I thought I’d been doing an all right job. It wasn’t exactly hard. And I thought, despite the concern I’d voiced to him earlier, he at least liked me. But who had I been kidding? From the moment I’d arrived, Xavier Pascale and I had been at odds. The friendly boss-employee relationship I’d caught glimpses of were clearly an illusion. I thought of the hard look he’d given me after I fell against him when the boat slowed so abruptly. I’d never known it was possible to repulse someone you had a crush on so utterly.

“What do you think, Josie?” Rod asked me.

I blinked, a forkful of forgotten ravioli halfway to my mouth, and realized everyone was staring at me. Everyone but Captain Paco. He was having dinner with Monsieur Pascale and Dauphine this evening on the upper deck.

“Um, I’m sorry, what do I think about what?” I managed, my voice dredged from somewhere far away.

Rod smirked. “About whether Chef should wax his back?”

My eyebrows shot up.

“Fuck off,” growled Chef, and there was a screech as he pushed his chair back and leaned over the table, grabbing Rod by the collar and knuckling his head. “That’s not what I said and I don’t have a hairy back.”

“Oi, get off,” yelped Rod. “Joking, mate. Joking.”

“Say sorry, you—”

“Children, children,” said Evan calmly as he deftly moved his glass of water from under Chef’s elbow where it was in danger of being batted off the table.

I held my breath as Rod tried to jerk himself free from the merciless ribbing. And I cringed as I waited for something to actually be knocked over.

Finally, Chef let go, straightened his shirt and sat. “Hmmph,” he sounded grouchily.

“Bloody hell.” Rod rubbed his head. “Sore spot was it?” he baited.

Chef feinted another move, chuckling as Rod jerked back on instinct.

“The ravioli is delicious,” I told Chef, even though until now I’d barely tasted a thing. But I was eager to help move the group along. I focused on my plate and took another bite. It was homemade as always, filled to bursting with a soft buttery cheese, herbs, and a hint of truffle. God, I’d miss his cooking.

Chef shrugged. “Simple food. I don’t get inspired cooking for this lot.” Even though this ravioli was far from simple to my palate, and he was clearly being humble and also throwing in a dig at Rod.

“No complaints on preferring simplicity here,” said Rod, deliberately pushing the scrumptious and far from simple pasta around his plate, his tone sarcastic. “I’d rather eat baked beans on toast than this swill, anyway.”

Chef growled.

Everyone else laughed.