By July, the marina smelled of salt, sunscreen, hot wood and diesel. The days aboard Solena started before sunrise and usually ended long after the guests had finished their champagne.

Tiago Varela had spent three summers working at sea. At twenty-four, he was good at carrying more than he should, smiling through impossible requests and pretending he had no idea what came after September. Portuguese, sun-warmed and broad-shouldered, he flirted when he was bored, joked when he was irritated and treated nearly everything like a competition.

This season was supposed to be simple: earn his money, send some home, enjoy the sea and leave before anything became permanent.

Then Solena lost a stewardess in the middle of the busiest month of summer.

Her replacement arrived with one small suitcase, a recommendation from Niko and no idea what kind of crew she was joining.

Tiago gave her a week.

Maybe less.