Read An Excerpt From 'Love Overboard' by Kandi Steiner

From USA Today, #1 Amazon, and BookTok bestselling author Kandi Steiner comes a sizzling, second-chance romance set on the high seas—perfect for fans of Below Deck and readers who crave angsty, high-stakes love stories.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Love Overboard by Kandi Steiner, which releases on April 21st 2026.

Ember Reed is finally living her dream: chief stew on a Mediterranean superyacht, sun-kissed days at sea, and the star of Close Quarters, the hottest new reality TV show. But just as she finds her stride, the producers throw her a curveball—by hiring the one man who nearly sank her.

Finn Pearson was the one that got away. The boy who kissed her like they had forever, then left without a word. But now he’s the chef in her new crew, and the cameras are watching their every move, innocent, or not.

Even on a superyacht, there’s nowhere to hide from the past. Every stolen glance, every whispered argument, every lingering memory threatens to ignite what never fully burned out. And as the tension spills into their day jobs, even the dinner service is spiralling into disaster.

They’ve crashed before… but could eight weeks at sea be their second chance to get it right? Or will it be the storm that finally sinks them for good?

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Hello, reader, and welcome to the drama-filled and scandalous world of Love Overboard!

I have always been intrigued by yacht life — specifically, by those who work below deck. As a long time fan of the reality TV show with the same title, I’ve often found myself wondering what kind of love stories unraveled when the cameras weren’t rolling.

When I went on a second date with my now-husband, he casually told me he used to work on yachts in south florida. I then proceeded to beg him for details for two hours, and I told him that whether we worked out or not — I would be taking everything he told me and writing a book one day. Well, that day has come, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to present my fictional world of tension, chemistry, and drama.

Love Overboard is everything I love about writing and reading romance. It’s angsty and messy, but also hilarious and action-packed. The pre-chapter confessionals build the tension while each member of the crew keeps you falling in love. Ember and Finn are a slow burn, second-chance, forbidden masterpiece that brought me immense joy. I hope you’ll love their story, too.

Here is the prologue and first chapter to entice you…

xoxo,

Kandi

EXCERPT

Prologue

He loved lying with me almost as much as he loved lying to me.

It was a harsh truth, one that pierced like a knife between the ribs as I walked the empty shoreline of Kontokali Beach, a half-empty bottle of white wine in hand and mascara- stained tears drying on my cheeks.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

Now, I had no choice.

I collapsed onto the beach, flopping down in a heap without a care in the world that the water was now soaking my lower half with each wave that washed upon the shoreline. My ribs tightened around my already struggling lungs as I stared at my feet in the sand. I dug my toes in deep after each wave only to have the water wash away any attempt at hiding them.

All the promises we made in the hours where night kisses morning were broken now, the shattered pieces blowing away with every rush of the salty breeze.

“I want you,” he’d whispered against my neck that first time we touched, both of us shaking, panting, yearning.

“I need you,” he’d groaned into my mouth the night he told me about his dreams, the night he let me see what drove him and realized I wasn’t laughing.

“I love you,” he’d confessed, unwillingly, his forehead against mine on this very beach, brows furrowed like the words pained him as much as they freed him.

Now, all those words were being washed away like the grains of sand around my toes, replaced by the truth that always existed beneath them.

We’re nothing. We never were. We never could be. Four months.

That’s how long it took for me to fall in love with him. Four minutes.

That’s how long it took for him to wreck my whole world.

* * *

Chapter 1

TWO YEARS LATER

POST-PRODUCTION CONFESSIONAL

CLOSE QUARTERS

SEASON 4

EMBER REED: CHIEF STEW

PRODUCER: Alright, Ember. Ready to get started?

EMBER: As ready as I’ll be.

PRODUCER: You can relax. We promise — nothing to be nervous about. Ember laughs softly.

EMBER: If you say so.

PRODUCER: We have the talking heads footage we captured on the boat, but now that you don’t have guests to tend to, we hope to dig a little deeper. We’re just going to go through and remind you of some of the things that happened this season, get your reaction and thoughts. These interviews will help tell the audience what you were feeling in that moment. You can start over as many times as you need to, and we just ask that you answer the question in a complete statement. For example, “I was upset when the guests didn’t tip us well, considering the hell they put us through.” Make sense?

Ember gives a thumbs up.

PRODUCER: Great. To start, we’ll just have you tell us who you are, your experience in yachting, and what you wanted when you agreed to this season — any goals you had. And just look at us when you answer, not the camera.

EMBER: I’m Ember Reed. I—

PRODUCER: Big smile! Remember, this is going to be the viewers’ first impression of you.

Ember pauses, drinks water, resettles in with a beaming smile.

EMBER: I’m Ember Reed. I’m twenty-six years old and I’m from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I’ve been a yacht stewardess for four years now and this is my first time as chief stew.

PRODUCER: Why don’t you elaborate on that, tell us how excited you are.

Ember’s smile wanes. She drinks water, exhales, smiles again.

EMBER: Being chief stew has been my dream for years. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for; so, when Captain Gary called me up and offered me the gig, I was over the moon. I’m so excited to finally show I have what it takes to run an interior team.

PRODUCER: And what’s the main role of chief stew? Why are you so excited to have this opportunity?

EMBER: Working as a second and third stew for years now, I know everything it takes to make the interior team sparkle. It’s not just serving the guests; though, that is the number one priority. It’s laundry and cabins; it’s table décor and pulling off perfectly themed parties; it’s booking local dancers for entertainment. There’s so much that goes into every second a guest is on board. The goal is to make them feel like it’s a six-star experience without them even noticing how hard we have to work to make that happen. As for why I want this opportunity…

Ember shrugs.

EMBER: This is my chance to prove myself and open doors to the career I’ve always wanted.

PRODUCER: Prove yourself to who… your father, perhaps?

Ember pauses, nods.

EMBER: Sure, that’s always been a goal of mine. But it’s about proving to myself that I can do this, too. When you’re chief stew, you’re the boss. I want to manage a team. I want to create the best guest experiences this show has ever seen. And, in the end, I want to use this experience to get me where I want to be — a purser on a private yacht.

PRODUCER: Wonderful, Ember. Okay… let’s jump into the first episode.

EMBER: Let’s do it.

PRODUCER: What were you feeling as you walked up to Sinking Sun for the first time?

EMBER: When I see Sinking Sun for the first time, all I can think is how excited I am. There’s something so exhilarating about the start of a new season — all fresh with possibilities. The sun is shining, the breeze is cool and pleasant, and I have eight weeks of fun to look forward to. I mean… we’re in freaking Italy. It’s gorgeous here. I know it’ll be hard work, sure — but yachting is a blast. It’s why I chose it as my career. Well, that and the money, of course.

PRODUCER: How did it feel to be reconnected with Captain Gary?

EMBER: Walking onto the boat and finding Captain Gary in the bridge makes my heart soar. He’s by far my favorite captain I’ve worked with. He’s just so goofy and fun while also being stern enough to run a tight ship. I’m ecstatic to show him my chops as chief stew. This is my opportunity to solidify my new role, and I’m ready to take it.

PRODUCER: And how did you feel when Finn showed up?

Ember swallows, drinks water, smiles weakly.

EMBER: I don’t suppose there’s a next question option.

PRODUCER: Take your time.

EMBER: I never thought I’d see Finn Pearson again.

Long pause. Ember shifts in her chair, stares at shoes, lifts gaze back to producer.

EMBER: And I think we all know how I felt about it, don’t you?

* * *

It was the worst-timed wedgie of my life.

Not only was it as hot as Satan’s armpit, making sweat slide down my spine and into that lovely place where my underwear had decided to get real cozy with my backside, but I was also surrounded by cameras.

Therefore, there was no picking of this wedgie. I had no choice but to plaster on a smile and endure it.

One camera captured my profile at a distance, the man holding the behemoth of equipment following my every step. Another was down the dock at the foot of the gangway that led to the yacht I’d call home for the next eight weeks. Even though that lens was twenty yards away at the moment, I knew it was zoomed in, knew it was likely capturing every bead of sweat collecting at my hairline.

This was Close Quarters, after all — a reality TV show about the people just crazy enough to work the long, manic hours required to run charter yachts.

I’d heard of the show before they asked me to be on it, but I’d never watched a single episode — partly because I didn’t really have time to watch television, and partly because I had a feeling it would piss me off at the way it misrepresented my career. But before I would agree to their offer, I knew I needed to watch at least one season of the show.

And that was all it took for me to know I was right.

The yachting seasons they showed on Close Quarters were shorter than what a crew would usually work, and each member was hand-picked by producers with the intention of stirring the pot once everyone was on board. It was common for the stars of the show to have worked together in the past, to have some previous drama from other seasons, or to be the complete opposite of one another in a way that would drive them mad. There were stewardesses with zero experience, green deck hands who did more damage than assisting when docking, and chefs with tempers and a short fuse.

These people typically had three things in common: they were young, hot, and willing to play right into the hands of whatever producer was pulling their puppet strings.

It was all drama, from the guests who came on board to the crew nights out — which, I knew now that I’d signed a contract, were a requirement. You had to go out if you agreed to be on this show, whether you wanted to or not. The only exception was if you were ill.

So, yeah — I knew that lens was zoomed in on me.

And I swore I felt the breeze whispering to me that I’d made a mistake.

I smiled wide despite that feeling, shaking it off and squinting even through the dark frames of my sunglasses as I took in the impossibly blue water of the Gulf of Naples. There was nothing like this feeling, the possibility and excitement of a new season in a beautiful part of the world most were never lucky enough to see in real life. Even with the unfamiliarity of the show aspect, I was still thrilled.

Nine charters of hard work lay ahead of me — but those weeks would also be the kind of chaotic fun that only comes with living the life of a yachtie.

We worked around the clock, catering to charter guests who paid six figures for just a few days on our boat. From the moment they stepped on board, we tended to their every need, giving them a luxury vacation experience while also keeping the boat pristine and functional.

The days were long, the nights never-ending, and yet we still found the energy to party whenever we had a day off.

I was born for it.

My father would hate to hear me say that. He was never afraid to let me know when he hated a choice I’d made, either. I knew all those years he pushed me to perfection, he imagined me becoming a doctor or engineer or lawyer or hedge fund manager.

The last thing he expected was for me to long to travel the world, to work in hospitality, to wait on other people the way we always had people waiting on our family when we vacationed.

He didn’t understand this lifestyle I’d chosen. I knew he wasn’t proud.

But this felt like my chance to show him why he should be.

I wondered if my mother had talked to him at all, if she’d tried to make him see the value in my career choice. I’d wager not, if I were a betting woman. My mom was kind and loving, the kind of nurturer any kid would be lucky to grow up with.

But she was also passive and agreeable to any and everything my father said.

At least, at the end of the day, I knew I could count on her to be waiting with a hug and some words of encouragement instead of a lecture.

I walked along a line of beautiful boats until I was looking up at the Sinking Sun — fifty-five meters of floating luxury.

And the first superyacht I’d be running as chief stew.

Excitement fluttered through me like a thousand freshly hatched butterflies, and I did my best to do as the producers had told me and ignore the cameras — and my wedgie — as I kicked off my sandals and carefully carried my suitcase across the passerelle.

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It felt like coming home each time my bare feet hit the teak wood of a superyacht. And yet, as familiar as it was, this season was entirely different.

It was much shorter, for one — just a mere two months as opposed to the typical three-to-four months I’d worked on other yachts. I was also back in the Med after spending the last two years in the Bahamas, which was much more laid-back. Plus, the clients coming aboard were more high profile than I was used to, the kind of people I knew would put us through hell just for fun.

The biggest difference, obviously, was that every second of it was being filmed.

It was hard to forget that fact with the cameras surrounding me as I made my way past the main salon and down the stairs until I hit the crew quarters. The producers told me I’d be the first on board, the first to be introduced on the show after our captain, but it still felt strange. I was so used to arriving for the season with the chief stew already there and waiting for me, room assignment and plan of attack in hand.

This time, it would be me assigning the rooms and making the plans.

A smile bloomed on my lips at the thought as I took a quick peek around the crew quarters. As usual, they were cramped but functional — a space designed for necessity, not comfort. The small, galley-style kitchen was tucked into one corner, its stainless-steel counters gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lighting. A compact fridge hummed quietly beside a microwave that had likely reheated more instant noodles and late-night leftovers than actual meals.

A couple of well-worn tables filled the center of the room, surrounded by cushioned benches that had been patched up with duct tape. This was where the crew would shove our faces with whatever scraps the chef left for us, usually eaten in passing — quick bites grabbed between shifts, conversations cut short by radio calls crackling in our earpieces.

But these tables weren’t just for rushed meals. They were the heart of our off-hours, the place where we gathered after long days, kicking back with stolen bottles of beer, trading war stories, and dissolving into fits of laughter that we tried to keep quiet enough not to wake the captain.

The crew mess was typically, like its namesake, messy — but it was ours.

I squeezed past a cameraman to assess the cabins next, noting that there were also cameras fixed in every corner of every room. They weren’t kidding around when they said everything would be filmed.

The cabins were actually quite nice for a yacht this size, with built-in storage and just enough space to move without feeling completely claustrophobic. But the beds were still small, the mattresses thin enough to remind you this wasn’t exactly luxury living, and the top bunk far too close to the ceiling. I knew from experience how easy it was to forget that fact and bang your head in the middle of the night or roll over too fast and nearly fling yourself off the side.

I dropped my luggage in the cabin I decided would be mine — claiming the bottom bunk, of course — before I bounded up the stairs and made my way to the bridge. It usually took me a few days to get the layout of a new boat, but the producers had provided all of us with a floor plan of Sinking Sun, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t study it like it was the key to the biggest test of my life.

From the hot tub on the sundeck to the crew mess in the bowels of the boat, I knew Sinking Sun like I’d already spent a full season aboard. The sundeck boasted loungers, a bar, and the all-important Jacuzzi for late-night drunk confessions and mid- day sunbathing. Below that, the bridge deck held the sky lounge and alfresco dining area — perfect for sunset cocktails. The main deck was all luxury, from the formal salon and dining room to the primary guest cabins, and of course, the galley. Beneath that, on the lower deck, were more guest cabins, storage, the laundry room, and crew quarters — where privacy was a luxury, and bunks were barely wide enough to turn over in. And all the way at the bottom, accessible only through a near-secret set of stairs, was the tender garage that doubled as a beach club, complete with a fold-down swim platform and lockers stocked with snorkels, floaties, and the dreaded gargantuan inflatable slide.

I had every inch mapped in my head before I stepped foot on board.

If this was my one and only shot to prove I was meant for this role, for this career? I was going to grab every opportunity to go above and beyond my duties.

“Trouble aboard,” I called out with a rap of my knuckles on the open bridge door, smiling at the familiar bald head of our captain, Gary Parks. He whipped around, beaming at me with that toothy grin of his that was now framed by a neatly trimmed white beard. The man had tan, weathered skin from his earlobes to his toes, proof of his many years in the sun.

“Uh-oh, sound the alarm,” he teased in his thick Australian accent, and then his arms were open for a hug that felt like the one a father would give his daughter.

Not that I’d know. My dad didn’t do hugs — or feelings of any kind, for that matter. He was a man of few words, divvying out praise only when I did something to deserve it.

Which wasn’t often.

“It’s good to see you, Cap,” I said when he released me. “Great to see you, Ember.” I always smiled at how my name sounded when he said it, the R disappearing altogether. Em-bah. “Ready for your first season as chief stew?”

“Come on, now. You know I’ve been ready for years.”

He chuckled. “I do, indeed. This has been a long time coming. I’m keen to see you smash it.” He glanced at his watch. “The rest of the crew should be trickling in soon. Why don’t you go sort the crew mess and get started on provisions? We’ll have a team chat once everyone’s aboard.”

I saluted him with a smirk. “On it, Cap.”

“And Ember?”

“Mm?”

“Maybe don’t order all the lobster in Italy this time around, yeah?”

Biting back a smile at the memory of our first charter together years ago when I’d accidentally ordered twenty cases of lobster instead of two, I gave him a thumbs up. Those closest to me knew a thumbs up was my version of flipping the bird, and the gesture earned me a hearty laugh that followed me all the way back down the stairs to the crew quarters.

After that, I fell into a steady rhythm, a familiar one that left me smiling and singing to myself as I ticked through my mental checklist. Sure, this was my first time officially working as chief stew, but I’d had enough experience that it felt like the job had been mine for years. From stepping up when other chiefs got sick to flying five hours to finish a season after one got let go, I had been thrown into the fire plenty of times.

And like a phoenix, I thrived in those flames. I rose from the ashes even better than before.

It was a product of my upbringing, the way this career suited me so well. Busy was my natural state of being. By the time I was five, my parents had thrown me into everything from swim lessons and soccer to piano lessons and Spanish as a second language. The praise my father gave me for achieving only encouraged me to continue to pack my schedule all the way through college. If I wasn’t juggling at least a half-dozen clubs, extracurricular activities, sports and a job — I was bored.

I didn’t know how to sit still for longer than what was absolutely necessary to get a decent amount of sleep to keep going.

And when it came to hard work, not only was I not afraid of it — I craved it. Nothing lit me up like kicking my own ass for days and hearing an atta girl at the end of it all.

It was how my father raised me to be. Nothing in life comes easy, he always told me. You have to work hard for what you want. With him, there was never a consolation prize. You were either the best or you had better keep trying. That was just one of the reasons I wanted to excel in this first season as chief stew. This was the highest position of the interior on a boat this size. That meant to be chief, you had to be the best. This was my chance to prove to him that what I did mattered, that it was a hard job with reward and recognition you had to earn.

What I lacked in affection for my father, I made up for with respect.

The man had always provided for me. He may not have been there when I had my heart broken or when I was crying in bed after a hard day, but he was a constant reminder that life kept going, that the effort I put into it was the one thing I could control.

And control I did.

In that moment of my life, standing in the crew quarters of a new boat at the start of a new season, I felt a monumental shift. On camera, all a viewer would see was me on the phone with the provisioner barking out a list of everything we needed for the first charter. They’d see my golden hair pulled up into a loose ponytail, one hand scribbling in my notebook while the other checked items off on the laptop. They’d see a young, smiling, ambitious girl eager to start in a new role.

But on the inside, a storm brewed.

Lightning sizzled in every nerve, thunder crackling down my spine with every checkmark I made. I catalogued those sensations as excitement, as opportunity, as a new beginning. In my heart of hearts, I believed it was one of those moments that tattooed itself onto your very soul when it happened, the kind you always knew you’d reflect on as that time when everything changed.

Now, looking back, I know better.

I know it had nothing to do with the season or the cameras or my new role at all.

It was just my body reacting before my brain could at the proximity of him — like it always had.

“Well now… would you look who it is.”

The voice splintered my joy like a bolt of lightning to a frail, unsteady tree. I stopped mid-sentence where I was planning the schedules for my stews, pen hovering above the page in a hand that felt foreign, a hand that was already shaking.

I swallowed, looking up even when it took all my effort to do so, my heart kicking back to life from where it had halted in my chest.

And there he was. Finn Fucking Pearson. “Hello, Firefly.”