Be Brave With Me

Chapter Three

Usually, he loved a great party. The music, the good vibes, the excitement of not knowing how the night would end, the allusion that it never would. Usually, he was the one hosting them and taking care that they turned out great. Usually, he was not the one crashing them.

Looking like he had spent the entire day in the back of a truck with a flock of hens. Smelling like it, too.

Fuck. He so did not want to head up there.

For the last ten minutes, Theo had hid below the radar of the main deck, crouching low on the swimming platform at the boat's stern and keeping out of sight in the darkening shadows. Trying to figure out the best way to do this.

How to crash into a rich, exclusive, yacht party smelling like chicken shit.

He'd considered every possible angle and approach, but there was no way around it. He had to get up there. How else was he supposed to find whoever was in charge of the crew and report for duty? He was already two hours late. He hated being late. You weren't brought up among bell boys in coattails and polished chandeliers and not expected to be on time for every meal and every afternoon tea.

Manners maketh man, son.

How often had he heard those words growing up? Spoken by his Dad from behind his pulpit, the massive, mahogany reception sitting in the middle of The Harrington's lobby.

Theo straightened his spine, tightened the hold on his duffle bag and took the stairs two at a time. Once he'd reached the main deck, he kept his head down and his eyes trained on the dusty, grimy tips of his canvas shoes, squeezing his way through the thick throng of bodies on the dance floor.

Hoping, praying that no one would take notice of him.

"Theodore Harrington?"

Fuck.

Theo looked up, busted.

But instead of facing one of his old college roommates in the midst of spending his trust fund on getting high on Mykonos - and the ensuing embarrassment of having to explain his dirty jeans and that smell around him - Theo found a tiny, elderly woman peering up in his face.

He nodded once to confirm his identity.

"You're late. You should never be late. But you're here now, at least. Follow me." Her clipped words, laced with a Spanish accent, allowed no time for any lengthy introductions.

Theo did as he was told. Because you did not not follow a command like that uttered in such a tone. The woman didn't reach up to his elbows, but she confidently navigated her way through the crowds, leaving a swath of open space behind her like a tornado cutting across the Midwest. Behind the massive bar at the back of the even bigger main salon, she opened a door that was concealed in an intricate backdrop of brass shelves and glass tiles. She motioned for him to follow her down a narrow staircase into the belly of the boat.

Downstairs, they were greeted by an onslaught of heat and noise that only came out of a very busy kitchen. Dressed plates sat on the heating counter, ready to be served. A red-faced chef juggled pots and pans on a stove in between chopping veggies. One guy was loading fresh champagne flutes onto his tray, another - who was the other's spitting image - was unloading dirty dishes off of his.

The tension drained out of Theo's shoulders. He'd dreaded to stumble ill-prepared into an unfamiliar setting. But he knew this scene, those sounds, those smells. He had grown up being chased around the kitchens at The Harrington. His Dad had lifted him up to taste-test dishes that sat under heating lamps when he wasn't even three. He had served his first cup of tea to his Mom at the age of five. The tray sitting on the tips of his fingers hadn't wobbled once.