Page 6 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire (Billionaire Row #5)

Jonathan

O ne week became seven days of sand in places I never knew existed. Seven days without a proper shower, a real bed, or any contact with the outside world. Seven days of watching my multi-million-dollar yacht sink deeper into the water with each passing tide.

The makeshift calendar I’d created using stones on a flat piece of driftwood marked our time on this island. It was a useless exercise, but it gave me some semblance of control in a situation where I had none.

“You’re doing it again,” Janet said, approaching from the tree line. She carried a makeshift basket woven from palm fronds, filled with tropical fruit we’d discovered growing inland.

“Doing what?” I stacked another stone in the row.

“That thing where you stare at the yacht like you can will it back to working condition.” She set the basket down. “Breakfast is ready, by the way.”

I straightened up, feeling the pull of my sore muscles. My hands, once manicured and soft, now bore calluses and minor cuts from our daily work. “I’m not used to feeling this... ineffective.”

“Ineffective? We have shelter, food, water, and fire. I’d say we’re doing pretty damn well.” She handed me a piece of fruit—some tropical variety I couldn’t name. “Try this one. It’s sweet.”

I took a bite. The juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand—a small action that would have been unthinkable in my previous life.

“We’re surviving, not thriving.”

“Spoken like a true CEO.” She sat beside me on the log we’d positioned as our dining area. “Most people would consider not dying on a deserted island a major win.”

Her practicality constantly surprised me. Where I saw problems, she saw solutions. When I focused on what we lacked, she inventoried what we had.

“Where did you learn to weave baskets?” I asked, nodding toward her creation.

“YouTube. Dad and I used to watch survival videos together. I thought it was cool.” She took a bite of her own fruit. “Never imagined I’d actually need the skills.”

“Bravo.”

Her smile warmed me, and we ate in silence, watching the waves crash against the shore. The morning air carried a salty freshness that reminded me this wasn’t all bad. At least the air here was cleaner than in any city.

“I need to check the signal fire,” I said, finishing my fruit. “Make sure it’s visible from the water.”

Janet nodded. “I’ll come with you. I need to get more of these rocks for the water collection system anyway.”

We walked along the beach toward the highest point on our side of the island.

Janet had worn one of my salvaged shirts, tied at the waist to accommodate her frame.

Her jeans had been cut off at mid-thigh, exposing brown skin that I dreamed of gripping, to make shorts in the tropical heat.

Even disheveled, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, she carried herself with a confidence I was increasingly drawn to.

The signal fire sat atop a rocky outcropping, positioned to be visible from multiple angles at sea. We’d built a large pyramid of driftwood, ready to be lit if we spotted a ship or plane.

“The wood’s still dry,” Janet observed, checking underneath the tarp we’d positioned as protection from rain. “We should add more, though. That last pile is getting low.”

I nodded. “I’ll gather some this afternoon.” I scanned the horizon out of habit, knowing the chances of seeing a passing ship were slim. According to the navigation charts we’d salvaged, we were well off the usual shipping lanes.

“You’re starting to bake,” Janet said, glancing at my arms as I adjusted the signal tarp. “Your skin is darker, more chocolaty,” she giggled. “It looks good on you. Yummy, even.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yummy? You sound as if you want a taste, Chef Banks.”

Her giggle deepened. “It’s just an observation.” She tossed a rock from hand to hand, deciding to steer the conversation to safer grounds. “Though I suppose even billionaires need occasional ego boosts.”

“My ego is the least of my concerns right now.”

“Is it, though?” She fixed me with that direct gaze that seemed to see through me. “Your biggest struggle this week hasn’t been the physical challenges. It’s been letting go of control.”

I wanted to deny it, but she wasn’t wrong. “Having money means having options. Always.” I ran a hand over my fade, the edges now growing out. “Out here, my bank account means nothing.”

“Welcome to how the rest of us live.” She gestured around us. “We have limited options, and we make the best of what we have.”

“Is that what you did with your restaurant?” I asked.

Her expression tightened. “That’s different.”

“Is it? You had a dream, limited resources, and did your best.”

“And failed.” She turned away, picking up more rocks.

“Failure is temporary unless you make it permanent.” I took the rocks from her hands, our fingers brushing. “You’ll open another restaurant.”

“Easy for you to say. You could lose millions and still live comfortably.”

“This isn’t about money.”

She scoffed. “It’s always about money.”

“No.” I stepped closer, close enough to reach her soul through her brown eyes. “It’s about passion. You have it. I’ve seen it when you cook, even here with limited ingredients.”

She didn’t back away, but I could see the conflict in her eyes. “Why do you care about my restaurant dreams?”

A question I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Why did I care? A week ago, Janet Banks was an employee, a chef hired to perform a service. Now...

“Because I recognize drive when I see it,” I said finally. “And it would be a waste if you gave up.”

She studied me for a moment before turning back to her rock collecting. “We should head back. I need to check on the water filtration system.”

I recognized the deflection but didn’t push. The week had taught me that Janet processed things in her own time, on her own terms. Another aspect of control I had to surrender.

We gathered rocks in silence, loading them into our makeshift carriers. As we turned to head back to camp, Janet paused, looking out over the ocean.

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think we’ll be rescued?”

The vulnerability in her question caught me off guard. Janet rarely showed uncertainty, focusing instead on immediate needs and practical solutions.

“Yes,” I said, with more conviction than I felt. “But until then, we keep surviving.”

She nodded once, squaring her shoulders, and we continued our walk back to camp.

The afternoon stretched into the evening as we completed our now-routine tasks. Janet checked and refined the water collection system we’d built using salvaged plastic and leaves while I reinforced our shelter against the winds that had picked up over the past two nights.

“I think that’ll hold,” I said, stepping back to inspect my work. The shelter had evolved from our initial makeshift lean-to into a more substantial hut with walls of woven branches and a sloped roof that channeled rainwater into one of our collection buckets.

“Impressive,” Janet said, approaching from the water’s edge. “You know, you’re surprisingly handy for a billionaire pharmaceutical executive.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow. “Military school, remember? We built structures much more complicated than this.”

“Rich kid boot camp,” she teased, handing me our refilled water bottle.

“It wasn’t exactly optional.” I took a drink, savoring the coolness. “My father believed in building character through discipline.”

“Did it work?”

I considered the question. “In some ways. I learned self-reliance and leadership. But it also taught me to keep everything tightly controlled.”

“Hence your current predicament.” She gestured around us.

“What about you?” I changed the subject. “What was your childhood like?”

Janet sat on a fallen log near our fire pit. “Nomadic. Military family, moving every few years. Italy, Germany, Japan, stateside bases.”

“That explains your cooking style,” I observed, joining her. “All those influences.”

“Food was how I found home in each new place.” She began preparing our dinner—fish I’d caught earlier, seasoned with wild herbs she’d discovered. “Learn the local cuisine, and you understand the people.”

I watched her work, her hands moving with grace and skill. “You never mentioned your mother.”

“She left when I was six. Couldn’t handle the military lifestyle.” Her tone remained neutral, but I caught the slight tension in her shoulders. “My dad raised me alone after that.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was our normal.” She expertly filleted the fish on a flat stone. “What about your family? Beyond the stern father and ill sister?”

“My mother was the social butterfly, always hosting charity events and galas. She cared more about appearances than substance.” I helped by feeding small sticks into the fire.

“My brother followed in her footsteps. He attended Harvard Business School, married the ‘right’ woman, and took his place at all the proper social functions.”

“And you were the rebel?” She placed the fish on our makeshift grill—salvaged metal from the yacht.

“Not deliberately. I just couldn’t see the point of it all. Even before Angela got sick, I questioned the path laid out for me.”

Janet turned the fish, the sizzling sound mixing with the crash of waves. “Yet you still ended up wealthy and powerful.”

“Different path, same destination?”

“Something like that.”

The conversation lulled as Janet finished cooking. This past week, we’d settled into an easy rhythm, dividing tasks based on our strengths. Her culinary skills made our basic provisions enjoyable, while my physical strength and mechanical knowledge helped with the heavier work.

“Here,” she said, handing me a palm leaf with my portion. “Not exactly five-star dining, but it’ll keep us going.”

I took a bite, surprised yet again by how good it tasted. “How do you make such basic ingredients taste this good?”

“Technique matters more than fancy equipment.” She joined me, sitting cross-legged on her section of the log. “A lesson every chef learns early.”

“That could apply to many things,” I mused. “We focus so much on acquiring tools and resources that we neglect developing actual skill.”

“Says the man with a yacht.” But there was no malice in her words, just gentle teasing.

“Had a yacht,” I corrected, gesturing toward the increasingly submerged vessel.

We ate as darkness fell, the fire dancing shadows across our small camp. Stars emerged overhead, more brilliant than I’d ever seen in the city.

“When I was little,” Janet said, looking up, “my dad would point out constellations wherever we were stationed. No matter how far from home we went, the stars remained constant.”

I followed her gaze upward. “Can you still identify them?”

“Some.” She pointed. “Orion’s belt there. The Big Dipper. Southern Cross low on the horizon.”

“That last one helps confirm we’re in the southern hemisphere,” I noted.

“I knew that from the tropical flora and the position of the midday sun.” She glanced at me, brandishing white teeth in the firelight. “Not just a pretty face with a knife.”

I laughed, and the sound surprised even me. When was the last time I’d laughed genuinely? “I never assumed you were just anything, Janet.”

Our eyes met across the fire, and something shifted in the air between us. A week of survival, of seeing each other stripped of pretense and position, had created a connection I hadn’t anticipated.

She broke the contact first, standing to clear our plates. “We should get some rest. Tomorrow, I want to explore the western side of the island. I might find more food sources.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, rising to help. “After I recheck the yacht. The navigation equipment might still be salvageable if the water level has dropped.”

“You’re obsessed with that yacht.”

“Not the yacht itself,” I clarified. “What it represents. Communication. Rescue. Getting back to our lives.”

She paused in her cleaning. “And if rescue doesn’t come soon? What then?”

The question was heavier than it should have been. What then, indeed? How long before temporary survival became permanent existence? How long before we had to accept this island as our new reality?

“Then we adapt,” I said finally. “Like you did on that cooking show. We work with what we have.”

Janet studied me for a long moment. “You’re different than I expected, Jonathan Black.”

“How so?”

“When we met, I thought you were just another entitled rich guy playing with his expensive toys.” She set the clean palm leaves aside. “But you’re more...”

“More?”

“Adaptable,” she finished. “In spite of your control issues.”

“That’s high praise from the survival expert,” I said, smiling and high fiving myself.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. You still take unnecessarily long showers in our limited freshwater pool.”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“Practicality is next to survival,” she countered.

We moved around each other easily, banking the fire for the night and securing our camp. Our shelter, while basic, had become oddly comfortable. We’d created separate sleeping areas using salvaged fabric and palm fronds, maintaining a pretense of privacy that grew thinner each day.

As we prepared for sleep, Janet turned to face me. “Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad it was you,” she said softly. “That I’m stranded with, I mean. Could have been worse.”

She disappeared inside the hut, leaving me standing in the moonlight, pondering her words.

It could have been worse, indeed. A week ago, I would have considered this situation the worst possible outcome—no communication, no control, no certainty of rescue. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Because even with everything we lacked, I’d found something unexpected on this island—a connection with someone who saw me, not my wealth or status or accomplishments, but me—someone who challenged, frustrated, and impressed me in equal measure.

I entered the shelter quietly, careful not to disturb Janet in her section. I could just make out her form in the dim light, already relaxed in sleep. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, in this moment, powerlessness didn’t feel quite so threatening.

There may be freedom in letting go of control.