by Ava Hayden
“I hope it is,” he said, returning her smile.
Paul stapled the receipt to a couple of pages he folded and handed over. “We’ll deliver both pieces by ten Wednesday morning.”
When the door chimed to a close behind her, Huxley set his bags on the counter and walked into Paul, wrapping his arms around him. “You look exhausted.”
Paul held him tight, and what was supposed to be a brief kiss turned into something longer. Finally Huxley pulled back and scanned his face. “I think you need to eat.”
Paul turned the store sign to Closed and led the way upstairs.
They unpacked the food together, and Paul put out a pitcher of ice water after Huxley turned down anything alcoholic. They were both too tired, they agreed.
“How was your day?” said Huxley.
“Busy. Which is good, of course. But that means I’ve got more to do tonight after we eat. The woman who was here when you came in ordered two big pieces for a funeral on Wednesday. I have to make sure we have everything in stock that I’ll need.” Paul rotated his shoulders. “How about you? How was your day?”
Huxley hesitated before he spoke. Should he dump the day’s events onto Paul’s shoulders? Maybe it would help him to talk it out with someone objective.
“Remember how you asked me if the picture of us with Roger was going to be a problem?”
Paul lifted one brow and nodded.
“It was.”
Paul winced. “Tell.”
“Roger’s dad is my COO. He came into my office this morning and told me to leave his son alone. He didn’t actually use the words ‘homosexual agenda,’ but that’s what he meant.” Something occurred to Huxley then. “Oh shit, that must be what Roger’s message meant.” Then he had to explain to Paul about the slurred apology left on his voicemail.
Paul cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like he threw you under the bus.”
“I think that’s exactly what he did.”
“What will you do?” Paul bumped his knee under the table.
“I don’t know.” Huxley slumped. “On the one hand, I want to walk away from the job, but that would screw over people who don’t deserve it. On the other hand, I haven’t exactly been accomplishing much up until now.” He was ashamed to admit he’d essentially been serving time in pursuit of a trust fund.
Paul didn’t push him to talk more about his feelings or map out a strategy. He just squeezed Huxley’s shoulder on his way to start a pot of coffee.
AFTER CLEANUP Paul led the way downstairs to the workroom. “I’m sorry to be so unavailable.”
Huxley hesitated. “If I can help—if there’s anything I can do—you know I’m happy to do it. Even if it’s unpacking supplies or simple things.” He turned pink. “I like spending time with you.”
“Me too,” said Paul. “Bringing dinner by was great. I probably wouldn’t have eaten if it was up to me.” He hesitated and then continued, “When Valentine’s Day is over, maybe we can get away. You said you’d always wanted to surf. Maybe we could do a quick trip. Fly into Victoria. Drive to Tofino. You can surf there year-round.”
Huxley had stiffened at the “drive to” part. “Yeah.” He tried to sound more enthusiastic. “That could be fun.”
A shadow crossed Paul’s face, and then he smiled. “Okay, so we’ll keep that in mind.” He hesitated. “Can I give you a lift home? You bought me dinner, after all.”
Huxley shook his head. “No need.” He paused at the glass door as Paul prepared to let him out. “Maybe let me do it again soon?”
Paul pulled him into a kiss that made Huxley want to say “screw work and take me to bed.” From the look on Paul’s face when their lips finally parted, he wanted to do the same. Instead they said good night, and Huxley walked to the train station to ride to the stop nearest to his condo. Maybe walking home would put out the burn that had started in what he couldn’t stop thinking of as his banana hammock. Yeah, thanks for that, Carson.
Chapter 12
TUESDAY MORNING Huxley stowed his gear in the SUV’s back seat and eased into the front passenger seat. He didn’t put on a seat belt, but he pulled the door almost shut and closed his eyes.
His heart raced, and when Bishop said, “Huxley?” he shoved the door open, leaped out, and bent over, hands on his thighs, breathing hard.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Bishop stood beside him.
“Sorry. Sorry, I—” He wanted to sink through the floor. “Let’s go.” He took his place in the back seat.
Bishop’s expression was back to its former polite, stiff mask as he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“I’m sorry,” Huxley repeated. He rubbed his temples. “I’ve got a kind of… phobia, I guess. Amaxophobia.”
“Okay.” Bishop sounded wary as he backed the SUV and headed for the exit.
“Amaxophobia means being afraid to ride in vehicles, but some people can’t ride in them at all, and some can drive but not ride as passengers, and some can ride but only in certain places. Or only in some kinds of vehicles.” He hesitated. “I don’t know what my father told you when he hired you….”
“Nothing except that you needed a driver.”
Bishop still hadn’t looked at Huxley, but he was listening.
“I was in an accident,” said Huxley. “And I was sitting in a front passenger seat at the time. I haven’t been able to ride in a front seat—or drive—since then. And I can’t ride in small cars at all. They feel like… coffins.” Heat bloomed on his face and his chest. “I’ve been working with a therapist on desensitization exercises. That’s what I was doing.”
“I’m sorry I startled you.” Bishop caught his eye in the rearview mirror.
“No, I was stupid. I knew you were coming.” Huxley exhaled and dropped his head back against the headrest. “I just have to be able to ride in the front by Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s not long from now.” Bishop pulled into a vacant spot in front of Sukey’s.
Tell me about it.
They picked up the usual two-dozen donuts, plus the Cinnamon Red Hot special order. At the office when Huxley opened the front passenger door to retrieve the stack of pink boxes, Bishop spoke.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” His expression was warm and concerned.
“Thanks.” Bishop’s kindness helped calm the churning in Huxley’s stomach that had increased exponentially the closer they came to the Oilton Foods headquarters.
A FEW minutes later, he took the elevator to his floor with his morning latte and an armload of boxes. Sherrilyn came around the reception desk to open the door for him as usual.
“Thanks, Sherrilyn. Can I offer you a donut?”
Her bright smile was quite different from the timid ones he received from her weeks ago. “I’ll check out the leftovers in the breakroom after the meeting.”
“You sure?”
She laughed. “I’m sure, thanks.”
Huxley entered the meeting room to find everyone seated and waiting, a stack of small paper plates and napkins in the middle of the table. “Good morning.”
A chorus of “good mornings” sounded as he dumped his messenger bag on the floor and shed his coat. “I’ve got something extra today.”
He took his seat and pushed the stack of pink boxes over to Tara. “Sukey’s has a Valentine’s Day donut—Cinnamon Red Hot. I got a half-dozen gluten free and a dozen regular.”
Tara passed the box of gluten-free donuts to Meredith and opened the next. “I saw you in the society pages on Sunday. You looked very nice.” She fished out a donut and did a handoff to Rainey.
Huxley blushed. “Thank you. I was there with a—with friends.”
“Some nice publicity for the company too,” said Amelie.
Gilles gave him a speculative look from the other end of the table. Beside him Bob sucked in air like a beached whale. Huxley had learned to judge Bob’s anger level by the sound of his breathing. Right now he was edging from furio
us to incandescent.
Huxley pulled out his tablet and opened the meeting agenda. “Amelie is giving us a status report today, and I have a related topic. I added it last-minute, but I think we have time.”
Bob stared down at a paper agenda he had probably forced Sherrilyn to print for him. He looked up and glared at Huxley. “What related topic?”
“It’s the first item.” Huxley raised a brow. “If you printed that yesterday, it won’t be there.”
Bob’s mouth was a white line in a sea of red flesh. He grunted and shoved back into his chair, which screeched as if it were in pain.
“I brought in the Valentine’s Day donuts because they gave me an idea.”
The management team had collectively settled into their seats, heads pulling in a bit—a reaction to the bad vibes emanating from Bob. They shot wary looks in his direction like a herd of herbivorous dinosaurs seeing a hungry T. rex. Huxley’s pulse increased. No one had a right to bully staff. No one had a right to make the workday miserable for everyone else.
“I’ve seen a lot of businesses doing seasonal offerings, and I wondered if that might be a strategy that could work for us. It makes your products look fresh. People look forward to them.”
Amelie was nodding vigorously. “It creates an urgency to buy. Based on sales figures, we speculate that people buy our products for gifts around holidays.” She winked at Huxley. “And we’ll soon have research to know exactly what is driving those bigger numbers. Giving people seasonal options could increase sales further.”
“And where exactly is the production line capacity for that coming from?” At Bob’s words, gloom reappeared among Huxley’s staff.
Stay cool. Stay in control. Huxley faked a smile. “There are lots of other questions to address before that one—the first being whether seasonal offerings are something worth pursuing. I think so, but I want to hear from the managers as well.”
“Yes,” said Gilles. He glanced at Bob but then kept his gaze on his fellow managers or Huxley. “Yes, I think so too. Right now as a company, we are—” He paused and raised a finger. “—the Cherry Blossom.”
Everyone stared at Gilles.
“The Cherry Blossom?” said Tara.
“Like the candy—they call it a candy bar, but it isn’t. It’s like a giant chocolate covered cherry.”
“Oh, oh, right,” said Meredith. “My mum loved those.”
Around the table people were nodding their heads. “Yeah, they’re in those little boxes. They look really old-fashioned,” said Tara.
“Well, yes.” Gilles shrugged. “Maybe they believe it’s part of the charm now. I don’t know. But think about it. It’s one of those brands we all know, but we never really see. The only time I buy one is on a road trip. You stop to buy gas at Dead Man’s Flats, and that store there—it always has Cherry Blossoms. It’s like your great-grandma’s candy, but it’s still being made. That’s what our products look like to other people.”
“That’s speculation,” said Bob.
“Not for long,” said Amelie. “We’ll have results soon that will prove or disprove it, but I do think Gilles is on to something.”
They decided to come up with a slate of potential seasonal offerings, and Amelie would add them to her list of topics for a focus group. The rest of the meeting was upbeat as Amelie gave an overview of her ongoing project.
Huxley was delighted with the outcome of their discussions, even though Bob shoved to his feet and left without a word at the end. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He was prepared for any consequences.
His session with Jordan went well, and he managed ten minutes in her minivan with the door open and three minutes with the door closed, seat belt unlatched.
That evening after he finished his dinner, he carried his tablet to the building’s gym. On the treadmill, he started reading five years of management reports to see what the hell was going on with Oilton Foods.
After a shower later, he messaged Paul.
Huxley: Hope you had a good day. Can I see you tomorrow? I could bring dinner.
That didn’t sound too needy. Did it?
ON WEDNESDAY Huxley continued wading through reports, especially budgets. When he found the information he needed, he headed to Human Resources.
Lola Soto welcomed him into her office and offered a chair.
Huxley took a breath. “The open office manager position—it’s funded in this fiscal year’s budget. Why hasn’t it been filled?”
Lola gave him a look he didn’t know how to interpret. “The CEO position stayed open a long time.”
Once again someone wanted Huxley to read between the lines. This time he thought he might just be able to.
“Right. Could Sherrilyn do it?”
Lola leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “She already is, just without the title or pay.” If you could get someone to do an office manager’s job plus her own for a receptionist’s salary, the company’s profit/loss statements would certainly look better.
“So let’s promote her and fill her position.”
Lola smiled. For a moment Huxley was reminded of the sharks at the Vancouver Aquarium. “We have an open thirty-hour-per-week office assistant slot in addition to the full-time position that Sherrilyn will vacate.”
“Fill them both.” Huxley was certain Sherrilyn hadn’t been able to cover all the tasks of the two positions she’d been trying to cover. Who knew what had been falling by the wayside thanks to being understaffed?
Huxley stood and Lola followed. He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Lola flashed a toothy smile. “Likewise.”
WEDNESDAY EVENING found Huxley unpacking a different deli meal in Paul’s kitchen. Paul was gray with exhaustion, and Huxley felt a tug of worry in his gut. How long could Paul keep pushing like this without breaking down? He wanted to help, but he didn’t know how.
Once they were eating, Paul looked better. He gave Huxley a weary smile. “So how was your day?”
Huxley grinned. “Not too bad. I’m pretty sure our COO was playing games with unfilled positions, but I dealt with it.”
“Impressive.”
Huxley teased out details of Paul’s day, still worrying about the blue shadows under his eyes.
When they’d finished their dessert, Paul relaxed against his chair. “It’s nice just sitting here with you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you tonight? Because I know you’re going back down to work when I leave, aren’t you?”
Paul nodded. “Unfortunately yes. But no, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Have you thought about a business loan?”
Huxley was pretty sure Paul hadn’t actually moved, but he felt him pull away.
“No,” said Paul. “I don’t want to do that. It would feel like a failure. My parents never did, not after they paid off the loan they started out with.”
“I get that. But under the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would blame you.”
Paul sighed. “Yeah, but I blame me for getting the business into this mess in the first place.”
“Is that a reason to punish yourself? Working yourself to death isn’t going to be good for the business either.”
Huxley feared he might have said too much.
After a pause Paul nodded. “You may be right.”
Paul refused to let Huxley clean up when he offered. “You brought me dinner and made my day a lot better. No way you’re cleaning up on top of that.”
Huxley texted for a cab and Paul waited with him by Floribunda’s front door. He pulled Huxley close and wrapped his arms around him.
“I’m going to clear my Saturday night,” Paul whispered into Huxley’s ear. “Just for you, if you’re free.”
Huxley pressed his nose to Paul’s neck and inhaled. “For you I’m free. Name the time and place.”
“Deal.” Paul nipped his earlobe and then released him as the cab pulled up in front of the store. Huxley
saw Paul watching as the minivan pulled away. He lifted a hand even though he knew Paul couldn’t see it in the dark.
ON THURSDAY afternoon Huxley reviewed the company intranet and took notes. No sign that the company’s mission statement had been updated in years. Maybe ever.
He found year-end reports with goal setting, but nothing that tied into a company strategic plan.
No evidence of an overarching strategic plan either. The previous president had left notes, but nothing appeared to have come of them. The financial reports prepared by their accountants were excellent sources of information, but even those only went back so far online.
What needed to be done here was monumental. The fact the place was turning a profit at all was a testament to their products. Ugly packaging aside, the food was good. Even so, they were losing market share. When had they last put out a new line?
Huxley braced his elbows on his desk and cradled his head. Life was easier when he didn’t give a shit. He allowed himself a few moments of self-pity. Okay, now get over yourself.
He checked his phone. No messages from Paul. Still lots of time to send details about Saturday night, but it would be nice to get a “thinking about you” message. He wanted to send one. Would that seem pushy?
Chapter 13
THURSDAY AFTERNOON Paul was working on an arrangement when a bang sounded at the back door. He opened it to find Sukey standing outside, hand on one hip, a paper bag dangling from the other.
“You are working entirely too hard,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen you at all, and whenever I poke my head in, Sue says you’re busy in the back.”
Paul smiled. “Come on in.”
“I brought you something to keep up your energy.”
Paul unfolded the top of the bag and peeked. “You shouldn’t have.”
Sukey laughed and poked his shoulder with an index finger that had a Band-Aid on the knuckle. “Yes, I should have because you gave me a nice bouquet for my counter.” She strolled over to the little table where he ate and picked up the folded society section from Sunday’s paper.