The Billionaire's Regret
My feet simply stopped, as if the dock itself were holding me back from doing something embarrassing, like saying out loud that this was not a boat, this was a boutique hotel suffering from an identity crisis.
Azzurra.
Her name was written along the hull in elegant letters. White, deep blue, sleek lines, three decks, wide glass, a rear staircase that looked far too smooth for ordinary humans. There was an open lounge area, gleaming rails, two small tenders on the side, and a crew in white and navy uniforms standing ready at the gangway.
I grimaced. “Dear God,” I muttered. “This isn’t a yacht. This is a floating tax mistake.”