by Ava Hayden
“Do you come to many games?” Paul smiled, and Huxley’s gaze dropped to his lips. Stop!
“Not really.” How much was too much to tell? “I used to come with my father and sister, but we haven’t gone to a game together in a few years.” Not since he turned twenty-five.
Ding. The elevator doors slid open, and Huxley led Paul to their executive suite. Only a few people had arrived so far—Amelie, with customers he didn’t recognize.
Huxley shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the small rack provided. “Let me take your coat.” He placed Paul’s beside his. “Want to hit the buffet?”
“That sounds great.”
Paul grabbed a plate and speared an oversized prawn. Huxley picked up a plate but spent a few moments admiring the view before him. Paul was dressed in a sort of after-hours business casual—the kind of look that worked in the suite but also in the cheap seats, if they’d ended up there. Those pants fit him like a second skin. Nice.
Paul glanced back and caught him looking. He smiled at Huxley as if he were a buffet—or maybe a chocolate fountain—before turning back to the fancy spread. Huxley blushed and concentrated on foraging. Paul is definitely not straight.
They carried their plates to seats overlooking the arena. The seating was cleverly designed to accommodate the maximum number of guests allowed while still providing each person a great view and a place to put food and drinks.
“What would you like to drink?”
Paul considered. “Beer?”
Huxley went to fetch beer, and Amelie pulled him aside as he considered the cooler’s contents. “Huxley, can I introduce you to some customers?” He winced, and she raised her eyebrows. She looked at Paul and then back at Huxley.
“I’d like to stay under the radar tonight,” he said.
Amelie didn’t appear shocked. Yeah, he sucked at his job. Absolutely no surprises there. She nodded and glanced at Paul again. “Customer?”
“A friend. Unless it’s Bob asking, and then he’s a potential supplier.”
Amelie’s laugh burbled out, loud enough that several people looked around. He’d never had this candid of an exchange about anything with Amelie. Or with anyone else on his management team, for that matter.
“Did he have something to do with those wonderful donuts?”
“Donuts, no. Gift baskets, yes.”
Comprehension dawned. Amelie nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Got your back. But you’d better get back to your ‘supplier’ before Bob shows.”
“Thanks, Amelie.”
A moment later he sat, handing over a bottle and glass to Paul.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Cheers,” they said and clinked glasses. Huxley sipped and watched Paul over the glass.
Paul licked his lips and smiled. “This is awesome.”
Yes, it is.
Huxley heard other guests arriving, but he didn’t look away from Paul. “Are you originally from here?”
“Yeah, my parents are still here.”
“Siblings?”
“Just me.”
“Did you always want to be a florist?”
“It was the family business. Everyone setting up shop in that block likes the old-timey look and feel, but Floribunda is the only business there that really is old.”
Huxley laughed. “Pioneers, eh?”
Paul winked. “We were gentrifying before that was a thing.”
“So you learned from the ground up.”
“Yeah, but Mum and Dad insisted on university too—just in case. I studied business.”
“Mr. Herrington?”
Paul looked at something behind him, and Huxley turned.
“I’d like to introduce you to my husband, Mark.” Sherrilyn twined fingers with a stocky man who leaned on a cane held in his right hand. Her husband had been a cop, now on disability. Three kids at home. Yeah, they probably couldn’t afford Osprey tickets very often—if ever.
Huxley stood, and Sherrilyn’s husband shifted the cane to his other hand to shake Huxley’s hand.
“This is my friend Paul,” said Huxley. Paul stood and shook hands with Mark and Sherrilyn.
Loud voices almost drowned out her next words. “Thank you so much for the seats.”
She flinched, and Huxley nearly did as well. Bob and his friends had arrived. Huxley recognized one of them as a Member of Parliament. Bob apparently knew Amelie’s customer guests because there was a lot of backslapping and straight male jocularity going on.
Huxley leaned in. “You deserved a turn. Enjoy the game.” Sherrilyn and Mark took their leave, and they resumed their seats.
MR. HERRINGTON. Huxley’s workplace must be formal. Sherrilyn was clearly grateful and deferential, though older than Huxley.
“Do you mind if I ask your age?” said Paul.
Huxley blushed. “Twenty-eight. And yes, that’s young to be a company president. My dad owns Herrington Industries.”
And he was obviously sensitive about it.
Huxley looked great. Slouchy navy pinstripe trousers, a soft dark blue-gray cardigan unbuttoned halfway, sleeves pushed up over a white tee. He was trim and, judging by the fit of his pants, he did some kind of workout.
Stop. No point in thinking those thoughts. Ask something else.
“Have you been there a long time?”
“No, just—just nine months.” Huxley glanced away. Why was he nervous? Must be more sensitivity about the job.
“I worked for Kootenays restaurant chain after I left university, here in Oilton at the company headquarters. But then my father wanted me to come into the business.”
Huxley looked up at Paul through thick lashes. “How old are you?” He turned pink. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. Thirty-two.” Damn. Paul was going to have to find a way to make it clear he was only looking for friendship. It was getting harder to remember by the second.
THE ARENA lights lowered, and the rest of the suite guests took their places. Huxley was relieved to see Bob and his crowd were in the seats farthest from him and Paul.
The Oilton Ospreys pregame shows were legendary. 3-D projection, catchy tunes—the full-to-capacity crowd roared in approval. Paul leaned close and spoke into Huxley’s ear.
“The pregame show is a hell of a lot better from a suite.”
Huxley laughed and turned his face to Paul’s. “Yeah.” The urge to kiss Paul hit him, shocked him, as if he’d stepped under the blast of an ice-cold shower. Where in the hell did that come from?
Luckily Paul didn’t seem to notice. Huxley settled back to watch the game. Two minutes in, he understood why this match between archrivals had sold out. Huxley had never been a die-hard fan, but he didn’t have to be to get sucked into the action.
The others in the suite seemed to agree. People tensed and jumped. Arms shot up as if on puppet strings. Huxley even found himself yelling along with the crowd. At intermission he felt as if he’d run ten miles.
Paul turned to him with a huge grin. “This is so much better live. Thanks again for the invitation.”
Huxley smiled and reminded himself not to stare at Paul’s lips. “My pleasure.” He lifted his empty plate. “Another trip to the buffet?”
Before Paul could answer, Bob Tunney pushed in close to their seats. “Huxley.”
Crap. Huxley forced his face into a pleasant expression. “Hello, Bob. This is Paul. He’s helping us put together some donations for the Oilton Health is Wealth event. Paul, this is Bob, our COO.”
Bob ignored Paul. He scowled. “I thought you were bringing customers.”
Huxley’s brows shot up. “Really?” He drew the word out and watched Bob’s face grow redder. “I’m surprised you did since I didn’t tell you I was.”
“Then who took the other two seats?”
“I gave them to Sherrilyn and her husband.”
Bob narrowed his eyes. “What happened to getting value for the company’s money?”
Had he really just given Huxley the perfect assist? “I’ve been wondering that myself. As far as I can tell, Amelie is the only one here with customers. I’m surprised a company the size of Oilton Foods bothers with an executive suite. Just how much new business does it actually bring in?”
Bob’s expression was wary. “An MP may not be a customer, but he’s still a useful connection. Anyway, it’s not the sort of thing that’s quantifiable.”
Huxley let a beat go by before replying. “I don’t know that that’s true. Sherrilyn keeps records of attendees. We might be able to do something with them.” If Bob had been using the executive suite as his personal entertainment venue, the last thing he’d want would be a review.
Huxley let that sink in and then added with a pleasant smile, “By the way, I’ll be doing the draws for unused seats from now on.” In other words Huxley would know exactly who was entertaining customers—and who wasn’t. And he’d make sure available seats were distributed fairly. “One less thing for you to have on your plate.”
For a moment he feared he’d pushed too far and too hard. Bob was breathing like Darth Vader having an asthma attack. Huxley held his gaze, willing himself not to look away and to hold the smile, which had to be more of a grimace at this point.
“Bob.” Amelie stepped in and touched Bob’s arm. “Joseph Stelling from Stelling Enterprises has a couple of questions about the Red Deer facility. Would you mind talking to him?”
Bob jerked a nod. “Of course.” He followed Amelie without another word.
Huxley rested his hands on his knees. Push out the air. Let in the air.
“Hey, are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Why had he done that? What had he been thinking? Huxley was supposed to fly under the radar another couple of years, convince his father he was a responsible adult, and get his trust fund. Not pin a target on his forehead.
“Sorry.” Huxley pushed himself up. He couldn’t meet Paul’s gaze yet. “More buffet and beer?”
“Sure,” said Paul.
WHAT JUST happened? Paul wasn’t certain, but based on what he heard and saw, Huxley had given two seats Bob wanted to Sherrilyn and her husband. How could that be a bad thing?
Huxley was pale after the encounter. He must not enjoy confrontation. Most people didn’t. He’d stood up to Bob, who was a bully—no one had to spell it out for Paul. Bob had been so angry he ignored Paul’s existence.
He didn’t understand what Huxley meant by “doing the draws,” but he was pretty sure he saw Bob being schooled. He actually wondered for a moment if Bob would hit Huxley.
When Paul and Huxley resumed their seats, Huxley apologized again.
“I’m sorry you were stuck having to listen to me and Bob. It was rude.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize to me for.” Paul sipped his beer.
Huxley pushed a canapé around his plate. “I’m afraid I do—but thanks.” He looked up at Paul with a sober expression in his deep blue eyes—the color of the ocean on a sunny summer day in Victoria, BC. “I only found out this week that someone’s been playing fast and loose with the unused seats in the suite.”
Paul nodded, certain he knew who “someone” was.
“I wanted Sherrilyn to have a chance to see a game. Her husband’s on disability. Three kids at home.”
“That’s thoughtful.”
Huxley shook his head. “I should have seen it a long time ago.”
Paul grimaced. “If someone’s doing something unethical and doesn’t want you to know—well, trust is kind of the default setting, right?” Especially if you’re fucking the someone.
The game recommenced, and they turned their attention to the action on the ice.
TO EVERYONE’S satisfaction the Ospreys won with a late third-period goal.
Huxley’s heart might have done a little twerk when Paul turned to him and said, “That was a perfect game.” He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I enjoyed the game and the company both.”
Huxley flushed. “Me too.” This sounded way too much like a date. Boundaries. Remember the boundaries. Friend zone.
They waited until most of the guests had gone before heading for the coatrack. Sherrilyn and Mark made slow but steady progress across the room. “Thank you again, Mr. Herrington,” she said.
“It’s Huxley.”
“All right. Huxley.” Sherrilyn smiled. “But at work it’s still Mr. Herrington.”
“Nope.”
Sherrilyn, Mark, and Paul stared at him.
“It’s Huxley at work. I’ve had it with formal titles. I am over them. Seriously over them. And I only had two beers, before you ask.” Just two beers, but he hadn’t eaten much. Dial it back.
Sherrilyn smiled as Mark helped her into her coat. “I’m happy to call you whatever you want as long as I don’t get reprimanded.” She didn’t have to add “by Mr. Tunney.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
With “good nights,” Mark and Sherrilyn exited.
Huxley and Paul donned their coats and made their way to the train station through jubilant crowds of Ospreys fans.
Huxley felt Paul’s gaze as they waited.
“Would Sherrilyn really be reprimanded for using first names?” asked Paul.
Huxley grimaced. “There’s this crazy policy that senior managers have to be addressed by title by anyone who isn’t a senior manager.”
“But you’re the president of the company, right?”
“Yes.” He was the president, but he hadn’t intended to make waves. Hadn’t wanted to fight any battles. Didn’t plan to become invested. “I’ve sort of picked my battles.” Not true. You haven’t fought any at all.
“Makes sense.”
A train glided into the station, and they pushed inside. The car was packed, and Huxley was pressed hard against Paul. He shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as he was. They stayed quiet as a happy group of Ospreys fans around them called back and forth, whooped loudly every few seconds, and took selfies, fueled by the joy of victory and what smelled like a lot of beer.
When the train arrived at their station, they pushed through the crowd and onto the platform.
“Whew.” Paul pulled on his beanie.
“Right.”
They both laughed.
“I was wondering….” Paul had the careful demeanor of someone trying to give the impression whatever he said next was not a big deal. “This coming Saturday I have to attend the Great Big Umbrella benefit.” GBU was a fundraiser for a whole slew of social service agencies. “I’m supporting the Oilton LGBT Alliance, and I’ve got an extra ticket. Would you be interested in going?”
Huxley didn’t have to think. “Sure.”
“I should warn you—Carson and I are sharing a table.”
“Sounds like fun. Is it formal?”
“Only if you want. I wasn’t planning on it.” Paul smiled. “From what I’ve heard, the attire can get… interesting. It’s at the Oilton Civic Center.”
Huxley wouldn’t mind seeing Paul in “interesting” attire. Stop those thoughts. “That sounds great. I can meet you there.” Meeting Paul would make it less like a date.
Paul wrapped his scarf and tucked gloved hands into his coat pockets. “Thank you again. I can wait with you for your cab, if you want.”
“No need.” Just then another train pulled in and disgorged fans from every car.
“All right. Well….” Paul shifted in place.
Huxley mirrored him and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. Awkward. “Good night.”
“Yes, good night.” Paul ducked his head, then swiveled and strode away. Huxley watched until he disappeared, then texted for a cab.
SUNDAY MORNING Paul worked two hours before leaving for Millicent’s. Carson had already been seated when he arrived.
“You, early?” he said as he slid into th
e booth.
“I wanted to hear all about your exciting date, of course.”
“Two friends going to a game. Not a date.”
Carson gave him an eye roll. “Child of grace, please. Think to whom you speak.”
A second later their waiter set mimosas in front of them and took their orders.
“Oh, thank you, sugar,” said Carson, fluttering his lashes.
The waiter winked. “My pleasure.” He spun and sashayed away, aware of the effect his ass was having on the room.
“I swear that man’s hips cover twice as much distance as his feet do,” said Carson with a sigh. “I could watch that ass for as long as he was willing to shake it.”
Paul choked on his mimosa.
“So. Tell.”
Paul launched into an account of the previous evening’s events.
“I don’t see why you don’t call that a date,” said Carson as the waiter served their meals.
“Can I bring you anything else right now?” The waiter posed, hand on hip.
“Just an opinion, dahlink,” said Carson. “If two men go out and don’t have sex, that can still be a date, can’t it?”
“Absolutely. Nothing wrong with not putting out the first date or two.”
Carson raised his eyebrows. “Or two? I’m not sure I’d go that far. Still. No sex doesn’t mean it wasn’t a date.” He nodded at their waiter. “Thank you, sugar. Oh, and two more mimosas when you have a chance.”
The waiter smirked and departed.
Carson pulled his plate closer. “This is lovely.” He took a bite of eggs benedict and moaned. He studied Paul’s face. “Didn’t you have fun on your date?”
“I had a great time. It wasn’t a date.” He looked self-conscious. “I invited him to GBU.”
Carson clapped his hands. “Wonderful. We’ll have such a good time.”