by Con Riley
“And that,” Eric explains, like he’s concluding a lecture, “is what someone who is happy in their work sounds like.” The grin he wears isn’t exactly unusual on him, but it’s disconcerting when aimed so fully in his direction. The question one of the interns asks is equally as puzzling.
“What were you whistling, Mr. Fournier?”
“Whistling?” He sets down the creamer and picks up his cup. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We could hear you all the way from the meeting room,” Eric says. “So we thought we’d come see what got you up on the right side of the bed this morning.”
Jon doesn’t reply. They don’t need to hear that almost coming in his pants like a teen with Tyler underneath him helped him sleep better than he has for weeks. Or that the best thing about coming in to work today was hoping that Tyler would get off work around the same time this evening. He could mention that driving past a food truck on the way in had reminded him of their date. It had all been so fucking thoughtful, and he wants nothing more right now than to return the favor. He could tell the interns, who all smile goofily at him for some reason, that he’d rather be sitting in a dog park than here, as long as Tyler’s with him. But instead he blows on his steaming coffee and takes a cautious, slow sip.
Turns out it’s hard to drink while smiling.
“See?” Eric insists. He turns to his interns. “We should all be so lucky to love our work so much. This is why Mr. Fournier is my role model.”
“Who loves their work?” Carl Snyder’s low-pitched growl clears a path as interns scurry out of his way. Jon sympathizes with their reaction; the man looks like a bear woken far too early from hibernation. He’s rumpled and baggy-eyed, like he barely slept all weekend. “Can’t be any of these useless interns.” His snarl is convincing until Jon spies the way he winks at Eric and hears one of the interns giggle. “’Cause they’d already be up in the accounting department by now, if they did.” The interns groan en masse and drag their feet on the way out, leaving the three men in the breakroom.
“You get home before midnight, big guy?” Eric asks as he pours another two cups, one from the decaf carafe. He adds a splash of skim milk without asking before passing that cup Carl’s way. “You know I would’ve stayed, only I was Heather’s ride for the night.”
“I got home when I was done.” Carl scrubs a hand over his face, and when he glances Jon’s way, his expression’s rueful. “Fire at the animal shelter we’ve been working on.” He grimaces at Eric. “You still got the smell of smoke in your nose too?” His voice lowers when he adds, “Thanks for rallying the troops like that.” He tilts his head in the direction of the meeting room. “Those interns are a whole lot more useful than they look.”
“A fire?”
Both Eric and Carl nod at Jon’s question, but it’s Eric who tells the story. “Electrical fault in the feed store that spread quick.”
“All that bedding and dry kibble?” Carl shakes his head. “It was an accident waiting to happen. Good thing it was put out before it reached the critters.” He looks longingly at Eric’s cup of coffee before taking a sip from his own. “I’m heading back there tonight. See if I can’t get the runs secure so they can get outside instead of all being cooped up 24/7.”
Jon speaks without thinking. “You want some help with that?”
Carl stops drinking mid-sip, but Eric’s more forthcoming. “You’d help us out? That would be so cool!” His grin is far too bright for this early in the morning. Carl’s mirroring smile is a faint shadow, but it spreads when Jon nods and says, “Sure.”
Both of their expressions are a stark contrast to Stan Hallquist’s when he summons Jon to a private meeting.
It’s been several days since he got his latest report back from Bettman with an okay to pass it along to his client. Their agreement with his revised findings is a relief, but this will be the first chance he’s had to gauge Stan’s reaction. Jon gathers his notes and laptop before taking the elevator to the executive floor where Stan’s office is located. He’s standing by one of the windows that corners the room when Jon gets there, rolled up report in his hand. He inclines his head for Jon to join him.
The extra height from this level of the building offers a whole new perspective of a view that’s become familiar. The subdivisions below are less anonymous now that he’s driven these streets for weeks and even walked a few with Tyler. He can’t help looking for the landmark he’s used before to get his bearings. If he squints, he can just about make out the neon sign standing tall over the pizzeria, marking the start of the street where he lives. It’s a nondescript neighborhood from this distance—nothing special at all, like many other streets around it—but something in his chest warms when a sunbeam strikes it.
“I read your report,” Stan says, and he taps Jon on the shoulder with it like the report’s detailed pages are a newspaper he found on his lawn rather than a significant investment of money and time. “You have a unique perspective.” He speaks slowly, like he’s still mulling over Jon’s findings, and then taps his own chin with it a few times. “And you bring up some interesting points.” He stares out the window rather than make eye contact when he adds, “But you’re dead wrong.”
“I….” Jon mentally reappraises the report content; he triple checked every figure, there’s no way he made mistakes in his analysis, as his own head office already confirmed. “Which part of the report concerned you, exactly? Perhaps if I explain how I evaluated the data—”
“It’s not the data that’s the problem, Jonathan.” Stan pats his shoulder again, slower this time like he’s apologetic, but he still crosses to his desk and drops the report into a trashcan.
Jon catches his breath in shock. It’s hard to rein in his instinctive urge to retrieve the slim sheaf of paper.
He’s sure—fuck it, he knows—that his findings are accurate. But Sharon Weiss had made his job crystal clear before he even got here. She’d actually said, “What they do once our findings are in their hands is none of our business.” But that still doesn’t make seeing so many hours of hard work cast aside any easier to deal with.
He counts to ten in his head and schools his expression into polite blankness. “I’m happy to hear you valued getting another perspective.” He unclenches his hands before his fists can tighten any further. “Is there another way you’d prefer me to present my findings in the future?”
Stan takes a seat behind his desk and points to the chair opposite. “It’s not the presentation method that’s the issue,” he says, as Jon takes the seat he indicated. He pauses like he’s giving the question serious consideration. “I’ll tell you what I need.”
Jon leans forward. “Yes?”
He leans sharply back when Stan says, “I need to see more focus from you.”
“Focus?” What the fuck? Hadn’t he pinpointed damn fast where he saw this company going off track? He’d focused on problem areas within the first week that this man hadn’t even mentioned.
He counts from ten back down to zero rather than voice any of that aloud. “If you let me know what you want me to focus on next, I’ll get right on that.”
Turns out it’s hard to politely smile with his teeth so tightly gritted.
Apparently, Stan doesn’t notice anything odd about his diction. He simply picks up a toy bulldozer and pushes it backward and forward along the edge of his desk. Its chipped paint and missing undercarriage suggests it’s old, but Stan holds it for a moment like its truly precious. He sets it down precisely in the same spot that he found it and then tells Jon a huge lie.
“There’s no need to focus on the accounting department like you put in your findings. That department isn’t the problem around here.” He looks up and pauses like he’s waiting for a rebuttal.
Letting it slide is almost impossible. Jon opens his mouth and then snaps it shut when Stan makes a small concession. “Or it’s not the first problem I want dealt with, anyhow.”
“I see.” He
really, truly doesn’t.
Stan Hallquist stares right at him then, looking as tired as Carl had only a half hour before. For someone at least twenty years younger, his complexion is equally grey, and he pinches his brow like he’s staving off a headache. “See, here’s the thing, Jonathan. I have to admit I got excited when your report mentioned radical streamlining, but then you went ahead and ignored the one department I already said I had concerns with.”
“Acquisitions.”
“Acquisitions,” Stan Hallquist agrees. “You set them a task like I said?”
Jon nods.
“Who’s coming out on top?”
Jon closes his eyes for a moment. Images flicker behind his eyelids—Carl staring out a window while his team flounders, leaderless, without him; Anthony’s team working in united concert—and he tells a lie of his own. “It’s still too early to tell.”
“Huh.” The furrows in Stan’s forehead suggest believing Jon is a close-run thing. He doesn’t challenge him on it though. He simply stands and taps the face of his watch. It’s old, with a steel band as scratched up as the toy bulldozer on his desk where Jon would have expected him to wear something more prestigious. He taps its glass face again and says, “Time is money, Jonathan. So you better get back to finding me some more answers.” He walks him to his door, one hand on Jon’s shoulder, friendly, as if he hasn’t just thrown all his hard work in a trashcan. He doesn’t leave Jon there but heads along the hallway with him, like he wants to ensure he gets back to work right away. He even presses the button to summon the elevator for him, only moving back when it opens. His sudden lurch forward, before the doors close, is unexpected.
“Listen, Jonathan. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job.”
That’s debatable, in his opinion, but while Ms. Weiss’ words still ring in his ears, Jon is diplomatic. “Go ahead, Mr. Hallquist.”
“You might want to pay closer attention to Carl Snyder’s output.” He loses the veneer of calm confidence that he’s had every time Jon’s met him, and he can’t seem to maintain eye contact either. “I want to see more about him in the next report you give me.” The elevator doors slide closed after he adds, “If I have to make cuts, I’m relying on you to tell me. Don’t try to sugar coat it just because he’s been here the longest.”
Jon descends, his stomach lurching like it feels every foot of the fall between floors of the building. Even though the elevator’s movement is smooth, he still steadies himself against one of its walls when it stops. It’s not only his stomach that sinks as he walks past Carl’s office on the way back to his own; his spirit, which had lifted as soon as he stepped foot in this city, now plummets lower than seems possible.
He thought he was here to improve a business built in the 1980s. But now, for reasons he can only guess at, his role has a brand new definition.
Jon’s not here to streamline Stan Hallquist’s business.
No.
He’s a hired gun about to pull a trigger that will end a lifelong friendship.
Chapter 18
THAT EVENING, Stan’s veiled threat is still on his mind when he climbs the steps to Peggy’s front door. It left a sour taste in his mouth all afternoon, and his appetite’s still dampened. He’s not feeling hungry at all when she calls out a cheery “It’s open!” after he knocks. She follows that with an equally welcoming “You’re just in time for supper!” when he enters the kitchen.
“Nothing for me, thanks. I’m good.”
Tyler leans against the kitchen counter with a fork partway raised to his mouth. “You don’t want to eat?” He sounds disbelieving. “You might want to reconsider. Peggy’s stuffed shells are legendary.” He blows across his forkful. “You should at least try some while you’re here. They’re delicious.”
“There’s plenty, Jonathan.” Peggy even pulls a chair out for him and sweetens her offer by saying, “They’re made with spinach.”
“From the backyard?” Jon sits and then cranes his neck as she retrieves a shallow dish from the oven. The scent of cheese and garlic wafts across the table, and his mouth begins to water.
“Yes! From the very first bed you weeded. I make this recipe with ricotta and a dash of nutmeg.” Her lips form a very sad moue, and she sighs. “You know, it won’t taste half so good tomorrow.” She turns to retrieve a breadbasket lined with a gingham napkin and then fishes a jug of milk out of the refrigerator and pours two brimming glasses. It doesn’t take expert observation skills to see her shoo Tyler into sitting opposite him, and she’s not exactly subtle as she lights a candle that she sets midway between them, despite it still being light out. Even Tyler chokes when she feigns a sudden wave of tiredness. “Goodness, I’m beat. Think I’ll go ahead and turn in.”
“But it’s still early,” Tyler says. “And I thought you wanted to play cards?”
Peggy simply pats her rigid curls and sniffs. “You think looking this good happens by chance? It takes a whole lot of beauty sleep to maintain at my age.” She pinches his cheek. “Unlike you, I don’t wake up looking beautiful on a couple of hours sleep snatched here and there.” She looks across the table, and her glance is devilish. “Is beautiful the right word for him, Jonathan?” she asks. “Or do you think handsome is better? He’s definitely attractive, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s something, all right.”
Peggy beams like he’s conferred high praise. Tyler simply buries his head in his hands. The minute she’s gone, he looks up. “I’m not a hundred percent certain, but—” His mocking dry tone provokes the first genuine smile Jon’s worn since his meeting that morning. It widens as Tyler gets up, rounds the table, and then encourages him to push his chair out. “I can’t help thinking Peggy’s trying to get us together.”
“You think?”
“I do.” Tyler straddles his lap like it’s no big deal.
To Jon it feels all kinds of enormous.
He can’t even imagine how impossible this version of casual affection would be in his shared New York apartment. He stays in the present instead and embraces the moment by shifting back in his seat and bracing Tyler with his thighs. It’s grounding to have him pressing down as he settles, letting Jon take all of his weight, and it feels natural to have Tyler’s arms around his shoulders in a swift hug before he leans back. From this close, Jon can smell the nutmeg Peggy described on his breath and wonders how it will taste when they kiss. It’s hard to tell when the peck on the lips he gets is so very fleeting.
Tyler kisses him again, just as fast, then murmurs, “Yeah, she’s still trying to sell me to you. Didn’t you hear her call me pretty?”
Beautiful, Jon mentally corrects as he looks into Tyler’s eyes and counts striations ranging from slate to silver.
“You, on the other hand,” Tyler continues as he leans back and lightly touches Jon’s right temple like he can feel where his head’s ached since lunchtime, “look downright awful.”
“Is that right?” It’s ridiculous how insults only make him want to pull Tyler so much closer. Jon settles for kissing his neck as retaliation. A different appetite takes over when his kiss turns openmouthed against the taut flex of his throat, the faint taste of salt on his tongue more delicious than anything Peggy’s oven has to offer. He’s breathing faster when he finally pulls back. “Keep sweet talking like that,” he warns, “and I might have to show you just how awful I look all over.”
Tyler grabs Jon’s face with both hands like he’s finally about to thoroughly kiss him. Then he stills at the sound of a dull thump directly over their heads.
They both look up at the kitchen ceiling.
Another thump is even louder. They both tense until the faint sound of Peggy’s off-key singing drifts down the stairs.
“Hold that thought for a minute.” Tyler stands. “Let me just go check she isn’t about to break a hip reorganizing closets up there.”
Jon snorts as Tyler investigates and then serves himself a steaming portion of shells. His mouth is full when Tyler g
ets back, so he doesn’t interrupt when Tyler gives him a rundown of his entire day. He still doesn’t have a new full-time home care client of his own yet, but he swung another shift covering for someone for a few hours earlier, and he still had time for a long walk with Princess. His mention of the dog reminds Jon of the animal shelter.
“So you definitely still have the night off and want to go out to do something?”
Tyler nods while his mouth’s still full. He swallows before speaking. “I do, if by ‘out’ you mean going upstairs to your place, and ‘do something’ means blow jobs.” It’s hard to swallow when Tyler says all that while looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I have to say, I’m expecting big things.” He winks and takes another huge bite. “Mmm,” he adds. “Have I ever told you how much I love spinach?”
Jon’s helpless watching the slow silver slide of the fork between Tyler’s lips. “You might have mentioned it. But how do you feel about getting dirty?” He hides a smile behind his napkin when Tyler almost chokes. “Your hands, I mean.” He explains his promise to help out Carl, and Tyler readily agrees.
It’s what he should’ve expected, Jon acknowledges once they’ve both changed into clothes they can work in and met back at his car. Of course Tyler would see helping people he doesn’t know, on a rare whole night off, as a good way to spend his time. He almost goes ahead and says so, but Tyler beats him to it with a question as he fastens his seatbelt.
“So this guy we’re going to help is someone you’re writing a report on? You sure meeting off the clock like this won’t cause you problems?”
It’s too bad if it does. That bitter taste from earlier isn’t easy to forget, or the instructions Stan gave that left him tasting it in the first place. “If anyone asks, I can easily justify it. This is another way for me to assess teamwork in action. It’s not like I’m having dinner with Carl’s family or taking him out on a date.”
Tyler’s laughter rings out. “Like anyone would date the guy who follows them around with a clipboard all day recording how many pee breaks they take. Even I don’t think you’d be hot timing me taking clients to the bathroom.”