1004 A.M.
MIGUEL
The sun was high above the yacht by the time Miguel woke.
His abdomen was heavy with the weight of the enormous dinner he’d eaten the night before.
It would have been fine if he hadn’t made a pig of himself on the layered chocolate cake.
But what could he do? Winslow kept spoon-feeding it to him to stop himself from overdoing it.
And it was oh, so heavenly. But now, bloated and sluggish, he was filled with regret. (Or was that guilt?)
Glancing around the suite, he realized he was alone. The door to the bathroom was open, which meant Winslow must have gotten up early and sneaked away, probably on a call about whatever was going on at work. He stretched his body and forced himself to get up.
Today was the day. It had to be. The sooner the better. He’d tell him the truth while Winslow was trapped with him on this yacht. That way, there would be time for his husband to calm down long enough for Miguel to beg his forgiveness before they reached land.
After a quick shower (for Miguel anything under twenty minutes was quick—one had to exfoliate, after all), he hurried down the hall, peeking into the round windows of the common rooms and searching each deck.
With every step, his worry grew, as if it were a bicycle tire being pumped up too full.
His palms felt clammy as he tried to think of the best way to tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
He finally found Winslow on the sun deck, sitting on the white sectional in the shade, talking on the phone.
“Yes…yes.” Pausing, Winslow offered him a wink. “Thank you, Sarah, I owe you my first born.” He let out a little laugh. “True. In that case, how about a dinner at Veeraswamy when we return next week? We can sort out the details over some vindaloo.”
Miguel sat down on the couch, his heart dropping to his huaraches.
Winslow was on the phone with the woman from BBC.
And she must have said yes to taking the meeting.
Which meant that Miguel was about to make his husband look like a giant ass.
His face must have displayed his dread, because Winslow’s eyebrows knit together as he rang off. “What’s wrong?”
Miguel opened his mouth to speak, but instead he gagged. Dammit. It was a nervous gag. Shaking his head, he held up one finger, then said, “I’m fine.”
“Clearly not, if you’re gagging. Are you seasick? Should I get you Cyclizine?”
He shook his head and told himself to get it over with. He blew out a puff of air. Come on, man up. He gagged again. Twice.
“What are you nervous about?” Winslow asked, narrowing his eyes.
His body erupted once more, his tongue exiting his mouth as he did it again.
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry. One second.” He took a deep breath, then let the words come spilling out before his gag reflex could stop them. “I have to tell you something, and I’m terrified that things will never be the same once I say it.”