by Ava Hayden
“Printing is expensive,” said Huxley. “After all, the company provided every manager with a tablet. Might as well use them.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing—from hysteria, not amusement. He lifted his agenda with two fingers. “Tara, don’t print these next week. Just send out the attachment.”
“Okay, M—Huxley.” Tara winked.
“Take it away, Amelie,” said Huxley.
“You can look on with me,” said Rainey in a loud whisper to Bob, whose teeth were going to hurt if he kept those jaw muscles clenched like that for the whole meeting.
Around the table, managers followed along on their tablets as Amelie made her points, reviewed the proposed project milestones, and then summarized with her recommendations.
“Discussion?” said Huxley.
Bob crossed his arms, leaned back, and gave the table a fake smile. “I appreciate your initiative,” he said with a nod to Amelie. “But the fact is, the last time we spent a lot of money on focus groups, the results did not justify the effort or the expense. And—”
“Because we didn’t act.” Gilles leaned forward. “If we had done something with the findings, I promise you the expense would have been repaid a thousandfold.”
Bob’s toothy smile widened. He must practice that in the mirror.
“I disagree.”
“Noted,” said Huxley. “But I’m authorizing the proposed project as it stands.” He glanced at his phone. “The hour’s up. There’s only one other agenda item, and it’s not urgent. Tara, can you move it to next week?”
“Absolutely.” Tara beamed.
“Great, I want these meetings to adjourn on time. Thanks, everyone.”
The management team’s expressions ranged from dumbfounded to exhilarated. Huxley shoved back his chair and walked to his office on shaky legs. He closed his door, crossed to his desk, and sank into his chair.
BANG, BANG. Bob stepped inside his office and slammed the door.
“Yes, come in, Bob.” Huxley grimaced.
Bob barged across the room and slammed his hands onto Huxley’s desktop, leaning in. Huxley couldn’t stop himself from flinching, though he straightened his spine as soon as he realized he had.
“You can’t just make that kind of decision without consultation.”
Two weeks ago Huxley would have kept his head down and let Bob run roughshod over him. Before he met Paul. Before he stopped sleepwalking through his excuse for a life.
“Actually I can. I’m CEO. Product research decisions are in my purview. You are COO. You answer to me.”
Bob turned pale, spun, and stormed out.
SLAM.
Push out the air. Let in the air.
HUXLEY SPENT the rest of the workday expecting a call from his father that never came. Probably just meant he had a reaming-out waiting on him once he got home. Bishop dropped him off at his therapist’s office for his regular appointment.
Relaxation exercises first, then to Jordan’s minivan.
Push out the air. Let in the air.
Huxley lasted eight minutes.
Back in Jordan’s office, Huxley dabbed at the sweat around his hairline and sipped a glass of water. Jordan zipped off her ankle boots and tucked her feet up on the overstuffed armchair where she conducted her sessions.
“I want to do this by Valentine’s Day,” said Huxley. “Like you said.”
“Has something changed?” Jordan watched him.
Huxley slouched against the back of his armchair. How could he explain the past week? He didn’t even understand what was going on himself.
“I met someone whose passenger seat I want to ride in.”
Jordan smiled. “That’s good.”
“I think it might be bad.”
Jordan gave him a quizzical look. “How so?”
Huxley pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and then dropped them to his thighs. “I’m not good for anybody right now.”
Jordan waited.
“And since I met him, I’ve—like today, I—” Where were the words? “I’ve been keeping my head down and letting my COO do whatever he wants, but this week I pushed back and—I’m sure he ran to my father.”
“What do you think your father will do?”
He looked up to find Jordan’s eyes on him. He couldn’t read her expression. “Chew me out,” said Huxley, the words bitter in his mouth.
“Is that a common experience?”
When had his father last spoken with him about work—besides checking in once to see how he was settling in? He couldn’t remember. Huxley frowned. “Not—not really.”
Jordan pursed her lips. “After your accident, you told me that you were taking the Oilton Foods position because it was the only way you could persuade your father to turn over your trust fund when you turned thirty.”
“Yeah.” Huxley gripped his thighs with his fingers, tight enough to bruise.
“Did your father tell you he would turn over your trust fund only if you took the position?”
“Not in so many words.” Huxley couldn’t have been imagining the implied “or else.”
Again Jordan waited.
“I guess—I guess I’m afraid I’ll stay in this job and turn thirty and he’ll still invoke the clause, and I won’t get my money until I’m thirty-five.” Huxley exhaled. “This is so fucked up.”
“What would you do differently if you knew for sure you wouldn’t get the money at age thirty?”
Huxley’s thoughts swirled like leaves in a breeze, refusing to settle. What would he do? He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d been blindly walking, not looking to either side, convinced if he just kept trudging, he’d get his money. All his problems would go away. He could take off and live the life he wanted.
What if he was actually on a treadmill instead of a path with a beginning and an end? What if he just kept taking one step after the other, the destination not only out of reach, but completely nonexistent? Sounds like my life, all right.
Jordan swung her feet to the floor and stood. “Tell you what. Why don’t you think about the answer to that question for our next session. And think about why you stood up to your COO for the first time.”
Huxley rode the elevator to the ground floor and stepped into the minivan from Oilton Cabs already there waiting for him—the same driver who picked him up after most of his regular sessions.
The driver glanced back. “Anywhere you want to stop on the way, or straight home?”
“Straight home, please.” Huxley settled back. He didn’t want to go home and stay there alone all evening. He’d really like to talk to someone—a friend, Alexandra. Oh please. You want to talk to Paul.
His sigh must have been extra loud because the driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Long day?”
“You could say that. Listen, if I asked you to wait for me while I grab something from my place and then drop me somewhere else, could you do that?”
His driver shrugged. “Sure.”
“Great.” This is an even worse idea than sliding a Valentine into Chase Perrault’s locker at school. Actually the sliding hadn’t been so bad. It was the getting caught part that made Chase punch him in the face and break his nose—after a little encouragement from Roger Tunney. But then his father sent him to boarding school on Vancouver Island, and that was… not bad—to his great surprise since he’d read lots of books about kids in boarding school, and no one ever liked it much.
Huxley assumed the broken-nose incident was what finally made his father send him away. He knew his son was gay even before the incident with Chase. Huxley never made a secret of it. His father didn’t tell him it was a phase (or that it had better be). He seemed to understand Huxley wasn’t going to change—couldn’t change. And since that was the case, well—what was the saying? Out of sight, out of mind.
The driver pulled into the drop zone, and Huxley ran into the building. In his condo he placed the five Ripley books into a bag and set
them beside the door. Then he checked his face and hair in his bathroom. Should he change? No time.
He grabbed a thicker scarf and a beanie on his way out. Ten minutes later the driver dropped him off at the train station closest to Paul’s shop. He’d walk the rest of the way.
Chapter 8
HOW SHOULD he do this? He stepped inside a nearby coffee shop and texted.
Huxley: Hi, I’m in your neighborhood and I have the Ripley books with me. Can I drop them off?
PAUL LOOKED up from his PC screen when his phone buzzed with an incoming message.
Something relaxed in his chest and he smiled. Huxley. He pulled his phone over.
Paul: That would be great. I’m in the shop. Ping me when you’re outside the door.
Huxley: Will do. Be there in 10.
Paul closed out his financial software and shut down the PC. He couldn’t have concentrated much longer anyway. He straightened and restocked the workroom, and when his phone buzzed again, he shoved it in his pocket, turned out the workroom lights, and made his way to the front door by the glow from a nearby cooler.
He stepped outside and locked the front door.
“Aren’t you cold?” asked Huxley, smiling.
“Just for a second.” Paul stepped to a discreet black door set into the wall next to the right of the Floribunda display window and unlocked it. He motioned for Huxley to precede him. Inside, a staircase led to Paul’s front door.
“Would you like to come in?” Paul hoped he hadn’t misread the situation.
“That would be great.”
He hadn’t misunderstood. Better if he had, maybe. He wasn’t any more ready for a relationship today than he was last week. Something in Huxley’s expression set him yearning. He was past the point of caring.
Paul led the way upstairs and unlocked the front door. Huxley followed him in.
“Take your coat?”
“Sure.” Huxley handed over his winter gear and stood, looking awkward, clutching a bag as Paul hung up his coat. “I hope I’m not intruding. I guess it could have waited until Saturday. I just thought—since I was nearby—”
“I’m glad you did. Come in.” Paul indicated a long, low couch. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just water is fine.”
“Just water it is.” Paul stepped into the kitchen, pulled out one of the last big bottles of Perrier in his refrigerator, and poured them both a glass. He carried the drinks to the living room, handed one to Huxley, and then sat, setting his glass on a coaster atop the sofa table behind them. Huxley had placed the bag on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“I think you’ll like them,” said Huxley. “I know you read the first one, but I brought them all anyway. In case you want to reread it.”
Paul smiled and stared at Huxley’s lips before lifting his gaze. Huxley’s eyes were mesmerizing. Beautiful. “That was thoughtful. Thanks.”
Across the room Paul’s mother’s old-fashioned mantel clock chimed the quarter hour.
Huxley twisted to look. “That’s a gorgeous clock. I like the ones that chime.”
“It was my grandmother’s. Mum made me take it. She said she and Dad are gone so much it would be better with someone who was around to appreciate it. The truth is they adopted a yappy little dog that went off like an air-raid siren every time it chimed, and they couldn’t stand it any longer. That or they couldn’t take the neighbor’s complaints.”
Huxley laughed. “Where do they go?”
“Arizona. Every winter since they retired.”
Huxley examined his glass, still smiling. Paul wished he knew for sure what Huxley was thinking. Use your words.
“I’m glad you came to supper last night.”
Huxley lifted his eyes to Paul’s.
“I almost kissed you when you were leaving. Would that have been a mistake?”
“No.” Huxley managed to land his glass on the coffee table and launch himself at Paul at the same time.
Paul caught him and pulled him in. He groaned as Huxley straddled him, one arm braced on the couch’s back to hold his weight. Paul ran his hands over Huxley’s shoulders and down to his waist, bone and muscle and smooth cotton under his fingertips.
Huxley buried his free hand in Paul’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss.
Huxley tasted good. Smelled good. They explored each other, sucking, nibbling, inhaling the other’s essence. At last Huxley pulled back. “Not a mistake.”
He lifted off Paul and dropped onto the couch beside him. “I—” He hesitated. “I’m in a place where I need to take things slowly.”
“I can work with that.” Paul shifted to make more room for Huxley. He should tell him everything right now. He should be honest about what Huxley could expect from him in the months to come.
Why rush? This spark might come to nothing. The RCMP might get his money back. He might win the lottery.
Man up. Do the right thing.
He took Huxley’s hand and twined his fingers with it, resting both on his thigh. “I’m kind of in the same place myself. I should maybe tell you a little more about that.”
“Okay.” Huxley watched Paul, gaze moving from lips to eyes to the hollow of his throat.
“Last year I was seeing someone and—well.” Paul sighed. “Let me back up. I hired an extra part-time person because business was so good. Leo.”
Huxley nodded.
“And very long story short, I mixed business with pleasure and lost the guy and the business’s cash cushion.”
Huxley’s eyes widened. “He stole from you?”
“Yes.” Paul’s lips formed a single grim line. “I knew better. I was just thinking with the little head.” He reached for his glass and swigged, then thunked the glass to the table. “I thought I was a good judge of character, but according to the RCMP, this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this.”
“Even a good judge of character might not spot a professional con artist.”
Paul shrugged. “Maybe not. But my gut gave me a warning or two I ignored. Some part of me must have known something.”
He gave Huxley a sideways glance. “I thought you should know because I’ve got a lot of late nights and overtime ahead.”
Huxley smiled and echoed him. “I can work with that.” He squeezed Paul’s thigh, their hands still entwined. “Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Will you grab a bite with me? My treat.”
“Give me two minutes.”
They kept a brisk pace the two blocks to a nearby sushi place, the January cold and dark a good incentive to get inside as quickly as possible. Over sushi and hot miso soup, they talked.
Best trips they’d ever been on. Bucket lists. Favorite places to go in Vancouver. Hikes they wanted to do in Kananaskis Country. Sports they both did not enjoy: golf, tennis.
“And horseback riding,” said Paul.
“No? You don’t like horses? God, I lived on one in high school,” said Huxley.
“Boarding school horses must be nice ones, then,” said Paul. “A big smelly Alberta ranch horse bucked me off in between blowing snot all over me and stomping on my foot, and that’s all I ever needed to know about horses.”
Huxley laughed. “Okay, no horseback riding in our future.”
Paul held those words close through their meal, the walk home, and the kisses in his stairwell: our future. He felt a spark of something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Hope.
Chapter 9
HUXLEY WOVE through the throng of Great Big Umbrella attendees, heading for table twenty-two, which he’d located on an event map before diving into the horde of socialites, organization workers, tray-bearing waiters, and assorted media personalities. He spotted a CBC camera crew, a local radio DJ, the mayor, and two city council members before he’d gotten halfway across the civic center exhibition hall floor.
When he caught sight of Paul, he couldn’t stop the big shit-eating grin that spread acros
s his face. So much for keeping it discreet—might as well take out an ad on Facebook.
Paul looked scrumptious. His navy sport coat fit his frame like a glove, and he’d only fastened the top button, letting his exposed shirt hint at what lay underneath. Tease. He checked out Huxley, the heat in his gaze telling Huxley Paul liked what he saw.
Carson waggled fingers from a chair to Paul’s left. Huxley and Paul had agreed they wouldn’t go formal, but Carson had pulled out all the stops—classic black tie from head to toe. Each ear sported a tasteful sapphire stud, a departure from his usual hoop and diamond stud. Paul stood as Huxley reached the table, and they exchanged a quick kiss. Huxley didn’t miss Carson’s narrowed gaze.
He took a seat beside Paul, who introduced the others at the table. Sela Brennan, current president of the Oilton LGBT Alliance, and her wife, Carrie Orsborne, as well as Guy Tran, an out city-council member.
“The others are still socializing or staffing the booth,” said Paul. Each organization participating in Great Big Umbrella had a station where staff provided information.
“Speaking of which,” said Sela, “we’re due for our shift.” She and Carrie excused themselves, and Guy also left, saying he needed to mingle.
A server swept in and retrieved the two empty champagne flutes in front of Carson, who snagged a full glass from another waiter passing by.
“Would you like a drink?” asked Paul. “They’re circulating with champagne, but if you want something else, I’ve got bar tickets.”
“White wine would be great, thanks.” Paul gave Huxley a smile that had him biting his lip and went to fetch drinks.
Carson gave Huxley an enigmatic look over the flute. “Dahlink, you’re looking well.”
“So are you. I like the ear studs.”
“Why, thank you, sugar. I’d have worn my gold hoop, but I was afraid I’d be mistaken for the love child of Yul Brynner and Mr. Clean.”
Huxley couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Carson gave him a barracuda smile and sipped his champagne. “It’s so nice to see Paul looking happy.”