by Ava Hayden
She glanced away and bit her lip, then looked right at him. “Gilles and I were wondering if you’d be interested in pursuing market research on our customer base. With a review of our product lines to follow. Rainey has done an enormous amount of research into trends, our competition, potential new markets—”
A door banged somewhere down the hall, and Amelie jerked a look over her shoulder. She turned back, pale but resolved. “Our potential customer base has skyrocketed. Our sales haven’t. Gilles and I think there are a lot of unexplored opportunities available to us.”
He knew what she wasn’t saying. Bob put up roadblocks to any suggestions that didn’t originate with him. He allowed staff to implement changes only after seeing similar ones work for their competitors. Huxley had figured that out his first month at Oilton Foods.
It hadn’t taken long for Huxley’s managers to give up on him. During onboarding, he was too green to understand what senior managers were saying with their careful statements and questions that seemed to be asking more than what the words actually said.
Huxley was more experienced now. He understood the unspoken requests. He just wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about them. Until this week his response was to do absolutely nothing. That isn’t working anymore.
“Let me get back to you.”
Amelie nodded, her face masking her thoughts. She slipped out, closing the door with a quiet snick.
Chapter 4
THIS TIME Huxley had the taxi driver drop him at the corner, and he paid him to wait. One way or the other, this would be fast. He stepped down from the green-and-white Oilton Cabs minivan, his eyes watering in the January cold. He carried an oversized paper bag by its twisted paper handles. Push out the air. Let in the air.
When his heart rate slowed from “terrified sprint during zombie apocalypse” to “Mum almost caught you with a hand in your boxers and a copy of Men’s Health,” he twisted the brass knob and entered Floribunda, silvery chimes ringing out to announce his arrival.
Paul emerged from the back, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Hi—” Huxley’s mouth felt like a desert. He licked his lips.
Paul gave him a cautious smile. “Was something wrong with your order?”
“Oh—no, not at all. I’m—I’m actually here to place another order.” He lifted the stuffed paper bag onto the counter. “Well, if it’s something you can do.”
Paul raised his brows. “Go on.”
“I want gift baskets like the ones on your website, but I need to have our company’s products in the baskets. Can you do that?”
“Can I see the products?”
Huxley pulled out sugar-free cookies, candies, jam, baking mix, oat cakes, cranberry muesli, along with no-sugar-added pasta sauce and canned soups.
Paul picked up a box of sugar-free vanilla sandwich cookies and read the box. “Interesting.”
“It’s ugly packaging, I know.” Was there a law that said food for people on restricted diets had to be hideous? You’d think so, going by their products.
Paul set the box down and hefted a jar of sauce, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not so bad. The packaging shouldn’t matter anyway, not if we do our job right. We can definitely do something with these. How many baskets?”
“Two for now. Maybe more down the road. These would need to be ready for pickup on Monday.”
“No problem.”
“That’s great.” Huxley took a breath. “I was wondering—it turns out—you mentioned the game—I actually have seats. I just forgot. Would you be interested in going?” He swallowed. “I know it’s last-minute.” Way to sound brain damaged.
Dead silence. Hope curdled. Paul was going to say he had a conflict or he’d invent a prior commitment.
Paul looked puzzled. “The Ospreys game?”
“Yes.”
“I—well, yeah, that would be amazing.”
“Great.” Huxley swallowed. “Would you mind if we met somewhere and took OTIS to the stadium?” He had a feeling Paul would think a driver was pretentious, and he wasn’t ready to explain why he had to have one.
“I wouldn’t mind at all. Taking the train is a lot smarter than trying to park for a sold-out game.”
They arranged to meet in front of the station closest to Floribunda, and Huxley returned to the waiting taxi in a daze. On the way back to the office, he texted his sister. We need to talk.
BZZZZZZZZ.
Huxley checked his phone as he pulled his office door closed. Alexandra. “Hello.”
“Thank you for the beautiful flowers.” Alexandra sounded distracted. He heard a keyboard clicking in the background. She was starting the last semester of her MBA program. “You know my birthday isn’t for four weeks, right?”
“Yeah, I know, um….” He scrunched his hair with his free hand. “Can I talk to you?”
“Just a second.” A chair scraped. Whir whirrrrrr. Something electronic clattered in the background. “What’s up?”
“I was hoping you could come over tonight.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I couldn’t stay long. The professors are piling it on.”
“Come for dinner. You have to eat anyway, right? Say sixish?”
Whir whirrrrrr. “…ummm, yeah… okay. See you tonight.”
His sister ended the call.
ALEXANDRA ARRIVED at the same time as the pizza. She carried the box into the kitchen as Huxley paid the delivery guy.
Alexandra served up pizza slices while Huxley poured their drinks, and then they slid into seats at his dining room table. Huxley looked up to find Alexandra watching him.
“You going to tell me why I’m here and not at my house reading thirty pages of case studies for class tomorrow?” Alexandra’s tone was sharp, but her eyes showed her concern.
“You know how sometimes you dream you’re awake, and in the dream, you’re doing crazy things, but then you wake up and realize you were dreaming the whole time, and you’re relieved that it was just a dream?” He winced. “That’s my life—except I can’t wake up.”
Alexandra shrugged and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “We had this conversation already. You said—and I quote—‘I can stick it out till I’m thirty if I have to.’”
He rubbed his eyes. “It’s worse now. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
Huxley had spent many hours wondering why his father installed him as president and CEO of Oilton Foods. After the accident, he spent a month in the hospital, only to find when he emerged that he couldn’t drive—couldn’t even ride in anything smaller than a tank. His options would be limited, at least for the immediate future, so he resigned from his management position with Kootenays restaurant chain.
His father had approached Huxley when he was at his weakest and dangled the possibility of releasing his trust fund in two more years if Huxley took the job. And now he was stuck. His SUV and driver were part of his compensation. If he tried to walk away, he’d have no transportation, no job, and no trust fund until he was thirty-five.
Alexandra sat back and crossed her arms. “What changed?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Huxley flushed. He couldn’t tell his sister about Paul. “Some things happened at work.” Like figuring out people were hoping he would help them do their jobs. That his decisions could make a difference. And that some of his managers might push back against Bob if they thought they had Huxley’s support. But right now they thought he was a coward. Or a head case. Or that he didn’t give a shit.
“Is it Bob?”
His sister knew him too well. The one time she’d stopped by to see him, she sized up the office situation immediately. “He’s part of it.”
“I warned you.”
“I know.”
Alexandra had visited him at the office. She took him out for dinner afterward and gave him her feedback.
“Watch out for Bob. He’s pissed because he thinks he should have been promoted to CEO and president. He’s not stupid enough to do a
nything overt that will make Dad fire him, but he’s not above stabbing you in the back.”
Huxley slumped. “I thought if I kept my head down and just let Bob do what he wanted, I could stick it out.” He’d thought he could just show up and not care.
Alexandra propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Remember that summer I gained a lot of weight, and Mum nagged all the time about it?”
“Vaguely.”
“She didn’t want to be seen in public with a chunky daughter. So every time Mum got on my case, I’d go eat something really artery clogging. Like ‘Fuck you, Mum. I’ll show you.’”
Huxley’s eyes widened, and Alexandra gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I know. Stupid, right? Finally one day after we had a big screaming fight, I bought a deli cheesecake sampler and ate the whole thing. And then I realized, who am I really hurting here? Mum? Or me?”
In one two-week period, Alexandra had become vegetarian, taken up running, and started working out with weights. Huxley remembered that. He hadn’t known the backstory.
His sister held his gaze. “If you do nothing, it’s a big ‘fuck you’ to Dad, but it’s also a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone who works there.”
Huxley groaned. “I know. I’m just showing up, but I don’t know what to do about it. I never wanted to run a company.” He’d gone to work for Kootenays restaurant chain straight out of university, a dues-paying position, but found himself promoted to regional management less than five years in because he was good at it. Of course, he wasn’t being blackmailed into working back then either.
Alexandra laced her fingers on the tabletop. “My offer still stands. Quit. Move into my house’s mother-in-law suite. I won’t even make you pay rent. Find a job you really want.”
“I’m not going to leech off of you.”
Alexandra laughed, sounding more bitter than amused. “Not a problem.”
No, definitely not a problem. Alexandra got access to her trust fund at age twenty-five, the same age Huxley should have gotten access to his. Would have gotten access if his father hadn’t exercised that little five-year clause the lawyers always said was just a formality. The same clause his father could exercise again when he turned thirty in two years—if Huxley still “wasn’t ready for the responsibility.”
He studied business at university because he wanted to do something meaningful. Something useful. All the meaningful, useful jobs that appealed to him paid crap, but once he got his trust fund, he could work for a nonprofit or a small business and still afford food and shelter. The irony was Alexandra wanted to work for Herrington Industries. Huxley had her dream job.
“Hey.” His sister reached across the table and touched his arm. “Besides work, how are you? How’s your therapy going?”
“We’ve been working on front seats.”
His sister smiled. “That’s great news.”
Huxley suppressed a shudder. “I guess.”
“How does it work?”
He twisted his fingers together on the tabletop. “Basically I sit in the front passenger seat of a vehicle until I start to have a panic attack. You try to stay longer each time.”
“For how long?”
“I’m supposed to be riding in the front seat by Valentine’s Day.” Front seat of a minivan or SUV, that is. Huxley’s therapist wanted to try for the front seat of a sedan by St. Patrick’s Day. He was pretty sure the second goal would be harder. He couldn’t ride in a sedan at all right now.
“Was this a New Year’s resolution?”
Huxley shook his head. “I don’t believe in those.” Most people’s resolutions fell by the wayside. People were weak. Like the initials on the Heart Health Challenge sheet, the majority of resolutions dwindled away to nothing. He wouldn’t rely on a resolution to fix his problems. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life being driven around in oversized vehicles. What normal man would ever date someone with that kind of baggage?
“A Valentine’s Day resolution, then.”
Huxley shrugged. Call it a Valentine’s Day resolution or call it sustained sequential torture sessions or call it therapy. It only succeeded if he showed up and did the work.
Alexandra arched a brow and smiled. “Make me a mocha?”
“Sure.” Huxley bussed the table while the coffee brewed. He delivered two mochas along with a box of Thin Mints.
Alexandra fished out a mint. “So we haven’t solved your problem.”
Huxley lifted his hands. “Don’t know where to start.”
“We’re business people. Do a cost-benefit analysis. Is it better to stay or to go?”
“That works great for deciding whether to go with a different cheese vendor. Not so much for figuring out your life.”
His sister lifted a shoulder. “It could work, but only if you’re one hundred percent brutally honest.” She sipped her drink and eyed him over the mug. “You can’t be lying to yourself.”
Or ignoring what your heart and spirit were shouting at you from that vault where you shoved them in and locked the door.
Chapter 5
PAUL PUSHED back from his desk. If he was going to finish reconciling accounts, he’d need more coffee. He pushed the palms of his hands against his eyes for a moment. I’m so tired. He hated spending time on this sort of basic bookkeeping, but he couldn’t afford to pay his accountant to do routine work he could do.
Sade’s “Cherish the Day” played, and Paul picked up his phone. “What’s up, Carson?”
“Honey, are you still at work?”
Paul suppressed a sigh. “Yep.”
“I was hoping you’d go out tonight.”
“No can do. I’ve got to finish up December bookkeeping.”
Pouty silence.
“Believe me, I’d rather go out, but this has to get done.”
“What about tomorrow night?”
“I’ve actually got plans.” Paul stood and carried the phone over to the kitchenette. He filled a coffeepot with his free hand.
“Plans? Do tell. Is there a man involved?”
Paul laughed. “I’m going to the game tomorrow. That’s all.”
“Alone?”
“No.” He shoved a filter into the basket and knelt to retrieve the bag of coffee from their tiny freezer compartment. They went through coffee so fast he probably didn’t need to, but his parents said it stayed fresher, so he obediently kept it frozen.
“No, and? I’m waiting.”
“A friend offered me a ticket.” Crap. He gave up and put the phone on speaker so he could open the coffee.
“This friend wouldn’t happen to be named Huxley, would he?”
Paul was smiling as he dumped in grounds. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God! It’s a date! And you weren’t even going to tell me? You cad.”
“Put a sock in it, Miss Gordine.”
“Not when there are so many better things to put in it, sweet pea.”
Paul laughed. “It’s not a date. Just two guys going to the game.” He hoped. He cringed at the thought of having to explain to Huxley exactly why he wasn’t in a place to date someone.
“Sure it is. I’ll expect a full rundown on Sunday. Brunch. Millicent’s, 11:00 a.m., first one there orders the mimosas.”
He wasn’t getting out of this. “Okay, Millicent’s, Sunday at eleven. Got it.”
“Tchuss, dahlink.”
Paul thumbed off his phone and leaned against the counter as the coffeepot hissed and sputtered. Thank God for friends, even if they drove him crazy sometimes. What kind of friend would Huxley be? He hoped he’d find out.
HUXLEY EXITED the Oilton Cabs minivan and smiled when he saw Paul standing near.
“Good to see you,” said Paul.
“Good to see you too,” said Huxley, his breath trailing vapor in the January cold. “Ready for the game?”
“Oh hell yes.” Paul grinned.
They joined the crowd waiting for the train, and Huxley pulled a book of tickets from a coat pocket. “I’m making
you ride the train, so I should at least supply the ticket.”
Paul hesitated, then took the ticket. “Thanks.” Smile lines deepened. “Although maybe I should since you’re supplying seats.”
Huxley shook his head. “You’re my guest.”
They validated the tickets as their train pulled in, and then they squeezed into the nearest car and clung to the same metal upright. They both opened their coats, now too warm in the packed car.
“How was your day?” Huxley leaned close to be heard over the chatter of Osprey fans.
“Steady.” Paul smiled. “Not like we’ll be next month.”
Huxley raised his brows.
Paul replied to the unspoken question. “Valentine’s Day. Busiest day of our year. Squeaks in just ahead of Mother’s Day. It’s good for the bottom line, but it’s crazy. There are always last-minute orders from desperate guys who completely forgot the date.”
Huxley laughed. “I guess so.”
They stood close, gloved hands adjacent on the pole. Paul wore an Ospreys beanie with a matching scarf.
“You really are a fan,” said Huxley with a lift of the chin toward the beanie.
“Yes, I am. I was wondering—how do you ‘forget’ you have seats to an Ospreys game?”
Huxley flushed. “Um. The company has an executive suite for the season. I have a couple of seats reserved there, but since I don’t usually go, I—sort of—forgot.”
Paul snorted a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.” Then his eyes widened. “Wait, we’re going to be watching from a suite?”
Huxley nodded. Before he could say more, the train arrived at the Oilton Arena stop. The rush of people exiting swept them along with it, out of the station and over a pedestrian footbridge.
“We’ll go in the east entrance,” said Huxley as they approached dual ramps. They followed signs for the east lobby and joined a line of people navigating the walk-through metal detector.
Once they were through, Huxley led them to a bank of elevators, where a security guard checked his suite pass and let them on. Paul had shoved his beanie in a coat pocket, and he ran his fingers through his hair, checking his reflection in a mirrored panel, then leaned against the elevator’s side, his hands in his pockets. Here in the warm confines of the elevator, Huxley smelled shampoo and aftershave, a clean musky male scent. What would Paul’s hair feel like under his fingers? Stop that!