Page 37 of The Cruiser
“Speaking of that, I’ve got another chapter to grind out. For the love of God, have fun tonight. Over and out.”
Flynn’s like that. Boom, call over. Wound tight with discipline. I need to go too, so I finish up my hair and on the elevator ride down to the lobby, I think long and hard on her words. I miss the old me too. It wouldn’t kill me to kick up my heels for one night. I’m in Italy, going to a yacht party and…
Oh my.
Morgan sits alone at the lobby bar chatting with a young bartender who stops mid-sentence when he sees me. Morgan swivels on the barstool to see what’s caught his attention. I never believe those our eyes met across the room stories, but then again, maybe I’ve just never looked into the right pair.
God, he looks amazing.
A dark-blue velvet suit of a premium fabric, not that tacky velour garbage. Crisp white shirt unbuttoned and flared open. Hair freshly slicked back. Instead of piling my hair into a bun I left it down, and I take the bartender’s continued slack jaw as proof it was the right decision.
I greet them both and admire Morgan’s white lizard brogues. “Great shoes.”
He admires me back, top to bottom. “Great everything. So much for me being the main event.” He says this without malice, although I’m well aware of today’s events—how the clients engaged with me first. To the point that Morgan had to redirect their attention to the business at hand.
“Ugh. Please don’t say that. I felt like a major distraction today.”
“You were,” he admits. “But I like having you here.”
“Until I share my notes with you.”
Morgan smiles at the challenge in my voice, finishes his whiskey, and leaves a twenty euro note with the bartender who appears to have forgotten his purpose in life. “I’ve since decided it’s good to have another opinion.”
“Really,” I say. “When did you decide that?”
“In the shower.”
I start laughing, and his smile gives way to a chuckle. I’m glad he can find the humor in it and laugh at himself. Maybe a night out will do us both good.
“I believe there’s another yacht with your name on it, Mademoiselle Hillman.” He crooks out his elbow for me to wind my arm through. “Shall we?”
Let the party begin.
* * *
Arms still laced together, Morgan keeps me steady as I navigate the uneven dock in sky-high Jimmy Choos. We were dropped off at a private marina north of the city, and our party home base is a hundred-meter yacht taking up the entire length of a single dock.
“Wow,” I say. “Look at that thing.”
“There are boats twice her size,” he says, “believe it or not.”
A white-gloved attendant checks our IDs and we join the festivities, which are already in full swing. The glam crowd is dressed to thrill and it’s a perfect night for a yacht party—no wind, sun waning, but it’s still warm enough not to wear a wrap and spoil the effect of my dress. Morgan grabs us drinks and introduces me to Dallas Evener, the American venture capitalist hosting tonight’s party. His calculating, corporate-raider eyes are at odds with his pretty-boy face and Golden Goose sneakers peeking out from the frayed hems of his designer denim. He draws Morgan and me into a huddle of thick-necked Ivy League-types with white bread privilege written all over them. Upon hearing who Morgan is, they toss one outlandish design question after another at him and ten minutes in, sensing I’m a touch bored, he encourages me to mingle.
“I’ll come find you,” he says, and squeezes my hand.
I break away to do the rounds and take in the surroundings. Earlier, Morgan explained the difference between European and American clients. Europeans put a premium on style, Americans like big comfort, nothing too avant-garde. Hence the dark wood and boring cream furniture in here. It’s a look that’s been done a hundred times. The guests, on the other hand, are original. Or at least their stories are. I float from group to group, thrilled not to discuss American politics, LA traffic, or Hollywood scandals for a change. By the time I head to the bar for a champagne refill, I’m happily buzzing along.
“Nice dress.”
The dark and heavily accented voice belongs to a hulk of a man hunched over his rocks glass, one boot on the bar rail. I estimate he’s close to my age, although acne scars, deeply cratered, add a few more miles to his face. With unruly black hair in need of a cut and all the bug-eyed charm of a pug, he oozes a crude aura.
But at least he has good taste.
“Thank you,” I say, preening just a little. “It’s Versace.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s also two years old.”
My smile deflates. Here I am finally enjoying myself and this jerk pops my balloon. Rudely, to boot. “Your knowledge of women’s wear is impressive,” I sniff. “For a man.”
