Page 56 of The Billionaire's Paradise

Meanwhile, the rest of the house had entered its own bizarre honeymoon phase.

Mr. Banks and Makani were officially in whatever stage comesright after “flirtation” and just before “joint denture plan.” They now took long morning walks together that nobody asked about, read books in the same hammock without speaking, and were spotted once—allegedly—feeding each other lychees in the garden while Mr. Banks recited Keats.

As for Angus and Kimo? They had graduated from “aura curiosity” to “fully scheduled bonding itinerary.” Their week included paddleboard yoga, sunrise fruit -foraging, and a guided soul hike to a lava rock shaped like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Angus came home each day sunburned and deliriously happy.

“I think I’ve met my twin flame,” he whispered one night, eyes wide with wonder.

“Is that what Kimo told you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s what the volcano told me.”

“Volcanoes don’t talk.”

“Says the man with an aura shaped like a duck.”

And yet, in all the absurdity, our plans kept marching toward the future.

The plan was clear. The date was set. The three of us—me, Cal, and Leilani—were going to Honolulu next week to take one more step toward building a family.

There was still anxiety and uncertainty in every direction.

But there was clarity too.

And underneath it all, something steady. Something sacred.

Something starting.

But then again, there was also…

“Hal needs me to meet with him today at the yacht club,” Cal said, slipping on his watch with all the casual ease of a man who didn’t know he was about to cause an emotional landslide in his husband.

“The yacht club,” I repeated, deadpan.

He nodded, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt. “Just a lunch meeting. Talk logistics. He’s been trying to lock in the next phase of the venture, and the marina’s one of the sticking points. Although if you ask me, it’s an easier hoop to jump through than the land entitlement, but that’s a whole other story.”

I sipped my coffee slowly. “Mmm. Shocking. A straight white man with a yacht problem.”

Cal leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t overthink things.” Then, as if to give me a taste of my own medicine, he added, “And who’s to say Hal’s straight, anyway?”

With that, he left in an exit that would have made Norma Desmond proud.

As soon as he was gone, I found Mrs. Mulroney standing in the kitchen, trying to skin a mango with a potato peeler.

“Sweet Jesus in a medieval torture chamber, how the hell do you flay one of these things?”

I ignored her question with a wide-eyed, “Did you hear the mic that Cal just dropped? He insinuated Hal’s not straight… insinuating that he’s gay… insinuating that he’s having an affair!”

“That’s a lot of insinuating,” Mrs. Mulroney said, putting down the peeler and attacking the mango with a rolling pin instead. “But we are talking about Cal here, your perfect, handsome, adoring husband. What on earth makes you think he’s having an affair?”

“Because all he ever seems to do these days is have meetings with Hal.”

Mrs. Mulroney tossed aside the mango and the polling pin and reached for a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey. “Doesn’t he spend every day having meetings?”

“Yes, but not with guys like Hal. Hal is hot and confident and rich and is dripping with riz.”

“Is that what the kids call it these days? In my time we called it jizz.”

“Riz is different. But he might as well be dripping with jizz, the way he looks at Cal. They even shared a room together back in their frat-boy days.”