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

Jonathan

T he makeshift shelter offered minimal protection from the elements, but it would have to do for now.

I’d gathered enough palm fronds and branches to create a roof that wouldn’t collapse with the first rainfall.

Janet had been right about using the yacht’s salvaged tarp as additional waterproofing.

Her practicality impressed me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Her resilience was why I’d requested her specifically for this voyage.

When I saw her on that ridiculous cooking show, battling the elements while creating gourmet meals over an open flame, I knew she possessed something rare—not just talent but determination and an unwillingness to compromise regardless of the circumstances.

“Your shelter-building skills aren’t half bad,” Janet said, ducking under the palm frond roof to join me. She handed me a bottle of water we’d salvaged from the yacht. “For a pharmaceutical executive.”

I accepted the bottle, my fingers brushing against hers. “Military school has its advantages.”

“So that’s where you learned to cook, too?”

“Cook is a generous description of what they taught us.” I took a swig from the bottle. “More like learning which field rations were least likely to make you sick.”

Janet settled beside me, close enough that I could smell the saltwater in her hair. The cut on her forehead had scabbed over, but the bruise beneath it had darkened to a deep purple against her brown skin.

“Why did you ask for me specifically?” she asked suddenly.

My hand stilled mid-air. “What?”

“You said other chefs applied for the yacht, but you chose me. Why?”

I considered deflecting but decided against it. There was no point in pretensions now. “I saw you on ‘Extreme Chef.’ The episode where the rainstorm flooded your cooking station.”

“And you thought I’d look good in a chef’s jacket on your yacht?” Her tone held a sharpness I hadn’t heard before.

“No.” I turned to face her directly. “I saw how you handled the situation. Everyone else panicked, abandoned their dishes, and complained to the judges. You adapted. You moved your fire to higher ground, elevated your ingredients on rocks, and used the rain as part of your sauce.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“You saw a problem and fixed it without drama,” I continued. “That’s rare. Most people fall apart when their plans disintegrate.”

“Like yacht vacations turning into shipwrecks?” She smirked.

“Exactly like that.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, wincing slightly. “So, you wanted me for my crisis management skills? That seems excessive for a two-week charter.”

I hesitated, unsure how to explain without sounding ridiculous. “My life runs on precision. Every meeting, every decision, every investment—all of it is calculated. I value people who maintain standards regardless of circumstances.”

“Control issues,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“You have control issues.” She didn’t phrase it as a question. “You surround yourself with people who won’t disrupt your precisely ordered world.”

Her directness caught me off guard. While most people tiptoed around me, careful not to offend the billionaire, Janet spoke to me as if I was anyone else. It was refreshing and maddening simultaneously.

“I prefer to call it discernment,” I said.

“Call it whatever you want.” She shrugged, then looked out toward the ocean. “Ironic that someone so focused on control would end up here.”

The observation stung more than it should have. After all, she was right. If I’d listened to the captain’s concerns about the weather instead of insisting we maintain our course, we might not be stranded.

“About that,” I said, turning to face her. “I owe you an apology.”

She raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“The captain and crew warned me about the storm. I dismissed their concerns. I was so focused on making our arrival in Saint Barthélemy on schedule that I?—”

“That you made a bad call,” she finished for me.

“Yes.”

She studied me for a long moment. “At least you can admit it.”

“Does that earn me any points?”

“This isn’t a game, Jonathan.” But there was no real anger in her voice. “Though I suppose there are worse people to be stranded with than a control freak with survival training.”

I laughed. “Your ability to find humor in a disaster is another reason I hired you.”

“You hired me because I’m funny?”

“I hired you because you’re extraordinary.”

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us shifted, charged even.

She broke contact first, clearing her throat. “We should go through the supplies again. Take inventory of what we have.”

“Right.” I welcomed the return to practicality. “Let’s be methodical.”

We spread our salvaged items on the tarp: first aid kit, water bottles, canned goods, my satellite phone, waterlogged and useless, her knife roll, rope, matches in a waterproof container, some clothing, a few blankets, and various other items we’d managed to rescue from the yacht.

“Not bad for a first salvage,” Janet said, organizing the food supplies. “Though we’ll need to find fresh water soon. These bottles won’t last more than a few days.”

I nodded, mentally calculating our needs. “There must be a freshwater source on the island. The vegetation is too lush otherwise.”

“Tomorrow we should explore inland,” she suggested. “And we need to set up some kind of signal for passing ships.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said, pointing toward the yacht’s broken hull. “If we could retrieve the emergency flares?—”

“They’d be in the bridge,” Janet said. “Which was underwater when we were there earlier.”

“The tide will be lower in the morning. I could try then.”

She frowned. “That’s risky. The yacht’s position could shift at any time.”

“It’s a calculated risk.” I met her gaze steadily. “Unless you have a better idea?”

She seemed about to argue, then sighed. “No. But you’re not going alone.”

“Your head injury?—”

“Is not debilitating,” she cut me off. “And four hands are better than two. We’ll go together.”

The assertiveness in her tone surprised me. Most people simply deferred to my decisions, but Janet challenged me at every turn. It was oddly thrilling.

“Alright,” I conceded. “We’ll go together.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied, and returned to organizing our supplies.

The silence between us grew comfortable as we worked.

When had that happened? In the short time we’d spent together on the yacht, I’d noticed how easily conversation flowed between us.

Even our silences felt natural, not the awkward pauses I often experienced with others.

“Tell me something,” Janet said suddenly.

“What do you want to know?”

“That night before the storm, you mentioned working on contracts. Were you really preparing for meetings, or was that just an excuse?”

Her question took me off guard. “Why would I need an excuse?”

She shrugged. “I saw how you looked at me sometimes when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Warmth settled across my skin. “I respect professional boundaries.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I sighed, running a hand over my fade. “Yes, I was actually preparing for meetings. A pharmaceutical partnership that would expand access to the antibiotic we developed.”

“The one you created after your sister got sick?”

“Yes. I’m glad you remembered.”

“Of course.” She arranged the canned goods by type. “It’s not every day you meet someone who changed careers to save lives.”

“I didn’t save her life. The doctors did.” I paused as memories flooded back. “But watching her suffer, seeing how close she came to dying from what should have been a treatable infection, changed my perspective.”

“In what way?”

I considered the question. Janet’s disarming way of asking things directly made me want to answer honestly.

“It made me realize how pointless many of my ambitions were,” I admitted. “I was on track to become another Wall Street shark, making millions shuffling other people’s money around. Angela’s illness forced me to confront the emptiness of that path.”

Janet was watching me with unexpected intensity. “So, you switched from finance to biochemistry? That’s not exactly an easy pivot.”

“I’ve never been interested in easy.”

“Clearly.” She gestured to our makeshift camp on a deserted island.

I chuckled. “This wasn’t exactly in my five-year plan.”

“What was?” she asked. “In your five-year plan?”

The question was innocuous enough, but something about how she asked made me pause. Her interest seemed genuine, not the calculated attention I typically received from people hoping to benefit from my wealth or connections.

“Expanding our antibiotic research, primarily,” I said. “Moving into treatments for other resistant infections. Maybe stepping back from the business side to focus on research again.”

“You miss being in the lab,” she observed.

“Yes.” The admission came easily. “Running the company is necessary, but it’s not where my passion lies.”

“Like me and cooking,” she said. “The business side of my restaurant consumed so much energy that I sometimes forgot why I became a chef in the first place.”

“Which was?”

“The pure creation.” Her face brightened as she spoke. “Taking raw ingredients and transforming them into something that brings people joy.”

The passion in her voice resonated deep inside me. How long had it been since I’d spoken with someone who understood that kind of drive?

Night had fallen fully now, the darkness broken only by the small fire we’d built. The flames cast shifting patterns of light across Janet’s face, highlighting the resolve in her eyes.

“We should rest,” I said finally. “Tomorrow will be demanding.”

She nodded, suppressing a yawn. “You’re right.” She hesitated. “About the sleeping arrangements...”

I gestured to the shelter. “It’s big enough for both of us to have space. I’ll stay on my side.”

“Such a gentleman,” she said with a hint of teasing. “And here I thought billionaires were used to getting whatever they wanted.”

“Is that what you think of me?” The question came out more vulnerable than I’d intended.

She studied me for a long moment. “I think you’re more complicated than the wealthy businessman who first interviewed me in that kitchen.” She stood up, brushing sand from her jeans. “Goodnight, Jonathan.”

“Goodnight, Janet.”

As she crawled into our makeshift shelter, I remained by the fire, my thoughts churning. When I first saw Janet on that cooking show, I was captivated by her competence and unwillingness to compromise with the odds of the obstacles. I’d wanted that energy on my yacht, around my business associates.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the woman herself—direct, perceptive, and utterly unimpressed by my wealth or status.

She saw through the facade I presented to the world, challenging me at every turn.

Not to mention, she was flawlessly gorgeous, with brown eyes that saw straight through me, shoulder-length hair, and a curvy body.

I could admit that my mouth watered when she walked into my yacht's kitchen, and I wanted to taste her as much as her food.

But I held my primal desires in check for professional poise.

And now here we were, stranded together on an unknown island, completely removed from the power dynamics that would normally define our relationship. There was no crew to maintain professional distance and no business associates watching my every move.

Just us, stripped of pretenses, forced to rely on each other for survival.

It was terrifying and, strangely, exhilarating.

I doused the fire and went to the shelter, carefully staying on my designated side. Janet’s breathing had already deepened into sleep, her face relaxed and vulnerable in the dim light filtering through the palm fronds.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges: the yacht’s precarious position, our limited supplies, and the uncertain prospect of rescue. But for the first time in years, I wasn’t meticulously planning three steps ahead. There was something freeing about being forced into the present moment.

Perhaps Janet was right. I did have control issues. And maybe this island was the universe’s way of forcing me to let go.