Jett regarded Olivia a moment, thoughtful. ‘Are you going to fill me in on your charity? Does it have a name?’
‘You mean she hasn’t told you?’ Brie’s voice rose in astonishment.
‘We didn’t get around to it,’ he said, eyes still on Olivia.
‘That must be a first.’ Brie laughed. ‘She lives to talk about her Pink Snowflake Foundation. Jett, you must be the only one she hasn’t harassed—and I do mean that in the nicest possible way.’ When Olivia turned, Brie’s eyes were twinkling at her across the table.
Brie was right. Olivia had been so infatuated with Jett last night, she’d forgotten to talk his ear off about her work and convince him to contribute. ‘My mother died of breast cancer and I’m working on building a retreat for cancer survivors and those undergoing therapy to recuperate. It’s still not much more than a very expensive dream but we’ll get there eventually. Mum and I set up the foundation five years ago after she got sick the first time.’
‘She has an amazing vision,’ Brie said. ‘And I’m proud to say I’m going to be a part of it. After I survive the race.’
‘That’s the positive attitude I want to hear.’ But Olivia’s grin quickly sobered. She was honouring a pact she and her mum had made years ago—to race their yacht in the Sydney to Hobart. Not just in memory of her mother, but all the women in her family who’d died of breast cancer. All women with breast cancer.
‘This time tomorrow we’ll be heading down the New South Wales coast.’ Excitement and nerves were building and tangling in her stomach.
‘What’s the name of the boat you’re sailing on?’ Jett leaned back as the wait staff appeared to whisk away the plates.
‘Yacht,’ Olivia corrected. ‘Chasing Dawn. She may be small but she’s a real and classic beauty.’ They’d bought the old sea-craft together when her mum had been in remission and there’d been hope.
His gaze flicked between them. ‘So two females on the crew. Doesn’t that bring some sort of bad luck—women and boats?’
Oh, for goodness’ sake. ‘What about Aussie Jessica Watson’s record-breaking solo sail around the world at sixteen? And did you know that the only yacht to reach Hobart in 1946 was skippered by the first woman ever to take part? Would you call that bad luck?’
‘Your skipper obviously doesn’t mind the distraction,’ he went on, as if Olivia hadn’t spoken. ‘Does he ever get a little too up-close-and-nautical with his crew?’
The way he said that...in an entirely sexual way...made her want to slap him.
She should have expected it: the cocky grin, the sexual spark in his eyes. His sheer masculine arrogance. And to think they’d been having an almost pleasant conversation moments ago. She kept her cool, took a long, calming swallow of iced water. ‘Not at all. Everyone concentrates on their job. No one gets distracted.’
He raised his brows. ‘I bet.’
‘There are no nauticals on our yacht, Mr Davies. We’re a team—we work as a team, everyone’s equal.’
‘I’d like to see that.’
How he’d meant it was anyone’s guess but Olivia was inclined to think it wasn’t in a flattering non-gender-biased way. ‘Would you really?’ She snipped the words as if she were dead-heading roses. ‘I can easily accommodate you there.’
He grinned, even white teeth flashing like a toothpaste ad, anticipation in his eyes. ‘Yeah? You going to invite me aboard?’
‘Yeah.’ A plan was coming together in her head and she felt a grin to rival his spread over her face. ‘One of our crew had to pull out due to illness three days ago. And you would be the perfect person to fill the void. Snowflake needs publicity. A quick word to the media and you’d be doing me, us—my foundation—a huge, huge favour. Wouldn’t he, Brie?’
She glanced at Brie, who’d not said a word but seemed to be enjoying the moment as much as Olivia. ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly. ‘I reckon you’re right.’
When Olivia looked back at Jett, she noticed a little of his smugness had slipped.
‘On the boat?’
‘Yacht. You’d love it, Jett.’ Olivia lowered her voice an octave and added a husky purr. ‘The entire crew is female. Imagine. All those bronzed beauties in bikinis.’ Except they wouldn’t be in bikinis, but the word image begged to be painted for him all the same. ‘And I’m sure you’d enjoy hot-bunking.’
His eyes grew round, his brows raised. ‘Hot-bunking?’