Page 12 of The Awful Truth

But then Oliver turned to lead them in the direction of the bedrooms, and she glanced at his tight buttocks in his uniform. Maybe being unemployed wouldn’t be that bad…

6:00 P.M.

MIGUEL

Miguel stood at the bar of the covered al fresco dining area on the sun deck sipping a glass of very good Champagne. (Although, after a childhood spent only ever seeing Champagne in movies, to him, anything bubbly that came with that thrilling popping sound was always very good.) The sun was setting and a light breeze persuaded the stifling heat to let go of the hold it had on this part of the world earlier in the afternoon. To either side of the yacht, smaller vessels were docked, bobbing in the gentle waves created by a cruise ship leaving port in the distance. Quiet classical music played over the speakers at just the right volume so as not to distract, creating a calm and inviting atmosphere.

Taking another sip, Miguel watched the cruise ship, wishing momentarily that he was on it so he could escape what could very well be a disaster. All it would take would be some tiny tipoff from Travis Bishop to let Winslow know that he’d been lying to him for weeks. Miguel would have to be alert, attentive, and exceedingly careful to hide the truth from his husband. But just a little bubbly couldn’t hurt, could it?

He and Winslow had been instantly annoyed when they were told the Bishops would be delayed. As soon as the door to their suite closed behind them, they went off. Who did they think they were? Having them travel all this way only to stand them up? Winslow was a very busy and important man. Easily as important in the UK as Bishop was in the US. Rude. Inconsiderate. Typical. Oh, look at that lovely welcome basket! Are those Knipschildt's truffles?

Yes, they were. And as soon as Miguel tasted the decadent ganache, he felt a lot more forgiving. In fact, he quickly realized tonight was the perfect opportunity to get the inside scoop from Ted and Antonia—two of the biggest stars of the Summit Broadcasting Network. They had managed to film their show in Seattle all these years, and Miguel was certain it would have been much cheaper to move them to the lot in Burbank. And this evening, he’d use every ounce of charm he had to find out how they did it.

At the moment, Winslow was leaning against the guardrail on the opposite side of the deck, deep into some dull conversation about profit margins with Ted Dawson, who fancied himself an amateur investor (a shocking trait in a wealthy middle-aged white guy—later he and Winslow would laugh about it). Ted was telling him how his son was a day trader who had gotten caught up in the whole Volmageddon debacle earlier that year and was asking how he could prevent that sort of thing in the future. Oh sure, Ted, why not hassle a stressed-out hedge-fund manager on the first opportunity he’s had for a real break in months? Very classy of you.

The two women, Antonia and their assistant, still had yet to arrive for dinner. They probably had overindulged on truffles too, and couldn’t even think about supper. The very handsome Oliver, chief steward, was preparing a pitcher of some sort of cocktail. Miguel watched him for a second, enjoying the flex of his tanned forearm as he pressed a wooden juicer into half a grapefruit. He stifled an immature giggle about the phallic shape of the juicer as the grapefruit acquiesced, sending a gush of pink liquid into a cocktail shaker.

Oliver, who was clearly aware he was being watched, threw a grin Miguel’s way. “It doesn’t get fresher than that.”

Running his fingertip over one of the tiny lobsters embroidered onto his shirt, Miguel lifted the corners of his mouth. “No, it really doesn’t. What are you making?”

“I thought a French Blonde would be nice in this heat.”

“Mm, yes, a French blonde is always good. Although a French brunette might be even better.” Was he flirting? He shouldn’t be flirting. Not when he was about to be on the thinnest of ice with his husband.

Oliver added a generous pour of Sipsmith London Dry Gin, followed by Lillet Blanc, and elderflower liqueur.

“That’s really going to pack a punch,” Miguel said.

“It goes down easy too, which makes it extra dangerous,” Oliver answered.

“Strong, goes down easy, and dangerous. Just my type.”

Oliver let out a hearty laugh. Was he flirting back? That laugh said so.

“Do you love your job?” Miguel asked, quickly adding, “I think in another life I would have loved working on a yacht. Actually, now that I think about it, I would really only enjoy the living part. Not the working.”

“Best job in the world. Especially during the nine months of the year when I have her all to myself.”

“Just you, all alone on this massive boat?”

“A cleaning crew comes in two days a week, and she’s dry-docked for a month for maintenance, which is when I go visit my parents. But otherwise, she’s all mine.”

“That’s incredible. How did you get so lucky?”

He chuckled. “It actually was luck. I used to be a dealer in Vegas. Mr. Bishop was at my table one night—well, he kept me there until afternoon. He was on a hot streak and insisted I stay until he was done. After he cleaned out the other guys at the table, he offered me a permanent job on his yacht. I said yes immediately.”

“Wow. You never know where life is going to take you.” Miguel was going to have a lot to tell his sisters when he called home, especially about how much of the year the yacht went unused. They loved hearing about the wasteful ways of the ultra-rich almost as much as he loved spilling the tea on how the top one-percent lived. “I just can’t believe nobody uses this gorgeous vessel for months at time.”

Shrugging, Oliver grinned again. “Well, I use it.”

The clicking of heels against the teak deck boards shifted Miguel’s attention. It was Dr. Antonia Dawson, dressed in a flowy floral sundress with an open linen shirt over it, presumably to hide her arms. As a brother of three older sisters, he knew all too well how hard women were on themselves when it came to their bodies. And he was certainly going to use that knowledge to his advantage. He walked over to her with his arms held out. “Look at you, you’re a vision well worth the wait.”

He gave her a quick hug and two air kisses, one for each cheek. “I’m Miguel Ramirez-Taggart. I’m a huge fan of your show.” By that he meant he had binged it one day when he was extremely hungover, and by the time he shut the TV off, he felt much, much worse. “It’s both juicy and helpful at the same time.”

She offered him a strained smile. “Thank you, Miguel. That’s very kind of you.”

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, as though he were the host.