Page 50 of The Grumpy Billionaire
I squinted through the afternoon sun to see him emerge from the rear of the yacht. “As I’ll ever be, I guess.”
Reid waited for me to reach the top of the ramp, holding out a hand to help me cross. His grip was strong and warm and triggered vivid images from the previous night’s dreams. I pulled my fingers away as soon as my feet reached the deck.
As tired and tense as I was, Reid looked rested and relaxed. And hot.
He wore a cream-colored sweater with expensive-looking navy shorts and deck shoes. Seeing him here on his boat, I suddenly realized why he was sporting a tan in the fall. He continued to enjoy time out on the water long after beach season ended for most Rhode Islanders.
“Thanks for coming today,” he said. It was almost funny how he continued to thank me for doing something I had no choice about.
“We’ll see how grateful you are when I’m puking all over your gorgeous yacht,” I warned. “I hope you have a bucket around here somewhere.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small box. “I’ve got something even better. Here, go ahead and take these.”
He handed me two tiny white tablets. “They’re motion sickness pills. By the time we reach open ocean, they’ll have kicked in. You should be fine.”
“So you remember my little problem.” I took the tablets from his hand with a rueful grin.
Reid dropped his voice to a soft tone that was almost menacing. “I remember everything, Mara.”
There was a quick skip in my chest. Unsure how to respond to his comment, I ignored it. “Um, can I get another one of those for later?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think you’ll need it. That’s probably enough to last all day.”
But I held out my hand, and he acquiesced, dropping the travel-sized bottle into my open palm.
“Better safe than sorry,” I said.
Reid showed me around the three-level vessel. “I know boats aren’t your favorite thing, but since we’ll be doing some filming here, I thought you might like to see the layout, start getting some shots in mind for the—what did you call it—b-roll?”
“Yes. That’s what we call the video that goes with a story and fills in the spaces between the sound bites—the interview parts. Sometimes the editor will lay b-roll over the interviews so you hear the person’s voice but see something more interesting than a talking head for several minutes.”
Although, as I watched Reid’s smiling face in conversation, the wind ruffling his hair, there wasn’t much I’d personally find more interesting to look at.
Damn it, Mara. Get control of your thoughts.
I tore my gaze away from him, focusing instead on the receding harbor behind us, on the shoreline slipping past as the yacht picked up speed. We passed Brady’s Wharf and some harbor-front condos then a Revolutionary War fort whose grounds were now used for the annual Eastport Bay Jazz and Folk Festivals.
“I hope your photographer’s not afraid of going out on the water,” Reid said.
“Oh, Sheldon will love this,” I assured him. “He can’t wait for his turn to follow you around.”
Reid laughed. “Well, I thinkyou’regoing to love what I have planned for today.”
“What are we doing? Fishing?”
I couldn’t imagine loving that, but what else did you do on a boat? Anyway, I was here to work, to fulfill Reid’s requirement, not to have fun. It didn’t matter whether I enjoyed his plans for the day. I rather hoped I wouldn’t.
“No. Not exactly,” was Reid’s cryptic answer.
He refused to elaborate, so I settled in for the ride. We sat in chairs on the lower deck, with Reid pointing out the landmarks we passed—lighthouses, tiny islands, impressive coastal homes with pretentious names and famous owners, places I’d glimpsed from the street side but never from this angle where our view of their impressive properties and private beaches was unobstructed.
After about fifteen minutes, a man joined us on deck, surprising me with his presence. Reid introduced him as his chef, the one who normally worked in his Eastport Bay weekend home.
There was also a captain on board somewhere—Reid promised I’d meet him later.
The chef, Vincenzo, spoke with a thick Italian accent and laid out a gorgeous “afternoon snack” as he called it. To me, it looked like enough food to feed our whole newsroom.
There were fruits and cheeses, sliced baguettes, steamed shrimp and crab legs. He also opened a bottle of Chardonnay in one quick, practiced move, and poured a glass for each of us before disappearing below deck.
