Thursday, September 6
LONDON, ENGLAND
MIGUEL RAMIREZ-TAGGART
“No. Nothing beige. Remove anything beige.” Miguel Ramirez-Taggart swept his hand at the racks of designer clothes lining the south wall of the reception room.
The racks had been brought in a few minutes earlier and were every bit out of place as Miguel himself was in the five-story mansion in London’s Mayfair neighborhood.
Only two blocks from Hyde Park (the good side, close to the winter wonderland skating rink), and four blocks from Buckingham Palace (which is all good sides, of course).
The home had been in his husband’s family for three generations, and Miguel was certain that none of Winslow Taggart V’s forefathers would’ve ever imagined that their future heir would not only marry a man, but an American.
A Cuban American, at that.
The mansion had a roof-top terrace, eight bedrooms—each with its own en suite—as well as powder rooms on the main, third, and fourth floors, for a grand total of eleven toilets.
Every inch of the home was elegant, tasteful, and thoughtfully laid out.
It was the definitive opposite of the home in which Miguel grew up.
The Ramirez family lived in a noisy three-bedroom bungalow with one toilet, on the street farthest from the ocean of any street within the Miami city limits.
It was decorated with laundry baskets heaped full of either dirty clothes waiting their turn for the overworked washing machine or clean clothes that most likely would never be folded, but picked through instead until they eventually disappeared.
He had three sisters and no brothers, despite his parents’ best efforts.
When he met Winslow, Miguel had nothing but his charm, good looks, and a great sense of style, which, it turns out, was the winning combination to snag a handsome older gent from across the pond with so much money, it would be nearly impossible to drain his bank accounts down to the last drop.
If anyone could do it, however, it would be Miguel, which is why his darling husband continued to work twelve-hour days as a hedge fund manager, rather than retiring to enjoy the good life.
Except today, Winslow had made an exception and came home in time to shop.
The clothes had been brought in by Byron Parker, the senior stylist of Harrods’ men’s department.
Byron, a god of fashion in London, rarely made in-home appearances himself.
He almost exclusively sent out one of his many minions to do this type of thing.
But if the right person with the right address (on Charles Street) and the right budget called, Byron would drop everything to be there.
This was a fact that thrilled Miguel to no end.
The entire ritual was delicious. Walking into the reception room, his eyes greedy to devour all of the luxurious fabrics, patterns, and textures, knowing that whatever he wanted, he could have.
Anything. Price was irrelevant. It would have been if he was paying for it himself.
His earnings as an interior designer would come as a delightful shock to his parents, but if he were on his own, he would still be forced to pick and choose a few key pieces each season.
And Byron would not be making house calls.
Winslow—who was seated on one of four olive-green structured sofas in the giant room—glanced up at Byron from above the rim of his reading glasses. “I’ll happily take all of his beige.”
Byron smiled at Winslow, but before he could say anything, Miguel said, “Nope. No beige for him either. Yachting is all about color and luxury and fun.”
“But this isn’t really yachting, is it? It’s a business trip,” Winslow said, looking back at his mobile phone again.
He was always at work, even when he was home.
It was a major source of tension in their marriage, and lately, it had gotten worse.
After a second, Winslow added, “The yacht belongs to Travis Bishop.”
“The Travis Bishop?”
Miguel beamed, even though a stab of guilt made him want to wince. “That’s the one.”
Winslow smiled proudly at his husband. “My shorter half is about to get his own show on Summit Broadcasting’s Homes and Lives Channel, renovating and decorating a dilapidated townhouse.”
Byron gasped. “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, Miguel.”
Miguel gave Byron a little bow. “Yes, well, hopefully. If everything goes well, but nothing is set in stone.”
Winslow furrowed his brow. “Of course it is. Bishop would never invite us to spend a week with him if he didn’t plan to hire you.” He glanced at Byron. “You won’t believe this. The original concept for the show would have had Miguel working on some abandoned mansion in Canada, for God’s sake.”
Byron’s eyes widened. “Canada?!”
“Yes, and not even one of the good bits. He’d have been out in the wilderness in Ontario, where it’s minus a thousand all winter.” Winslow chuckled at the idea. “Can you imagine Miguel in the Canadian wilderness?”
The two men shared a laugh, while Miguel did his best to keep his face relaxed. He ran his fingertips down a pair of linen slacks. “It’s not that ridiculous. I’m a lot tougher than you think you know. I grew up in the hood.”
“Oh please, you grew up in a poor neighborhood surrounded by a thousand Catholics, not Cripts.”
Miguel leveled his husband with a glare and let his Cuban accent grow thicker. “First of all, it’s Crip. Crip with no ‘t’ at the end. Second, if it’s not dangerous, why do all the windows have bars on them?”
Winslow’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry. I’ve offended you. Of course you grew up in a very rough neighborhood.” He paused, then added, “But you’ve never owned a parka and mittens, have you?”
“Maybe not, but London isn’t exactly the Arctic either,” Miguel answered.
“You’ve got me there, my lamb. Good thing the show fell through because neither of us are suited to a place where your skin can literally freeze in under a minute.”
“No, that can’t be true,” Byron said. “Under a minute?”
Winslow nodded. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Sixty seconds.”
“That barely ever happens,” Miguel answered. “Only a few days each winter. And I think it would be incredibly romantic. We’d stay snuggled up by the fire all day.”
Snorting, Winslow said, “It would be romantic until you had to get up at six in the morning and go to work. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because it’s not happening.”
Winslow, who was notoriously private, would normally never talk freely about this in front of anyone, but Byron had been working with the Taggart family since he was a young man and Winslow was a teenager, and he’d proved himself to be the paragon of discretion.
In fact, Byron was so good at keeping secrets, he’d been hiding the fact that he was gay from himself for his entire sixty-four years.
Winslow and Miguel were certain of it, even though he often showed them photos of his darling wife, Cheryl (who had a rather strong jawline for a woman), their two children, and more recently, their grandchild, Alice, a chubby little thing with cheeks so full, they looked like you could pop them with a pin.
“So will the show be filmed in London then?”
“Hopefully. Nothing’s nailed down yet.” Miguel’s gut tightened. Best to focus on happy things, like those gorgeous Peninsula linen swim shorts.
He held them up and Byron gave him a nod of approval. “The print on those shorts was inspired by some old tiles found in a church in Positano. Have you ever been?”
“To the Amalfi Coast? Absolutely. Love everything about it, and I love these,” Miguel said, tossing the trunks onto the sofa next to Winslow. “For him.”
Winslow reached over and rubbed the fabric of the shorts between his finger and his thumb.
“Yes, those are nice. Anyway, my plan is to talk Travis into a house as close to this one as possible, but worst-case scenario, it’ll be some awful castle in Scotland, and Miguel will only be home on weekends. ”
Byron shuddered. “I’d rather be in Canada.”
Winslow continued, “I found the perfect place that the network can get for a song—it’s a five-bedroom in Chelsea.”
“Not that run down place with the corpse in the basement?” Byron asked, placing a hand over his heart.
“Just think of the ratings,” Winslow answered, raising and lowering his eyebrows. “One of the episodes could be some horrible seance.”
Byron turned to Miguel. “Would you really be comfortable in a house where someone died?”
Shrugging, he said, “It does not scare me.”
“He grew up in the hood, after all,” Winslow added with a wry grin.
“Well, I’m going to hope it works out and you end up being the most famous person I know.”
“Thank you, Byron,” Miguel answered. “Based on the people you know, it won’t happen, but I appreciate the thought.”
“I mean it. You and Winslow are my very favorite clients. I wish you nothing but the best in life.”
“And you are our favorite fashion expert,” Miguel said.
“I appreciate that,” Byron said, taking a salmon-pink organic cotton T-shirt off the rack and holding it up in Winslow’s direction.
Miguel nodded, so Byron slid it off its hanger and tossed it into the Winslow pile.
“Honestly, you’re the happiest couple I know. So different and yet perfectly suited.”
Winslow beamed at Miguel, who blew him a kiss and tried to shut out the feeling of dread building in his tummy.
They were the happiest couple anyone knew.
People were always saying it. He loved that about them—how they radiated love, especially when they were out with other people.
Miguel would smile up at Winslow adoringly and touch his arm, which, now that he thought about it, was something he rarely did when they were at home alone together.
He would change that immediately and make sure Winslow never forgot how much he appreciated him.
It would be especially important now, because there was a good chance their beautifully-crafted relationship was about to be blown up, and only a slight chance that he could save the entire thing without his husband ever knowing what he’d done.
But he wouldn’t think about that now because Miguel had to focus on looking his best. He needed to remind Winslow that he was still the man he fell in love with through that store window all those years ago, so even if things went horribly wrong once they were aboard the yacht, Winslow might be willing to fight for their love.
He held up a white chambray micro-print, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. “This is a yes.”
Winslow narrowed his eyes. “Are those…tiny lobsters?”
Byron nodded. “Mm-hmm. Every resortwear collection should have something playful.”
“Not my resortwear collection.”
“That’ll go in my pile.” Miguel slid the shirt off the hanger and tossed it on an overstuffed velvet ottoman nearby. “Unless you hate it. I’ll give it up if I must.”
If I must. He was starting to sound more British by the week.
His sisters teased him about it when they were on the phone, and it bothered him more than it should.
But it did. Some days, he felt like he was losing himself in tiny increments, one morsel at a time, and there were even moments when he had to take a giant breath just to stop from panicking about it.
Winslow narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, which caused Miguel’s stomach to churn. “That’s very unlike you—to offer to give up something you love because I might find it offensive.”
Oh God, he knows. Of course he knew. Winslow was the most perceptive person he’d ever met. Miguel gave him a flirty smile. “What do you mean? I make sacrifices all the time for you.”
“Name one.”
“There was that bartender at the hotel in Monaco three months ago. A sure thing if ever there was one, and I didn’t even give it a second thought. I said no, thank you, sir. I’m happily married.”
“Not cheating seems rather like the bare minimum, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose. That’s just the first example that popped to mind.”
“You’ll note I asked for an example of something you love that you gave up for me.”
Miguel’s cheeks heated up. “Obviously I didn’t love him. Oh, forget it.” He flipped through the rack quickly to cover the awkward silence with the sound of the hangers scraping along the metal rack.
Byron glanced at his watch. “Look at that. It’s nearly four o’clock and I told Cheryl I’d be home in time to give Alice her tea. She’s staying with us for the night so the kids can have a bit of a break. Why don’t I leave everything here and have it picked up in the morning?”
“That would be lovely.” Miguel gave him a bright smile, as though nothing was wrong. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Goodbye, Byron,” Winslow said, remaining seated. “Thank you, as always.”
Byron gave Winslow a slight bow, as if he was taking his leave of the king. “I’m happy to help. Enjoy your trip and best of luck with the television deal.”
Miguel followed Byron to the front door, then opened it for him, letting in the warm autumn air. “Honestly, you’ve done such an amazing job, I doubt there will be much left on the rack by morning.”
“Thank you. What time shall I have it picked up?”
“Will nine work?”
“Perfectly.”
Byron stepped outside and hurried down the steps, probably off to feed Alice some crumpets with jam while he sang nursery rhymes and wiped her chubby little fingers.
As Miguel watched him walk down the sidewalk he wondered to himself how a man could stand to live a lie for so long.
He’d only been doing it for six weeks and it was nearly killing him already.