Corner Office Confessions

With its sharp prow and the streamlined grace of a shark, the Dolce Vita IV appeared to be knifing through the water even when standing perfectly still. Its hull was the color of the sky just before dawn. Above it, elegant white decks stacked upon each other in graduating tiers like a wedding cake. On each of them, people had begun to congregate in social clumps.

Music from an old-fashioned brass band floated down the ramp to the yacht, along with a tinkle of high-pitched feminine laughter that dumped ice water down Arlie’s spine.

She knew that laugh.

Arlie froze, as if she, and not the yacht, were anchored.

Not her. Not here. This couldn’t be happening. What could she possibly be doing here?

Arlie looked around at the people moving past her.

No one had spotted her yet. She could turn around right now and sprint back to her car within five minutes. Three, if she lost the medieval torture devices on her feet. She could make apologies via a polite email. Claim car trouble. Or anything to avoid taking another step toward the emotional equivalent of the Titanic.

“And I thought I was late.” The teasing, effervescently masculine voice of Mason Kane lapped at her like a warm wave.

He approached with arms outstretched, a puckish grin on his face. The sunset light caught the crests of his dark hair, casting his tanned skin in the most flattering of glows. He had lost his tie and shucked the sleeves of his beautifully cut button-down shirt to the elbows. Casual in the perfectly arranged way only the deeply wealthy seemed capable of achieving.

“You are,” Arlie said, managing a watery smile. “And so am I.”

Mason’s grin widened. Talented in the art of flirting as he clearly had become, Arlie didn’t miss the quick flick of those golden green eyes over her face, her hair, which was released from its chignon prison for the evening, her bare shoulders, her dress.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm.

Glancing at the yacht, Arlie calculated the odds that she could refuse Mason’s offer.

They weren’t good.

Looping her arm with his, she climbed the red-carpeted ramp and arrived into a whoosh of conversation and music, a world of lacquered wood, gleaming brass, and gowns and teeth glittering like diamonds beneath a sky turning from sherbet orange to flamingo pink.

Mason snagged two glasses of champagne from the silver tray presented by a waiter with the cleft chin of a soap opera hero.

“Cheers,” Mason said, handing the elegant flute to Arlie before clinking its rim with his. “To your future with Kane Foods International.”

Arlie, praying her shaking hand wouldn’t slosh the drink onto her dress, brought the glass to her lips and took a swallow. Citrusy aromas burst onto her palate, the densely carbonated liquid bringing tears to her eyes. It had been a hot minute since she’d had the good stuff.

Expecting Mason to abandon her any moment for one of the clearly purebred debutantes taking up every available space, Arlie was surprised when he remained at her elbow as she gingerly began to clear the cluster at the top of the entry ramp.

“So, should I begin the introductions, or would you rather make your way through that glass first?” Mason eyed the dainty stem of the champagne glass that Arlie hadn’t realized she’d been white-knuckle clutching.

She took another sip and attempted a casual laugh. “Maybe half the glass?”

“Fair enough,” Mason agreed, mirroring her healthy swallow. “It’s a lot to take in if you’re not used to it.”

For the second time that evening, she found herself surprised by his display of empathy. A quality he had seemed to altogether lack all the years of their mutual acquaintance growing up.

“You’re right about that.” Scanning the bottom deck, her shoulders lowered by a couple inches when she was nowhere to be seen. If only Arlie’s luck would last.

Another uncomfortably attractive server approached them with hors d’oeuvres, the scent wafting up from the tray making Arlie’s salivary glands clench uncomfortably. She hadn’t been able to force down a single swallow of food since her morning coffee, her nerves having made her mouth into a sand trap and her stomach into a dusty cavern.

When she trained her vision on the haphazardly scattered pile of perfectly baked mini beef Wellingtons, she felt a clench of an entirely different variety.

This tray needed something green to set off the filet’s succulent and perfectly pink interior. Resiny sprigs of rosemary or a tangle of freshly snipped sage. A tumble of peppery arugula.

And the arrangement was all wrong. Small, decadent pieces like this begged for some kind of contrasting order to emphasize their golden pastry’s perfect imperfection.

Her neck ached for the familiar feeling of the wide leather strap, the solid weight of the camera like a security blanket against her chest.

But it was more than that.

The world felt a much safer place when condensed into the small vignette of a lens. In that small space, life could be arranged exactly as she willed it.

“Miss?” The server smiled at her politely.

Arlie took the cocktail napkin and relieved the tray of the bite nearest her. Mason once again followed suit, popping his hors d’oeuvre whole into his mouth and chewing appreciatively. “Not half as good as your mother’s,” he said, his muscular jaw working. “But not half bad all the same.”

Chewing her own bite, Arlie was forced to agree.