Our voices die down and all we are left with is a sweet silence that is both comforting and comfortable. I want to stay in this moment forever but we are quickly interrupted.

“Hey, you missed one hell of a lunch! Did you get some of that alone time you wanted?” Ellis Holte asks. She plops down on the lounger next to me and asks the guy who I've been talking to for a refill of her drink.

“No, he doesn't do that,” I interject. But he just shrugs his shoulders and says he will get it for her anyway.

“Are you seriously at this point, already?” she asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about,” she says, pointing to her index finger adorned with a three-carat diamond ring in my face. It’s not an engagement ring, it’s a just because ring. “Are you already messing around with the help? I thought we would only be doing that when we are seven years into boring marriages, not while we are still single.”

"I'm not messing around with anyone," I say sternly.

I don't even know his name I note to myself. I run my tongue over my lower lip and repress the desire to talk to him again. Why do I even care?

Why am I so interested all of a sudden?

He is one of the only people that, no correct that, he is the only person who I have met who hasn't bored me. I couldn’t predict anything that was going to come out of his mouth and I want more of that.

Unfortunately, I don't see him again until later that night. His boss is watching his every move to make sure that he is doing a good job cleaning all of the decks of my father's boat. Of course, I could go up and talk to him myself, but I'm not quite ready to go that far out of my comfort zone.

After spending the whole day drinking, talking, and reading magazines, the girls are ready to shower, do their hair, and go out for a night on the town. Begrudgingly, I go through the motions as well. I finish before the rest and take a circle around the yacht, hoping to run into him again.

Him. The guy whose name I don’t even know.

Though I don't see him, I do see the manager. Mr. Madsen is in his sixties and has worked on my father's boat, overseeing all personnel, for as long as I can remember.

“Mr. Madsen, do you happen to know where I can find the guy who was cleaning the decks earlier today?” I ask as casually as possible.

If he wants to give me a knowing smile, he doesn't. Mr. Madsen is the epitome of professionalism.

“We had a few people working that position today. Henry Asher, Tom Cedar, and Elliot Dickinson.”