Ten
Between a late night shifting the menu, tossing and turning over memories of Seb, and being up early to handle breakfast orders, I was running on minimal sleep. The crew food was out, and I made the special dishes for our guests. Roy was assisting, chopping and dicing as my sous chef.
Harper, one of the deckhands, flounced into the galley, seething. “One of the lounge chairs upstairs is completely ruined. That bratty girl Elsa,” Harper spit. “She got ahold of some markers and ‘decorated’ one of the white lounge chairs up on the bridge deck, the ones right off the bedroom where her parents were! How can they be so negligent? Where is the nanny?”
Roy and I exchanged glances at her tirade but had to keep working. There was nothing we could say anyway. Harper knew what to do: the lounge
