Page 6 of The Cruiser
ChapterThree
From my house,the drive to the Fairmont Hotel takes five minutes. But I’m nervous and leave too early. I’ve got time to kill so I idle on Second Avenue and recap everything TQ and I discussed earlier in the afternoon. The quick and dirty? Morgan’s only thirty-four, insanely talented and infamous. Not just for his client list, which reads like a Who’s Who of global movers and shakers.
“The CFO of Deutsche Bank. Russian business tycoons. Royalty.” TQ listed these off on his fingers.
“Is he royalty?” I asked. “I assume yes if he’s named his company Royal Morgan Yachts.”
“After centuries of dirty inbreeding, isn’t half of Europe royal?” he joked. “I do know his family comes from serious money. His father also built boats. Surprisingly, being rich and idle isn’t baked into their DNA.”
“Interesting. Do they work together?”
“No, his father retired. Now it’s just Morgan and his millions. Or billions.” The perennially single TQ made a sad face. He was very disappointed Morgan doesn’t swing for his team.
“So why is he infamous?” I asked.
“Attitude, for one thing. He’s got a massive chip on his shoulder, coming from money, the fact his father was in the biz. Everyone thinks he had a leg up, didn’t have to try hard, yadda, yadda, yadda. The usual bitchiness.”
“Any successful man swings it around,” I said. “Is that all it takes these days to be infamous?”
But I’d lost TQ’s attention. He gazed reverentially at my Apple monitor, moisturized chin in hand. I’d Googled Morgan, as you do, and the photos that had popped up made it hard to look away. I failed algebra but recognize mathematically perfect beauty when I see it. The golden ratio. People say the same thing about my face, but they never notice my eyebrows aren’t perfect mirror opposites, or that I have a little ski jump at the end of my nose.
“By the way,” TQ said, elfin eyes all dreamy as he pointed at the screen, “he is as hot as he looks in these photos. I was at this swank party in London last year, and guess who rolls in?” I leaned back with a smile, waiting for the details. All the great TQ stories start with him at a party. I swear, half the gossip in LA comes from him walking through the dingy doorways of after-hours clubs. “As luck would have it,” he continued, “I could only admire him from a distance. Women were hanging off him like monkeys on a tree. That’s mainly why he’s infamous. His sobriquet is the Cruiser, and I’m pretty sure that doesn’t come from his love of fine sailing vessels.”
“Sobri-what?” I asked.
“Nickname, mon ami.” He tossed his coiffed golden hair in a gesture that perfectly matched his haughty accent.
“So he’s a rich playboy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Are you jealous I get to meet him?” I teased.
“Of course I am,” he sniffed. “And sinceI’m not invited, can you do me one favor and get a guesstimate?” He leaned forward and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “It was too dark in the club for a proper look. I’m praying he’s undersized. Something—anything—to make him less attractive.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Sorry, I’m not scoping out some stranger’s crotch. Not even for you.”
“Fine,” he said, acting all put upon. “We’ll assume he’s hung like a donkey. Cue my weeping.”
“You can come along to take notes.”
“No, no, no,” he said, and held up his hands in mock protest. “I’ll let you drown in all that male virility.”
I glanced back at my monitor. Based on everything TQ had just revealed, chances are Morgan’s inflated ego will drown me before his virility ever has a chance. Even a 2D image of the man oozed hubris.
“Do not fret, sunshine,” TQ said, always my biggest cheerleader. “You’ll handle him like you handle everything in your life—impeccably. Seriously, I don’t know how you make it look so easy. Badass employer. Adorable husband. Perfect hair.” He sighed, a man fresh out of superlatives. “If you weren’t so loveable, I’d truly hate you.”
I made a funny sound, like I’d tried to laugh but choked instead. I could not bring myself to say it. The ugliness of telling him my life wasn’t so perfect had to happen, just not tonight.
TQ misread my ambivalence and grabbed both my hands in his. “On behalf of the deprived gay man population in Los Angeles, you go, girl. School his Euro ass about who wears the PR pants in America. Forget that rascal Vaughn. May I present…” He rolled his arm with a flourish. “The Vandana Hillman.”
TheVandana Hillman is currently sitting in her Range Rover, having serious second thoughts. My afternoon cram session on yacht design helped, but I’m still woefully uneducated. Making a good first impression is critical. One sniff of weakness is all it takes for the powerplays to start. I hate to say it, but men do get pleasure from one-upmanship.
After a final check in the rearview mirror I silently thank Lillia, my facialist, for squeezing me in last minute. At the very least, my game face has never looked better.
Go. You got this.
Once I get to the Fairmont, a brooding valet pockets my ten like he’s somehow gone out of his way to earn it, and my heartbeat quickens the closer I get to the restaurant. As I wait for the hostess, I scan the bar but don’t see Morgan. We exchanged texts earlier, confirming time and place, and I’m checking my phone for an update when a twenty-something with enough piercings on her face to set off an airport screener sashays over.
