The Bucket List

9.1 The Party

Blonde Number Two has returned for her fourth (fifth?) shot of tequila.

I pretend not to notice her, focusing instead on the martini glass in my hands. She's been a pain in my ass all evening, stumbling around the deck of the superyacht known as The Iron Lady. Her favorite feature of said yacht appears to be the bar.

Go away, I beg the universe, scrubbing the martini glass harder than is strictly necessary. Just go away.

"Psst," she whispers, her fingertips fluttering right into my line of sight. "Hey. Hey. Can I get another shot?"

Lawrence—a lanky thirty-something whose hair is greying prematurely—snickers at me from the other end of the bar. He wears the same uniform as the rest of the staff: black pants, white dress shirt, charcoal vest. I readjust my own vest and scowl at him.

Turning, I offer the blonde—arm candy for one of the many influencers on this super-sized boat—a winning smile. "Sure thing."

Your job is to serve. Not to give advice. Not to play therapist. Not to set limits. Just. Serve.

Luca Ivanov's directive—given at the start of what's turning out to be a very, very long shift—was painfully clear. Which is exactly why I don't argue with Blonde Number Two as I pour the shot of tequila that will inevitably find its way in the bathroom toilet. If she doesn't yak on the bar.

"Maria!"

I sigh. The high-pitched squeal is a familiar (and unwelcome) one. I glance up just in time to see Blonde Number One stumble up to the bar, a designer purse dangling precariously from her fingers. She has the same platinum blonde hair and vacant brown eyes as her friend.

At least fifty other partygoers mill about on the upper deck, cocktails in hand as they laugh at terrible jokes and do their best to suck up to the birthday boy. An immaculately dressed Alexei soaks up their admiration like a sponge, beaming at everyone, including the servers. His enthusiasm knows no bounds.

Alexei catches my eye and waves. I wave back—and then promptly drop my arm when Larissa's focus snaps in my direction. She looks divine with her hair swept back in an elegant ponytail, exposing her skin to the fading sunlight.

Desperate for a distraction, my eyes sweep the deck, searching for a familiar face. But Nicholai has yet to make an appearance.

Blonde Number One grabs her friend's arm. "No. No more—"

"One more," Blonde Number Two complains, scooping the shot from my hands with alarming dexterity. She throws it back before Blonde Number One can stop her and grins at me, triumphant.

Right before she throws up on the counter.

I jump back, cursing. Lawrence cackles into his hands, having watched the entire debacle unfold. Blonde Number One sighs and drags her friend away, scolding the other girl under her breath. I stare at the mess by my station with disgust. Nearby, several guests do the same.

I turn to Lawrence. "I have to clean that up, don't I?"

He nods, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his laughter. The sea breeze carries away the worst of the smell as I gather up a handful of towels and get to cleaning, muttering dark curses under my breath.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Of course. Of course Nicholai shows up at the exact moment I don't want him to.

Where have you been? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down, down, down. "My mother is dead," I say, without looking up. "So no."

"What an unfortunate turn of events. Now I feel like an ass."

"You are an ass."

Nicholai's low chuckle sends a shiver down my spine. I glance up at him from the floor, braced on my hands and knees like a dog. He gives me a slow, lascivious smile.

"Enjoying the view?" I ask, breathless.

"Very much so."

"Ass," I repeat, pushing myself to my feet. The glass in his hand is empty. "Need a refill?"

Of course he does. He slides his glass across the counter, nodding in thanks. Grimacing, I gather the soiled towels in my arms and throw them into a hamper with a shudder. "Disgusting," I mutter before turning back around and planting my best server's smile on my face. "One moment."

Nicholai leans against the bar, eyes tracking my every move—lathering my hands with soap and disinfectant and then, once I feel moderately clean, fetching the best bottle of vodka I can find. The Iron Lady is stocked with an impressive lineup. I find my eyes lingering on the labels, mouth watering.

"You should have a drink," Nicholai calls over a sudden lash of wind.

I close my eyes, letting the sea breeze dry the sweat that's gathered on my forehead. "Later." I push his glass back across the bar. "Does the birthday boy need anything?"

Nicholai peers over his shoulder. Alexei is currently entertaining a crowd at the sister bar across the deck, gesturing wildly with his hands. I watch, mortified, as he mimics throwing a punch.

I can guess what that story is about. I cradle my still-sore hand to my chest. "She isn't here. Is she?"

"Who?" Nicholai turns back to face me, amusement dancing in his eyes. The breeze lifts his hair, disrupting his otherwise perfectly sculpted curls.

"Tiffany."

"Why would she be here?"

"I don't know." My eyes scan the crowd. "You people travel in...packs."

He snorts. "You people?"

"You know." I wave a hand. "The mega wealthy. The one-percent. I figured she knew someone who knew someone who knew someone..."

"She wouldn't dare." His wicked grin is back. "Not after the fiasco on the lawn."

I tsk. "You liked that, didn't you?"

"Watching my personal assistant deck my ex? Yes." He knocks back his drink. "I liked that. You're a small thing, to be so—"

"Nicky!" A stunning brunette pulls away from the nearby crowd and wraps her arms around his neck. He hesitates only a moment before snaking an arm around her waist.

"Jenny," he greets smoothly, pulling back to smile down at her. "How have you been?"

She pouts. "Missing you." Her fingers drift across the buttons on his shirt.

I look away, leaving him to his flirtations. Within minutes, Jenny is leading him upstairs, to the yacht's private quarters.

I watch them leave, even though I shouldn't. Exasperated with myself, I reach for a bottle of the good stuff. Lawrence grins and motions for me to pour a second glass. All the better.

At least I won't have to drink alone.