Page 16 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire

“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 stretchedinto 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.”

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