by Ava Hayden
“Absolutely.”
Huxley handed over his credit card to pay, and Paul leaned against the counter while the older reader processed the information.
“Going to the big game on Saturday?” Paul asked.
Huxley tried to remember what big game was being played.
Paul’s lips tilted up on one side. “Ospreys.”
Right. Hockey. “Probably not,” said Huxley. “Are you?”
Paul laughed. “No way. This one’s sold out.” The reader whirred and spat out a receipt. Paul ripped it off and stapled it to a printed sheet he pulled from under the counter. “Here’s your receipt and confirmation details.”
Think of something to talk about. Ask him a question. Huxley took a breath to ask Paul if he went to many hockey games.
Bang. Somewhere in the back, a door slammed. “Yoo-hoo. Where are you, surfer boy? Lunch has arrived.”
Paul went crimson.
A tall, beefy, blond man minced out of the staff space toward them. “Oh, honey, I didn’t know you weren’t alone.” He pulled off his heavy work coat and tossed it on a nearby chair like a striptease, revealing construction worker overalls and an indigo-blue waffle-weave henley shirt. He wore a gold hoop earring in one lobe and a diamond stud in the other.
Paul rubbed his face with one hand. The burly man posed with a hand on his hips and fluttered his eyelashes at Huxley. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
Paul grimaced. “Carson, do you mind? I’m trying to help a customer here.”
Carson smirked. “I don’t think he’s offended.” His gaze raked Huxley from head to toe, and he smiled. “You look familiar.” He rested a forefinger against his lower lip. “Now where would we have met? Hmmm. Do you ever go to Billy Boy’s?”
This guy had mad gaydar skills. “I have. More while I was at university, but a few times since then.” Mostly when a friend dragged him out.
Carson leaned his hip against the counter’s end. “I perform there. Maybe you’ve seen me.”
“Maybe,” Huxley agreed, but he was absolutely certain he’d remember if he’d seen this guy in drag.
Behind him the door tinkled, and Huxley pivoted to see a man in a brown uniform wheeling a dolly stacked with boxes. When he turned back to the counter, a macho construction worker was there—no—Carson.
Arms crossed, his biceps strained the henley’s sleeves, and his chest filled out the overalls. When he caught Huxley gaping, he winked.
Paul signed for the delivery, and a moment later, the door tinkled behind the delivery man.
Carson made a moue. “I just hate when it’s winter and they can’t wear those cute little shorts.”
Paul glared. “Carson.”
“All right, all right. I’ll go wait for you in the back.” Carson looked Huxley over again. “Come and say hi if you see my show, sweetie. I didn’t catch your name.”
Huxley pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Huxley Herrington.”
“Nice.” Carson drew the word out.
“Carson!”
“I’m going. I hope to see you at a show, Huxley. You’d like my act. Everyone says I look just like Sade.” Carson swiveled and strutted away. How did he do that in work boots?
“Yeah, if Sade was a six-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound hairy blonde, you’d look just like her,” said Paul.
“I heard that,” Carson called out as he disappeared into the staff space.
Paul rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry about that.”
Huxley chuckled. “He seems like a nice guy.”
Paul’s smile was the biggest and warmest he’d seen yet. “He is. He’s a good friend. Just a little high maintenance sometimes.”
This felt like a real conversation, like two guys talking, not just customer and businessman. Keep it going. “Are you really a surfer boy?”
“Not the California kind. I surf at Tofino most years, but that’s cold-water surfing. Nothing like the Beach Boys.” Paul quirked his eyebrow. “Are you interested in surfing?”
“I always wanted to try it.” Yet one more thing he hadn’t been brave enough to do.
“You should. There are lots of businesses that teach beginners in Tofino and Ucluelet.”
“Do you go with friends?” Huxley regretted the blurted words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Don’t sound so needy! He’ll think you’re angling for an invitation.
Paul’s face shuttered. “Sometimes I have. Not always.”
Huxley’s phone buzzed in his coat pocket, and he recalled that he was on his lunch hour and it must be nearly over. The Oilton Foods president and CEO ought to be able to take as long as he wanted, but he didn’t want to give Tunney any ammunition.
“I should fill out this card and let you eat your lunch.” He scribbled a note to Alexandra on the notecard, sealed it in the envelope, and handed it over. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch about the office order.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Huxley felt Paul’s eyes on him as he left, and he nearly turned to wave. Don’t be ridiculous. It was a business transaction.
Chapter 3
WHEN THE door closed behind Huxley, Paul returned to the workroom that doubled as their staff lounge and lunch space. Carson had unpacked a small casserole dish with baked pasta, a plastic container of salad, and a slab of focaccia.
“This looks great.”
Carson pulled two bottles of Perrier from the staff fridge. When the last case was gone, Paul would have to start buying store-brand sparkling water. Or maybe he’d just have to drink tap water. Little luxuries were the first things to go.
Carson handed Paul a plate and a serving spoon and took a seat at the table across from him. “Help yourself.” He looked up at Paul through his lashes. “That was a cute guy you were helping.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying. He certainly liked what he saw.” Carson waved the business card Huxley had given him and warbled, “He’s preeeesidennnnnt. And CEOoooooooooo. Oilton Foods, a subsidiary of Herrington Industries.”
“The last thing I need is to date right now. Anyway, if he’s a president, he won’t be interested in a florist.”
“He looked interested to me.” Carson smirked. “He kept checking out your wedding vegetables.”
Paul choked.
“I’m serious. Not subtle at all, but it was kind of sweet.”
“I didn’t see anything like that.” But he had noticed Huxley checking out his ring finger. “Anyway, like I said, now is not a good time for getting involved with someone else.” Not until he got the business on a firmer financial footing.
Besides, he was afraid to trust his own senses after being so badly deluded by Leo. How had he missed what was going on?
HUXLEY SPENT the rest of his afternoon in a daze, initialing reports he’d read without any comprehension. After work Bishop dropped him off at his therapist’s office for his regular appointment.
Jordan Chalmers worked Huxley through relaxation exercises and then accompanied him to her minivan. Huxley was already familiar with the vehicle because they’d spent one whole session getting him accustomed to the sights and smells of the vehicle and the parking garage.
They stood beside the open passenger door. “All right, let’s do some breathing exercises,” said Jordan.
Push out the air. Let in the air.
At last Huxley climbed into the front passenger seat. He lasted five minutes.
Back in Jordan’s office, Huxley’s responses to her questions were more lackluster than usual. She reviewed the steps he would take on his own at home.
“You know, five minutes is very good, Huxley. Remember the first time you tried.”
Huxley had stayed thirty seconds and then jumped out of the passenger seat and thrown up.
“You’re definitely making progress.”
Huxley nodded.
Jordan tilted her head. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
When he dec
lined, she pursed her lips, escorted him to the door, and wished him a good week. Downstairs his time call, a minivan with the green-and-white Oilton Cabs logo, awaited him.
On the way home, Huxley considered the week so far. Could he be having a midlife crisis? He was only twenty-eight. At home he ate another forgettable dinner and then took the stairs to the parking garage for his building. He never came here. He followed unit numbers until he located the parking space for his condo.
The black SUV crouched like an oversized malevolent monster—like something out of a Stephen King story, one about human-devouring vehicles. Stop bad thoughts. Do your visualizations.
He hadn’t exactly been doing his homework faithfully. Okay, at all. He hadn’t been doing it at all. He took a step forward and rested his palm against the door, the key clenched in his other hand, greasy with sweat. He could open the door.
But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Not yet.
Besides, he’d remembered something interesting about Oilton Foods perks, and he wanted to see if he could find out more on the company’s intranet.
He backed away from the SUV as if it might come after him if he took his eyes off it for a moment, then turned and jogged across the garage and up the stairs to his floor.
THE NEXT morning Huxley climbed the stairs, initialed the Heart Health Challenge sheet, and trudged to his office. He dumped everything on his desk and walked to reception.
“Good morning, Mr. Herrington,” said Sherrilyn, making him feel ancient even though she had tracings of lines at the corners of her eyes and hints of silver in her brunette bob.
“Good morning, Sherrilyn. Can you tell me—does the company have an executive suite for this weekend’s game?”
“Yes, we do.” Her fingers raced, the keyboard clicking like an upended bag of Skittles raining down on a tile floor, and then she turned her monitor so he could see it. “These are all the staff who’ve signed up. We’re still holding two spots for you and a guest.” She bit her lip. “We usually give those away the day of the game if you don’t sign up.”
“Right.” Huxley scanned the list. A couple of his top managers had signed up for themselves and plus-ones. Amelie had signed up for herself and two customers. Bob Tunney had reserved six spots. He was bringing five guests?
“I’m planning to be there with a friend. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Sherrilyn nodded. “I’ll make a note.”
“Out of curiosity, who decides who gets my spots?”
“It’s a lottery. Anyone can put their name in. Mr. Tunney draws.”
“Have you ever won?”
Sherrilyn’s lips thinned, and then she forced a pleasant expression. “Not yet.”
“Do you like hockey?”
“I love it.”
“Keep putting your name in,” said Huxley.
“Oh, don’t worry, I will.” Sherrilyn’s wan smile said she wasn’t holding her breath.
“One more question, if you don’t mind. Where did those flower arrangements by the front doors come from?”
Sherrilyn’s smile didn’t fade, but twin lines appeared between her brows before her expression cleared. “The building manager supplied them.” She cleared her throat and looked down.
Huxley lowered his voice. “Anything else you can tell me?”
Sherrilyn glanced around as if looking for anyone who might overhear and then spoke so softly Huxley had to lean in. “We used to have a fresh arrangement each week, but when Stella left, Mr. Tunney canceled the service.”
“And Stella was?”
“The office manager.”
Office manager? The company didn’t have an office manager. “When did Stella leave?”
“Just before you started.”
The office manager reported directly to the president. Huxley had a sinking feeling he’d just discovered another failure to perform his job at anything approaching a reasonably competent level. Until now he hadn’t really cared. At least that’s what he told himself.
With a quick thanks to Sherrilyn, he headed into the maze of offices.
HUXLEY STOPPED in front of Bob’s open door. Bob’s eyebrows shot up, but he recovered from his surprise and gave Huxley a grimace of a smile.
“Huxley. What can I do for you?”
“What customers are you taking to the game this weekend?”
Bob stared. “I—let me check.” He rummaged through papers on his desk, patted at a pocket, pulled a drawer open and then closed it. “Look, I don’t want to keep you. I’ll get back to you.”
“No worries. I’m in no rush. So it’s you, Greta—who else?” Greta was Bob’s wife. Huxley had often wondered what drugs she had to be on to say “I do.” She was featured in the obligatory family photos on Bob’s desk and bore a strong resemblance to Mrs. Shrek, but without the kind expression. Dated photos with offspring Clarissa and Roger Tunney appeared too. Roger, best friend of the homophobic Chase Perrault, who’d figured so prominently in Huxley’s high school experience.
Bob’s hue darkened. He straightened a stack of paper without looking at Huxley, his lips in a thin line.
“We had a couple of cancellations. So two of my guests are family friends.”
“And the other two?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Well, I want to know we’re getting our money’s worth. Why rent an executive suite if we aren’t entertaining customers? Wasn’t that the point?”
“We do host customers. Things come up sometimes. Your father hasn’t had any complaints.”
Huxley’s stomach heaved, but he took a deep breath and spoke. “Since you had two cancellations, I’ll take those two extra spots.”
Bob paled. “No.”
“No?”
“I—well—I may still find two customers who can go.”
Now Huxley was sure the other two spots were for Bob’s cronies. He gave Bob the most genial smile he could manage, aware it probably looked more like a death rictus. “Oh, don’t worry yourself. I’ll take the two spots, and then you won’t have to scramble.” He stepped back. “I’ll let Sherrilyn know.”
Bob’s expression was as mystified as it was enraged, but he didn’t speak.
Huxley returned to the reception area. “Sherrilyn, put Bob down for four spots. You and a plus-one can join us this weekend.”
Sherrilyn’s eyes were huge. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh my God, thank you so much, Mr. Herrington, you have no idea how much this means to me—”
Huxley waved to cut her off. “My pleasure.” He walked to his office on shaky legs. Inside, door shut, he collapsed into his desk chair and controlled his breathing the way Jordan had taught him. Push out the air. Let in the air.
How far would he be able to go before his father put him back in his place? He pulled out the Floribunda business card, ran a finger over the front illustration, and then turned it over.
He pulled his keyboard close, navigated to the Floribunda website, and viewed everything for sale on the site—bouquets for all occasions (new baby to funeral), plants, boutonnieres, terrariums, and gift baskets.
Paul offered custom corporate events support by consultation. Or Floribunda could provide regular deliveries of floral arrangements for an office. There was a link to Valentine’s Day specials. He didn’t click it.
Huxley propped his chin on his hand. He needed a believable reason to return to Floribunda. He could order one of those terrariums for his office. But no one made a special trip to a florist to order a terrarium. Ordering an office flower service would work, but he still hadn’t figured out how to expense it. There must be funds for office maintenance. Yeah, too bad you didn’t hire an office manager the way you should have as soon as you started.
No matter what reason he came up with, it would be obvious it was an excuse so he could invite Paul to the game on Saturday. Paul would think it was a date. It wasn’t a date. The last thing Huxley needed was to be involved wit
h someone romantically. Besides, just because Paul had a drag queen friend didn’t mean he was gay. Huxley couldn’t get a read past his polite, professional vibe. It didn’t matter. Huxley was too much of a mess to be a good partner for anybody, but he could be a friend. Right now he needed a friend much more than a lover.
Paul intrigued him. Paul was comfortable in his skin. Paul was actually living his life.
Knock, knock.
“Come in.”
Amelie poked her head around the door, wearing a tight smile. “Can I have a minute of your time?”
“Sure.”
She stepped inside, leaving the door ajar just enough that they didn’t appear to be having a secret private meeting, but no one could easily overhear them. Amelie must have been working with Bob a long time.
“A couple of local organizations are asking for donations for a silent auction they’re putting on as part of the annual Oilton Health is Wealth Fair. Oilton Diabetes Foundation, Oilton Celiac Society—a few others, all organizations whose members use our products. Any chance we could contribute something?”
Why was Amelie even asking him? Surely she knew he’d just send her to Bob. Oh. Right. Bob was notoriously anti donations. He said they didn’t accomplish anything, and as soon as you donated to one group, you’d be inundated with requests.
“For what it’s worth,” said Amelie, “I do think it’s a good idea to contribute to these sorts of events. It gets our name out there in a positive way.”
Huxley nodded slowly, thinking hard. “How about gift baskets with an assortment of our products?”
Amelie stared for a moment before replying. “That would be perfect. They’ve got volunteers who’ll do the pickup. All we have to do is provide the donation.”
“I’ll make the arrangements and let you know.”
“Thank you.” Amelie smiled—a real smile. “That’s great. Thank you so much.” She watched him a moment, and he could see indecision in her body language. She wanted to say something more. She was afraid.
