The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

“I don’t think I was fully prepared for just how much all of this was going to affect me. And how much stupid diabetes is throwing me for a loop.” Why did the holidays always make me feel my mortality so much keener than the rest of the year? “Ugh, I’m sorry, you guys. And I’m extra super sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t want to be with just you, El-Mudad.”

He kissed my forehead. “I never thought that. And I’ll be honest, Neil...I was a bit jealous tonight, myself.”

Neil’s eyebrows shot up, and he blinked in surprise. “What of?”

“Valerie,” El-Mudad and I said in unison.

And then it was impossible to hold back our laughter, though we did try.

Neil’s shoulders slumped. “I knew it. I knew it. But Olivia wanted to sit by both of us, and I couldn’t find the two of you. Let’s not make that into a big argument, as well.”

El-Mudad took Neil’s hand. “I’m sorry, my love. Forget that I mentioned it.”

“We won’t forget it. We’ll just talk about it when we don’t have Christmas festivities to attend to,” Neil said, disentangling himself to stand.

Christmas! “Oh no! This is going to ruin my present to you!”

They both looked at me blankly.

“You know that yacht designer you guys were talking to earlier this year?” I waited for recognition to cross their faces.

“Sophie...when you asked me for that bank account…” Neil began slowly.

I grinned at them. “Merry Christmas.”

“No.” El-Mudad shook his head. “No, you couldn’t have had a yacht built in a year. That’s impossible.”

“You’re right. But it’s been in the works much longer. Still is, in fact.” And it had gone even faster considering the amount of money I’d spent on it. Wealth is relative; to someone with Neil’s capital, a thousand dollars was like eighty cents. But a purchase as big as a yacht? That was like an average person buying a whole house.

“You didn’t really buy a yacht,” Neil said, as though he couldn’t dare to hope.

“I did. And it’s pretty awesome. But I guess you won’t get to see the brochure he made up for you,” I said with a heavy sigh. “It’s waiting for us in Venice.”

“I’m...I’m blown away,” Neil stammered. “I can’t imagine how much that must have cost. And you paid for it without tearfully confessing it to me?”

“No tearful confessions, but some extreme hyperventilation,” I admitted. I’d never handled so much money in my life. The damn boat cost more than our house.

Neil shouldn’t have trusted me with my own checking account. It was nearly empty.

“I won’t ask the price tag, because it is a gift and that would be rude,” El-Mudad said. “But you do have to give us some detail.”

“Let’s see. One-hundred-fifteen meters, five decks—one private—, jet skis, a helipad, speedboat, two hot tubs, four guest bedrooms…” I ticked them off on my fingers as I tried to remember. “I’m leaving a bunch out.”

“How many engines?” Neil asked.

El-Mudad followed him with, “Top speed?”

“Guys. Hello. I’m obviously not going to know that. Have you even met me?” I shook my head. “I do know that it can do six thousand miles in a single trip. The guy thought that was really important, he kept stressing it.”

“Well, I am quite jealous now that he’ll see the photos before I do,” Neil admitted. “Thank you, Sophie. You really have stunned me.”

“And me, as well. It’s a lovely gift.” El-Mudad stood and offered me his hand. “Shall we?”

I rose and let him put his arm around my waist, just so long as we were away from everyone else. “What’s our story?”

He frowned.

“You know. For why we disappeared,” I clarified.

Neil smirked. “Tell them El-Mudad wanted to see the mummified heart in the smoking room.”

Chapter Seven

The rest of the holiday passed by in a blur. While my family invaded the local Catholic church on Christmas morning, Neil, Olivia, El-Mudad, Rashida, Amal and I met in the drawing room that adjoined El-Mudad’s bedroom. Though Amal was still cool toward Neil and I, she was no match for Olivia’s charm. The presents I’d bought El-Mudad’s girls had gone over well enough, but I imagined they had so much stuff, nothing would impress them. They were gracious, though.

I thought about my sister, across the ocean, still recovering from her transplant. I know she’d received the gifts I’d sent her—both Molly and Susan had emailed me about them, with varying levels of enthusiasm—but it astounded me how different her life was to that of Amal and Rashida’s lives. How could such gaps exist in the world? Why did we have more than we needed, while my family struggled and, infuriatingly, wouldn’t always ask for help?

At least I was still able to pay Molly’s medical bills. I had to frame our wealth that way to keep from totally losing it and hating myself; I had the means to help the people I loved. It would be churlish to complain about that.