seriously as I do.”

“The most important meal deserves proper attention.”

He tapped a spot on the menu. “Tell me about this dish. The herb-crusted rack of lamb with rosemary jus.”

“It’s one of my signatures,” I said, leaning forward as passion for my craft took over.

“The herbs create a textural contrast to the tender meat, while the jus adds depth without overwhelming the natural flavor of the lamb.” I gestured with my hands as I spoke.

“I’ve paired it with gratin dauphinois and honey-glazed carrots for balance. ”

“I love your passion for food,” he said, his intense gaze sending a shiver of warmth down my spine.

“Food connects us,” I replied, searching for the right words. “A properly prepared meal creates an experience that transcends mere sustenance.”

“And you believe you can create that experience on this yacht?”

“I know I can.”

He studied me for a long moment before nodding. “I agree. This all looks excellent.” He slid the menu back toward me, our fingers brushing momentarily.

The brief contact sent a current up my arm that made me suck in a sharp breath. I pulled my hand back quickly, pretending to adjust the papers while willing my racing heart to slow down.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “There’s one addition I’d like to make. The night before we reach Saint Barthélemy, I’m hosting a small business dinner. Four guests, plus myself.”

“Not a problem. Any dietary restrictions I should know about?”

“I’ll have Sandra provide those details,” he said, rising to his feet. “The menu otherwise has my full approval.”

“Thank you,” I gathered my notes, conscious of his eyes still on me. “I’ll start preparing for tomorrow’s meals right away.”

“Don’t work too late,” he said, his voice softening. “We set sail at dawn.”

I prepped for our first breakfast at sea, the rhythm of my knife against the cutting board matching the yacht’s gentle rocking. We’d moved from the marina to open water earlier that evening, and the kitchen was now my command center.

The repetitive motion of chopping fresh herbs soothed my nerves. I’d almost found my zone when the kitchen door opened, and I looked up to see Jonathan watching me work, his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you always prepare this far in advance?” he asked, stepping into the kitchen.

“In culinary school, they drill ‘mise en place’ into us—everything in its place before cooking begins,” I explained, not breaking my rhythm. “It’s practically a religion in professional kitchens.”

“Mise en place,” he repeated, pronouncing it perfectly. “French seems fitting for such an elegant process.”

He moved closer, his eyes tracking the movement of my knife. “You make it look effortless.”

“Years of practice will do that.” I slid the chopped herbs into a small glass container. “What brings you to the kitchen at this hour? Hungry?”

“Restless,” he admitted. “I find it difficult to sleep the first night at sea.”

I wiped my hands and turned to face him. “I could make you some chamomile tea. It might help.”

“I don’t want to disrupt your work.”

“It’s no disruption.” I filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove. “I’m nearly finished anyway.”

Jonathan sat at the counter, watching me move around the kitchen. In the confined space, I was acutely aware of how his shoulders strained against his shirt and his cologne mingled with the scent of fresh herbs.

“Tell me about your restaurant,” he said suddenly.

I paused, surprised by the question. “How did you know I had one?”

“Research. You owned ‘Flavors’ in Seattle for three years before it closed.”

“Failed,” I corrected, measuring loose tea leaves into a strainer. “It failed. No point in sugar-coating it.”

“What happened?”

I sighed, focusing on the steeping tea rather than his intense gaze. “The usual story. Location issues, rising costs, insufficient capital to weather the slow periods.”

“But the food was exceptional,” he stated rather than asked.

“The food was never the problem.” I placed the cup before him. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

He wrapped his large hands around the cup, the size contrast making the porcelain look almost comical. “You’ll open another one,”he said.

Again, not a question but a statement of fact.

“That’s the plan. Once I save enough capital for another attempt.” I returned to cleaning my station. “This job helps with that.”

“A strategic decision, then.”

“Everything I do is strategic,” I said with a half-smile. “Including accepting triple my rate to cook for a demanding billionaire.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and surprisingly warm. “Am I that demanding?”

“You made me audition after I was already hired,” I reminded him.

“Fair point.” He sipped the tea. “This is good.”

“It’s just dried flowers and hot water,” I teased. “Nothing award-winning.”

“You undersell yourself, Janet.”

The way he said my name—with a hint of intrigue—made me pause.

“What made you choose me?” I asked. “Surely there are chefs with more impressive credentials.”

“Credentials don’t interest me. Character does.” He set down the cup. “I watched you on that show, cooking in impossible conditions, never complaining, never sacrificing quality in spite of the circumstances.”

“It was just a competition.”

“It revealed your character.” His gaze held mine. “You don’t cut corners. Neither do I.”

The kettle whistled, jarring me out of our connection. I turned to remove it from the heat, semi-grateful for the distraction.

“Thank you for the tea,” Jonathan said, rising from his seat. “I should let you finish.”

My hands busied themselves with wiping down the counter. “Sleep well, Mr. Black.”

“Jonathan,” he corrected, his voice a deep rumble. He stood, towering in the doorway. “My name is Jonathan.”

“Jonathan,” I repeated, the name feeling unexpectedly intimate on my tongue.

He smiled—a genuine expression that transformed his face—before turning to leave. His broad shoulder brushed the doorframe as he exited, his presence lingering long after he’d gone.

I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. The yacht’s gentle motion beneath my feet wasn’t the only thing making me feel unbalanced. I needed to maintain professional distance, but something about Jonathan Black made that increasingly difficult.

I closed my eyes, fingers gripping the edge of the stainless steel. I was here for the money, my future restaurant, and a second chance at my dream. Not for the way his presence made my pulse quicken or how his gaze seemed to see right through me.

“Focus, Janet,” I muttered to myself, returning to my prep work with renewed resolve. “Just do your damn job.”