by Ava Hayden
Paul gave him a warning stare. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Have no fear. Everything will be perfect.” Carson beamed like a fond parent looking over a couple posing for prom pictures. “Just. Perfect.”
Chapter 6
ON MONDAY Huxley steeled himself for a confrontation, but to his surprise, Bob stayed away. It couldn’t last. He stopped by Amelie’s office. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.”
Huxley stepped inside and closed the door. “I thought about what you said. I want to pursue research—focus groups, surveys, whatever makes sense. While we’re at it, I want to look at packaging. Ours is dated and ugly. I’ve emailed Tara to put it on the agenda for tomorrow.”
Amelie beamed. “This is great news. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Just do me one favor.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t print anything on paper. Electronic files only. Make sure everyone knows.”
Amelie’s smile morphed into something halfway between satisfaction and evil glee. “I can’t wait for this meeting.”
SAFELY BACK in his office, Huxley fell into his chair. Push out the air. Let in the air.
His phone buzzed with a text message.
Paul: Your baskets are ready for pickup.
He’d attached pictures. Their products never looked so good. Huxley forwarded the text to Amelie and within seconds got a reply.
Amelie: These are awesome!!!!! Thanks for setting this up! I’ll let the organizers know.
Huxley texted Paul: These look fantastic. Our Marketing director is ecstatic. Let me know what we owe you.
Paul: No charge. Consider it my contribution.
Huxley: We’ll talk. ☺
No way was he letting Paul eat the cost of the materials and labor. He checked the store’s hours. It closed at six. Perfect. Huxley relaxed. So far the day hadn’t imploded, which was more than he’d hoped for.
AT FIVE sharp Huxley huddled in his winter coat, scarf, and beanie, warding off the January chill. The headlights of the SUV turned into the drive-through drop zone. “Please drop me at Floribunda. By Sukey’s,” he said as he slid into the back seat.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s Huxley.”
Bishop gave him a startled look in the rearview mirror. “S—um, Huxley, should I wait?”
“No, you don’t need to.” Bishop didn’t get paid to wait, and it wouldn’t be fair to require it of him.
Bishop let him out at the nearest corner under the streetlight, and Huxley gave him a quick wave as he headed for the shop. Bishop would leave the SUV in his condo parking space and take OTIS back to campus, where he lived in student housing.
The now-familiar chimes announced him, and he shoved his gloves into his coat pockets once inside. Paul came out and gave him a warm smile. Huxley couldn’t help but beam back at him. Something south of his waistband tingled when he saw Paul’s gaze flash up and down. Checked out. Good. Except wait, no, bad. Friend zone only.
“How are you?” said Paul.
“Good, thanks. How are you?”
“Also good.” Indeed. With that apron snugged around his hips and his sleeves pushed to his elbows, Paul looked scrumptious.
Might as well jump right in. “I want to pay for the baskets.”
Paul crossed his arms, tilted his head, and gave Huxley a look that caused another jolt south of the waistband. “I’ll charge you what I paid for the physical items I supplied.”
“Charge me what you’d normally charge, including labor.”
“Less the cost of the basket items I didn’t have to include.”
Huxley considered and made a decision. “Deal. Ring it up.” He pulled out the company credit card.
A couple of minutes later, Paul handed back Huxley’s card. “Do you have dinner plans?”
Say yes. “No, no plans.”
“Have dinner with me? Nothing fancy. I cooked yesterday, so it’s leftover stew and a loaf of ciabatta I picked up at the bakery down the street. I live upstairs over the store, so you don’t have to go back out into the cold.”
This is such a bad idea. “That sounds wonderful.”
Paul gave Huxley another one of those smiles that made him feel a little unsteady. “Come on back with me.”
Huxley followed, peeling off his coat and scarf.
“Have a seat.” Paul indicated a small round table in the kitchenette part of the workroom. “I just need to finish one more arrangement. You may find it a little chilly in here. I keep it on the cool side for the flowers.”
Huxley settled into a seat and draped his winter gear over a chair back next to him. He could watch Paul undetected, and he was going to make the most of it. Paul wore heavy dark gray cords under the long apron, probably to combat the room temperature. On top was a forest-green half-zip sweater, sleeves pushed up. Best. Forearms. Ever.
Paul slid the stem of a white rose into an arrangement in a tall, heavy upright rectangle of clear glass that sat on a raised work table. “This was a last-minute order and the guy’s coming by for it in about fifteen minutes.” He moved like a dancer, graceful, economical, each movement purposeful, no motion wasted.
“You’re accommodating.”
Paul grinned over the dome of white roses. Green stems crisscrossed in a pleasing pattern that contrasted with the lush canopy of petals above the square mouth of the vase. He stepped back for a view. “It’s for an anniversary that he obviously forgot. This guy’ll be a customer for life.” He circled the table, stopping to adjust stems once or twice.
He grabbed a cardboard box from a stack and slid the vase into a square hole cut into the box’s top just as the shop door chimed. “Be right back.”
Huxley took in more details of the room now that Paul’s ass (forearms, hair, smile) couldn’t distract him. The workroom was clean and tidier than he’d have expected at the end of a workday. Organized shelves held tools and supplies—a pleasant place to work.
Five minutes later Paul walked back into the workroom. “I locked up and turned out the front lights.” He pulled off his apron and hung it on a peg. “Come on up. I’ll finish cleaning down here later.”
He walked to a doorway and flipped a light switch beside it, then opened the door and gestured for Huxley to precede him. He found himself climbing a simple wooden staircase, Paul behind him. On the top landing, Paul reached around him and opened the door. “Go on in.”
Inside Paul flipped more light switches, and Huxley scanned the space. They’d entered through a side door that led into a small pass-through kitchen.
“The original live-work space,” said Paul, grinning. “In the old days, lots of people lived where they did business. Now not so much.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“No, we used to rent this place out. I moved in after university.” Paul donned a smaller apron and pulled a lidded container from the refrigerator.
“Can I do something?” Huxley asked.
“Sure, you can slice us some ciabatta. The bread is in that paper bag on the counter. Bread board over there.” Paul gestured with his chin. “Bread knife is on top of it. Bread basket in the cabinet just above it.”
Paul got the stew heating on the stovetop and set the small table in the dining nook off the living room and kitchen as Huxley sliced bread. He arranged ciabatta slices in the bread basket and placed it on the table. Paul had set out spreadable goat cheese, a dish of olives, and red-pepper hummus. “Everything looks good.”
Paul looked him over and smiled. “Mmmhmm.” Huxley didn’t think he meant the food. Paul’s gaze made him self-conscious. Huxley’s looks were ordinary at best. He didn’t frighten small children, but he didn’t exactly stop traffic either.
He shouldn’t be thinking this way. He wasn’t ready for a relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to foist his issues onto a nice guy like Paul. He looked up just in time to catch Paul watching him. A slow smile spread across Paul’s face, and Huxley couldn�
��t look away. He smiled back—he must look goofy as hell. He didn’t care.
Paul dished out bowls of stew, and they sat. Near the dining nook, a hallway led to the back of the apartment. Another door in the living room fronted onto a small foyer. Huxley suspected it led to stairs to a street level entrance.
They ate in silence for a moment, and then Huxley patted his lips with his napkin. “You did a great job on the gift baskets. Our products have never looked so good.”
“Thanks. I enjoyed putting them together. It’s nice to do something different once in a while.”
Huxley thought of all the different things he’d done lately. “True.”
“So what do you do when you aren’t working?” Paul asked.
Huxley shrugged. “Work out. Watch Netflix.”
“Yeah? What do you like?”
They compared notes on favorite TV shows and movies and then moved to music and books.
“Pan’s Labyrinth?” asked Paul.
“Too depressing,” said Huxley. “I cried so hard the last twenty minutes I couldn’t breathe. What about The Lives of Others?”
“Couldn’t get through it,” said Paul. “I couldn’t stand any of the characters. Did you see Holding the Man?”
“Loved it,” said Huxley, just as Paul chimed in with “I loved it.”
They agreed Arcade Fire was amazing and disagreed on Wintersleep.
They shared a love of mysteries and suspense. Anything by Stephen King, Minette Walters, and Alan Furst—autobuy.
Patricia Highsmith? Yes. “There are five Ripley books? I had no idea. I’ve got to find them,” said Paul.
Huxley beamed. “You can borrow my set.”
At last Paul sat back. “Room for dessert? I’ve got amaranth sugar cookies from next door. Gluten free, but that’s not why I buy them. They’re pretty good.”
“Sure.” Huxley could take or leave dessert, but he wanted more of Paul’s company any way he could get it.
“Coffee? I can make decaf.”
“That sounds good.” Huxley rose and cleared the table, stacking dishes by the sink, as Paul ground coffee beans and measured cold water into the kettle for the french press.
“Thanks,” said Paul as Huxley returned uneaten goat cheese and condiments to the fridge. Paul was closer than Huxley had realized. He reached around Huxley, his breath tickling the back of Huxley’s neck, pulled two dessert plates from a cupboard, and handed them over. “Cookies are in the pink bakery box on the counter there.” He pointed with his chin as he poured hot water into the press and positioned the plunger lid.
Paul spoke over his shoulder as Huxley placed the plates and box on the table. “So what should I be reading?”
Huxley didn’t have to think. “Aubrey and Maturin. I can’t believe you never read any of them.”
Paul laughed. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.” He set two coffee cups on the table, followed by the french press and a small carton of half-and-half from the fridge. Then he sat and flipped the bakery box open. “Help yourself.” He depressed the pot plunger and then poured coffee, pushing one cup to Huxley.
Huxley took a cookie but hesitated before biting into it. “What should I be reading?”
“The Burke series by Andrew Vachss. No question. It’s dark but redemptive. I’ve reread the whole thing I don’t even know how many times.”
Huxley nodded. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.” He took another bite of the cookie and mmmmed around it.
“Yeah, I think so too. Sukey is a genius with gluten free. I don’t even need to eat gluten free, but I still pick these up.”
Huxley narrowed his eyes as he considered the cookie. This was exactly the kind of product his company should be producing. He looked up to find Paul giving him a puzzled look and smiled sheepishly. “Just thinking.”
Dessert was over too soon, but Huxley knew he should take his leave. Paul still had work to do in the shop. He texted for a cab and was relieved to get a quick confirmation. “Can I help clean up?”
“No. Come on down. You can wait in the shop for your cab.” Paul ushered him downstairs. Paul disappeared into the front of the store, then reappeared with a cash drawer in hand.
“These days most people pay with credit, but either way, it all has to be reconciled.” A shadow passed over Paul’s face. Huxley wondered why.
His phone buzzed. “Looks like my cab is here.” He shrugged into his coat and swept his scarf around his neck. “Thanks again for dinner. I really enjoyed it.”
“Me too.” Paul walked him to the front of the store and unlocked the door. “So we’re still on for Saturday?”
Huxley smiled. “Looking forward to it.”
For a moment neither spoke. Huxley looked at Paul’s lips, wanted to lean in. Don’t do it. Had Paul moved toward him? Don’t be stupid.
“Well,” said Huxley and Paul at the same time. They both gave embarrassed laughs.
“Good night,” said Huxley. He pushed through the door.
“Good night.”
PAUL WAVED as Huxley climbed into an Oilton Cabs minivan, then locked the shop door and retreated inside. He’d had to use every bit of self-control he had to keep himself from grabbing Huxley, pulling him in, and laying a lip lock on him like some kind of lovesick Romeo.
Huxley was attractive, sweet, smart, and amazingly humble for a company president and CEO. How had no one snatched him up yet?
Paul carried the cash drawer into his small office and counted the day’s receipts. He’d been stupid to let Leo take over that job, stupid to trust him so soon with account numbers and verification codes. That was what happened when you thought with your gonads instead of your brain. Or as Carson would say, when you thought with your wedding vegetables.
Huxley couldn’t be more different. Leo smiled a lot, but in retrospect, Paul only remembered leers and smirks. At the time, it was hot. Who didn’t want some gorgeous guy leering over his body? Paul hadn’t objected. And smirks—he’d enjoyed Leo’s humor—except when it veered into derisive, offensive territory, which was more and more often as the months went by. Never a shy, sweet smile like Huxley wore when he wasn’t on guard.
Paul shook his head and logged in to the business’s bank account. He winced at the cash balance. Cash was lifeblood for a business. A business was like a living person. You might have a body capable of winning Olympic gold, but if you drained all its blood, it ceased to function. Just like a business with no cash.
Floribunda had been sound, still was healthy in terms of sales. The problem was when Leo ran off with the funds they needed for daily operations, he left Paul struggling to meet obligations to creditors and the Canada Revenue Agency, not to mention payroll and the money he was supposed to transfer to his parents’ account each month.
Paul didn’t want to take out a business loan, but it might come to that. He was ashamed to be the reason the business might have to borrow to stay afloat. Once his parents paid off the initial loans to start the business, they never went into debt again. Paul could remember lean times, but they’d survived.
His parents would tell him to waive the payments to them until the business was healthy again. He wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t taking a salary for the moment, was cutting back everywhere he could, taking on every extra order he could get. Valentine’s Day was coming. Problem was, you had to spend money to make money. Every day was a juggling act to cover ongoing costs with the incoming receipts. He massaged his forehead.
At least he had Saturday to look forward to. Saturday with Huxley. He smiled and felt a tingle somewhere in the vicinity of his wedding vegetables.
Chapter 7
TUESDAY MORNING Huxley and Bishop picked up donuts at Sukey’s. Huxley ordered two dozen donuts and asked for a dozen gluten-free amaranth sugar cookies.
“Of course.” Once again Huxley and Bishop followed along as Sukey worked her way down the display case, filling pink boxes. The Valentine’s Day banner behind her no longer seemed as repellent as it had the
week before.
“Your Valentine’s Day special—Cinnamon Red Hot donuts—do you have a gluten-free version of those?”
Sukey looked up from filling a third, smaller pink box with cookies. “Yes, but if you want to be sure to get either kind, let me know ahead of time so I can reserve them for you. We’ll sell them starting next week through Valentine’s Day.”
“Put me down for a dozen regular and a half-dozen gluten free next Tuesday.”
“Okay.” She carried their boxes to the register.
Huxley handed over a business card. “Here’s my info.”
Sukey examined the card as he tapped his company Visa and waited for it to process. She jotted a quick note on it and tucked it into a pocket. “A dozen Cinnamon Red Hot donuts and a half-dozen gluten free on Tuesday. They’ll be ready.”
SHERRILYN HURRIED to let Huxley in when he showed up at the door with his morning latte and three pink boxes. Once again, he was the last to arrive at the meeting.
Tara clapped her hands. “Oh, Mr. Herrington, you brought those yummy donuts again.”
“Call me Huxley, please. I also brought some gluten-free cookies,” said Huxley.
Bob glowered as everyone else moaned and licked fingers and dabbed with napkins and exclaimed, “These are so good.”
A paper agenda rested on the table in front of Huxley. “Shall we get started?” he said. Everyone at the table stared at him, except for Amelie, who gave him a covert smile. “Research is the first item. Amelie?”
“We can’t discuss something we haven’t received any information on,” said Bob.
“I got information,” said Gilles.
“Me too,” said Meredith. She waved her tablet.
“Who didn’t get information?” asked Huxley. Only Bob raised a hand.
“You didn’t get my email with the link to the company intranet?” said Amelie.
Bob was turning Saskatoon berry purple again. “Is there a reason we didn’t get printouts in advance?”
