Page 4 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire (Billionaire Row #5)

He nodded toward a pile of items neatly stacked above the tide line—a metal box I recognized as a first aid kit, several bottles of water, a coil of rope, and various other supplies.

“I made two trips while you were unconscious. I’d like to use your expertise for the kitchen and see what food we can recover.”

I brushed sand from my jeans, and my chef’s instincts kicked in. “Let’s go now. Who knows how long that yacht will hold its position.”

Jonathan studied me, his eyes lingering on the injury on my head. “Are you sure you’re up for it? That gash?—”

“I’ll be fine.” The throb intensified as I spoke. “We need supplies more than I need rest.”

A smirk crossed his face. “Extreme Chef’s instincts kicking in?”

“Something like that.” I scanned the beach again, looking for any sign of the others. Nothing but empty sand stretched in both directions. “How do we get out there?”

“Wade at low tide, swim at high. It’s low now. The water’s only chest-deep at the deepest point.”

I nodded, then immediately regretted the movement as pain scurried through my skull. “Let’s go.”

The water felt shockingly cold after the warmth of the sand. I gasped as it reached my waist, my clothes growing heavy as they soaked through.

“Careful here,” Jonathan extended his hand. “The footing gets tricky.”

I took his offered hand, noticing how small mine looked engulfed in his. We picked our way through the water, navigating around jagged rocks and slippery patches of seaweed.

The yacht loomed closer, its sleek lines now broken and battered. The once-gleaming white hull was scraped and dented, streaked with seaweed and sand.

“We need to climb up this side,” Jonathan said, pointing to a section where the yacht’s tilt had created a makeshift ramp. “Watch for sharp edges.”

He went first, his powerful frame scaling the slanted surface with surprising agility. At the top, he turned and reached down to help me up.

Standing on the yacht’s side felt wrong, and gravity pulled me sideways. Jonathan kept a steady hand on my arm as we carefully made our way to a broken window that now served as our entrance.

Inside, the yacht’s interior had become an alien landscape. Furniture that once stood on the floor now projected from walls. Shattered glass and broken fixtures created a hazardous obstacle course that we had to navigate with extreme care.

“The kitchen’s this way,” I said, picking through the debris. “If it’s not completely underwater.”

We navigated through the tilted corridors, using handholds where we could find them. The kitchen door had been torn from its hinges, allowing us to enter what had once been my domain.

The sight hit me harder than I expected. My beautiful kitchen laid in ruins—cabinets burst open, equipment scattered, food and broken dishes everywhere. The rhythmic slosh of seawater against the far wall marked where half the room disappeared beneath the waterline.

“What should we prioritize?” Jonathan asked, surveying the chaos.

I snapped into assessment mode. “Anything sealed and non-perishable. Canned goods, pasta, rice.” I pointed to a cabinet that remained mostly intact. “There should be a stash of energy bars in there. And we need tools—my knife roll if you can find it.”

Jonathan nodded and immediately moved toward the cabinet I’d indicated. I waded through broken plates toward another storage area, pulling out canned vegetables and sealed packages of dried fruits.

“I got your knives,” Jonathan called, holding up my waterproof knife roll. “And these.” He showed me a handful of energy bars.

“Perfect.” I continued my search, locating salt, pepper, and other spices in sealed containers. “Any pots or pans survive?”

Jonathan dug through a pile of kitchenware. “Cast iron skillet. Dented but usable. Small pot, too.”

We worked methodically, gathering everything of value. Within twenty minutes, we’d accumulated a respectable pile of salvage.

“How do we get all this back?” I asked, eyeing our haul.

Jonathan unwrapped a waterproof tarp he’d found. “We’ll make a bundle, and I’ll carry it on my back.” He began arranging our findings in the center of the tarp.

“I can carry some, too,” I protested.

“You’ve got a concussion.” His tone left no room for argument. “I need you focused on not passing out in the water.”

I wanted to argue but knew he was right. My head throbbed, and occasional waves of dizziness washed over me like the tide.

We secured the supplies in the tarp, creating a makeshift backpack with some rope. Jonathan hoisted it onto his broad shoulders, grunting to adjust the weight.

“Anything else essential before we head back?” he asked.

I gave the ruined kitchen one last look. “No. We’ve got what we need for now.”

The journey back to shore proved more challenging than our trip out. The added weight made Jonathan move more cautiously, and the tide had begun to rise, deepening the water in places.

By the time we reached the beach, my legs trembled with exhaustion, and the cut on my head pulsed with renewed pain.

Jonathan set down our salvage, then turned to me. “Sit. Now.”

For once, I didn’t argue. I sank onto the sand, closing my eyes against the spinning sensation that threatened to overtake me.

I felt him kneel beside me. “Let me see that wound properly.”

His fingers gently probed the gash on my forehead. I winced but didn’t pull away.

“It needs cleaning, but I don’t think you need stitches.” He opened the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic wipes. “This will sting.”

The antiseptic burned against the open cut. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his touch surprisingly soft for such large hands. “Almost done.”

Once clean, he applied a butterfly bandage, sealing the edges of the wound together.

“Where’d you learn first aid?” I asked as he packed up the supplies.

“Military school,” he replied. “Then refreshers every year for wilderness expeditions. My company sponsors them.”

I looked at him with new curiosity. “You never mentioned military school.”

“There’s a lot we haven’t had time to mention, considering we’ve only known each other for a week.” He smirked and closed the first aid kit with a decisive snap. “How do you know so much about survival situations?”

“My dad was military. He taught me everything he knew.” I gazed out at the partially submerged yacht. “I never thought I’d need those skills like this.”

Jonathan followed my gaze. “We need to make a plan. Shelter, fire, a signal for rescue.”

“Food and water,” I added. “I don’t know how long what we salvaged will last.”

“One problem at a time.” He stood, surveying the tree line behind us. “First, we need somewhere to sleep that isn’t exposed to the elements.”

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to send me back down. “I can help with that.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Positive.” I squared my shoulders, determination replacing my fear. “I’m not some helpless chef who can only function in a kitchen.”

A genuine smile spread across his face. “I never thought you were.”

We stood on the beach, the reality of our situation settling around us like the sand beneath our feet. There was no crew, luxury, or certainty of rescue—just us, a pile of salvaged supplies, and whatever skills we possessed.

“Let’s get to work,” I said, picking up my knife roll from our supplies. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”