Page 13 of The Awful Truth

“I’d love one.” She turned to Oliver, who offered her a choice between Champagne and a French Blonde.

Before she had a chance to mull over her options, Miguel snatched two of the cocktails off the bar top and handed her one. “Let’s have these. The Champagne’s been in a bottle for who knows how many years, whereas I just watched Oliver squeeze the juice.”

Winslow and Ted made their way over to them, with Winslow leading the way. Miguel could tell by his face he’d had enough shop talk for the evening. Introductions were made and empty Champagne flutes were swapped out for full-to-the-brim cocktails.

Miguel gave the couple a once-over. Something seemed off between them. Like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. Ted looked like he was knee-deep in a midlife crisis and had taken to the gym to get through it, while Antonia was fighting her middle-aged frumpiness with shimmery eye-shadow and red lipstick. Her blonde bob cut a sharp edge at her jaw line which only highlighted the fact that it was sagging.

Ted smiled at him. “To new friends.”

They clinked the glasses together. “To new friends.”

After a long sip, Antonia said, “Oh that’s nice. Very refreshing. So, how do you know the Bishops?”

“Miguel is in talks with Travis Bishop for a design show that I’m sorry to tell you is sure to become the biggest thing on the network,” Winslow answered. “Whereas I’m afraid I’ve never met them, so it’s a bit off-putting to be trapped with them for an entire week.”

Wiping an imaginary piece of fluff off Winslow’s shoulder, Miguel said, “Not trapped, darling. Blessed to be pampered by them.”

“Oh yes, pampered,” Winslow answered. “By strangers. My favorite.”

Antonia chuckled. “This whole thing does seem unusual, doesn’t it?”

“I wonder why they’re delayed,” Miguel asked, throwing a glance in Oliver’s direction. When Oliver continued what he was doing—wiping down the counter—without answering, Miguel looked to Antonia and Ted for any signs that they might know.

Ted gave him an authoritative look. “I’m sure it was a business emergency.”

“Yes, most likely. It must be nearly impossible for a man like him to get away from the office,” Miguel answered. “Oliver here was just saying this yacht sits empty nearly the entire year. Except for him, that is.”

Before anyone could respond, the young woman who had boarded the yacht with Antonia and Ted arrived. She had long dark hair that spilled over one shoulder, a light tan (that Miguel assumed came from a bottle), and striking blue eyes. She was dressed in a navy and white striped summer romper with a deep V-neck, spaghetti straps, and shorts that allowed a lot of leg to show. She was lean and filled with the same power of youth and beauty that Miguel had. She looked slightly out of place as she offered them a small smile. “Sorry I’m late. I was just finishing up some emails.”

Miguel glanced at Ted in time to see him look at her like he hadn’t eaten in a month and she was a four-course meal. When his gaze shifted to Antonia, he could read the discomfort on her face as she smiled at the woman. “Charlotte, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she answered, offering her the quickest of glances. “So do you.”

Ted reached out and touched her upper arm. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Miguel and his husband, Winslow Taggart. Winslow here runs one of the biggest hedge funds in Britain. Miguel is an up-and-coming television star.” Turning to them, he added, “This is Charlotte Evans, our incredible assistant. She makes sense out of our chaotic life. We’re lucky to have her.”

Charlotte blushed. “Oh no, I’m the lucky one.”

A hint of desperation crossed Antonia’s face. “No, Charlotte, we are. Truly.”

Ted grinned at her like a proud father. Or perhaps a wannabe lover. So hard to tell with some men. “Let me get you one of these cocktails, Char.”

Charlotte smiled at Miguel. “It’s so wild that you’re standing right in front of me. I’ve been following you on Insta since you first started posting.”

A giddy warmth spread over Miguel, like it always did when someone identified themselves as a fan. “Well then, you and I just became best friends.”

Winslow offered her a wry smile. “You’ve just discovered the key to my husband’s heart—flattery.”

Just then, Indira, one of the other stewards, appeared with a large platter filled with appetizers. She set the plates on the table and gestured for them to have a seat. “Welcome aboard. Chef Yuri thought we should start with some traditional Croatian dishes: fresh calamari, octopus salad, and uštipci—which is an irresistible fried dough. But save some room because the main course is his signature first-of-season chanterelle mushroom gnocchi with walnut pesto sauce, Croatian lamb rack, and roasted delicata squash. Dessert will be kremšnita, which is a whipped custard sandwiched between two thin, flaky layers of puff pastry and sprinkled with a finely milled icing sugar for a smooth finish.”

“Oh my, we’re going to have to be rolled back to our rooms,” Winslow muttered.

Antonia gave him a knowing look. “I only hope we won’t be expected to get into bathing suits after this meal.”

“Or worse, wet suits.” Winslow looped his arm through hers and walked with her to the table.

Miguel followed, thrilled that things were off to such a good start.

I should slow down on these drinks. I need to keep my wits about me. But each sip pushed all those pesky worries just a little further off-shore and away from him. They were now floating somewhere so far in the distance, he could barely remember what they were.