“Hey you,” Andrea said, hurrying up the stairs. “Just got the downstairs bedding out of the dryer and remade the beds.” Then she looked at me and back at Chef and back at me.

“He knows about Xavier,” I said. “You told him?”

“I had to, remember? You have a dinner date in Calvi tonight.”

“Oh yeah.” I grinned. “Sorry, my mind is a bit …”

“Mushy? I bet. That was some kiss.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” I tried to rein in my smile by biting down on my bottom lip. But there was a bubble of giddiness inside that wouldn’t be kept down.

Chef whistled and waved a hand as he tidied up his small work station.

“I have a few minutes,” Andrea said. “You want to go sit in the living room? Or we can go down to your old cabin. It’s actually better to be lower in the boat on days like this, the rocking isn’t so bad.”

Chef took the saucer off the top of the mug. Steam rose. “Have at it.”

‘Thank you so much,” I told him, accepting the mug gratefully.

“Just remember what I said, yeah? Be careful.”

“I will.”

I followed Andrea downstairs. My bags were back in my room. “You said my old cabin, and it gave me an odd feeling like it was assumed I’d be in Mr. Pascale’s room tonight.”

“Okay, two things,” Andrea said, flopping down on the edge of my bed. “One, yes, you probably will, oh my God. But I thought you might need your own space if you want it.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I know we’re new friends, but yeah, I feel the same way.”

“I miss Tabitha and Meredith. But having you here totally makes up for it. Except that you are bearing witness to my ex-boss’ booty call. Which is not ideal.”

“Nah. I already chatted with the crew. Paco will stay on, but the rest of us, if it’s okay with Mr. P, are going to take two nights off in Calvi.”

My belly flipped, and I was filled with gratitude. “That’s nice of everyone.”

“It’s gorgeous there. And a bit different from the usual hoity-toity Riviera scene. And a break is welcome, trust me.”

“You said two things when we got down here? One I should have my own cabin. And two?” I took a careful sip of the hot ginger tea I was carrying and set it down on the dresser on a leather mat designed to stop things sliding off the varnished surface.

“Ah right. Two, you’re not going to call him Mister Pascale now that, you know, you’re …?” She waggled an eyebrow.

I chuckled. “Right. I guess I’m supposed to call him Xavier. I mean he’s asked me to before. It feels weird.”

“Not weirder than,” she lowered her voice to a sultry moan, “‘oh, yes, Mister Pascale—”’