Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  “Ow.” He rubbed the spot, completely unable to manufacture a frown.

  “Do not make me hurt you.”

  David huffed, but the smile remained. “He said you need to work on your people skills.” He chuckled when Michael glared.

  “Me? He could start by not sexually harassing me every time he talks to me.”

  “He doesn’t do that.”

  “He calls me ‘handsome’ and ‘cutie.’”

  “Good Lord, the fiend.” David’s tone was dry. “You don’t like an attractive man telling you that you’re cute?”

  Michael crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin. “I’ve told him not to repeatedly, David. The man can’t take a hint.”

  “It might be that you send some pretty mixed signals.” David leaned back in his chair, eyeing him.

  Michael’s mouth dropped open. “I do not.”

  “Michael. When Jackson and I had everyone for dinner last week, you sat next to Gil and giggled at all of his jokes.”

  Michael waved a hand. “They were funny. And I was drinking.”

  “How about the night we all went out to the club? That night you actually ended up sitting on his lap.”

  “Again, I was drinking. You can’t blame me for what I do after a couple of cocktails.” Michael would die before admitting to anyone that just sitting on that thick thigh had made him hard every time he’d thought about it for a week. And if what he’d felt against his hips was any indication, he wasn’t the only one.

  “I’m not blaming you for anything. But is it possible that what you’re doing when you’re relaxed after a couple of drinks is what you actually want?”

  “Not with Gilbert.” Michael made a face. “You know he isn’t my type at all.”

  “I also know you’ve been pretty much fascinated with all of those muscles since you first saw him.”

  Michael grimaced. “The muscles, maybe. But not that thick head.” He picked at a perfectly manicured thumbnail so David wouldn’t see any regret in his eyes. He liked Gil, more than he wanted to. But he hated David trying to manage him.

  “Gil isn’t stupid and you know it.”

  Michael could feel David’s scolding look without glancing up. “Why are you pushing this?”

  “Michael, I’m not pushing anything.” David paused, and Michael finally looked up to find his expression tentative but kind. Michael instantly dreaded what that expression meant. “And Gil isn’t Evan.”

  Michael stiffened in anger. He could scarcely believe David had gone there.

  “And now you’re pissed at me, and I don’t suppose I blame you. I certainly wouldn’t want Trevor thrown at me.”

  Trevor was David’s scuzzball ex, the one who’d stalked him and then broken into his house. It was only due to David’s good heart that the man wasn’t in prison. It was also only due to David’s good heart that Michael didn’t tell him to mind his own goddamned business.

  “I love you,” David went on. “And I hate to see you miss out on something that might be wonderful because of something that happened when you were in college.”

  Michael straightened in the chair. “If you’re thinking Gilbert Chandler is that something wonderful, you’re wrong. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He stood up. “I’m going to shipping to see if those samples came in for today’s meeting with the restaurant chain.” He turned and started for the door.

  “Michael.”

  He stopped at his best friend’s tone, looking at him over his shoulder.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  That was so David. He hated confrontation, especially with people he cared about. Michael’s irritation faded.

  “I’m not mad,” Michael answered almost truthfully. “I just don’t want to dwell on it. Okay?”

  David seemed to make a conscious effort to let it go. “That stuff we ordered from Dallas should be here too.”

  “I’ll check.” He grabbed the florist box and headed out the door.

  Everyone had arrived at work now, and the floor buzzed with conversation. Michael was stopped several times on his way to the elevator.

  “Michael, what thread count were the sheets for the high-end hotel?”

  “Michael, what color upholstery was supposed to go on the couch in the lobby?”

  “Michael, what kind of candy should we put in the depression era glass turkeys for the restaurant tables?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered to that one. The chain was owned by a talk show asshole, and all eighteen locations were reopening the next week. “Use red, white, and blue M&M’s. The checkerboard tablecloths are red-and-white gingham, so they should be happy.” He’d pretty much begged David not to make him work with the client, but David seemed to be entertained by Michael’s agony during every conference call with the owner. He was prone to say things like “it’s all about mom, baseball, and apple pie. Old-fashioned values. A place a family can eat together without worrying that their kids being kids are going to offend some stuck-up hipster with his iPhone.”

  David had covered his laugh while Michael glared at the speakerphone.

  He stepped onto the freight elevator, pulled the door closed, and pushed the button for the basement. The old elevator made a clunking sound, then began to descend. Michael tossed the florist box in the corner and leaned against the wall.

  He was still stinging from David’s mention of Evan. There had been something of an unwritten rule between them from the beginning, that he wouldn’t rag on David about how big an asshole his ex was—something he managed with limited success—and David wouldn’t bring up the biggest mistake of Michael’s life. Michael still had nightmares of walking into an empty apartment, dents in the carpeting left by the missing furniture the only indication he hadn’t hallucinated two years of his life. Everything was gone but his clothes and a few framed pictures, tossed in a corner like garbage.

  Michael blinked, straightening when he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. He took his phone out and looked down at the screen, eyebrows rising.

  “Hello?” he said tentatively.

  “Michael. Hey.”

  It was no wonder David had fallen in love with Jackson Henry. He had a deep, smooth voice like dark chocolate and was practically sex on legs. He also rarely, if ever, called Michael.

  “Hi, Jackson. Um… why are you calling me?”

  Jackson laughed, and the sound went straight down to his dick, even knowing the man was taken. By his best friend, no less.

  “You don’t screw around, do you?”

  “Not that you’re asking, but not with my best friend’s boyfriend, no.”

  Jackson’s laugh mellowed into a deep chuckle. “No, I’m not asking. I just meant you get straight to the point.”

  “I find it saves time.” The elevator jolted to a stop at the basement and he yanked the cage doors open. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch.”

  Michael paused as he bent to pick up the florist’s box, straightening without it. “Why?”

  “There’s something I could really use your help with. And I need you to not say anything to David.”

  Michael frowned, instantly suspicious. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that, Jackson.”

  “Even if I promise that it’s for a really good reason?”

  Michael pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Where?”

  A rush of relieved breath came through the line. “Thanks, Michael. How about Aspens in the mall?”

  Michael huffed. “Only if you’re buying.”

  Aspens billed itself as a “martini bar,” and was just pretentious enough to be well out of his price range.

  “I’m buying. What time is good for you?”

  “I take lunch at one, but I usually go with David. I’m going to have to make something up, and I don’t like lying to him.”

  “You’re a good friend, Michael.”

  “If I was that good a friend, I’d tell you n
o. But now I’m curious.”

  Jackson chuckled again, sounding nervous, which had Michael interested. Jackson was a very nice man, but not one Michael would describe as animated. Tall, dark, handsome, and serious, that was Jackson.

  “So, see you at one? I really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, stop”—Michael bent and snatched the box from the floor—“before you make me regret this. I’ll be there.”

  He hung up before he could question his decision any further.

  THE SUN, anemic as it was, broke through the cloud cover briefly. It was an unusual enough occurrence in February to make Michael glad he was out taking a walk instead of sitting in David’s office with a bagel and a Diet Coke from the vending machines. He hadn’t liked telling David he had an optometrist appointment, but he’d been complaining about his glasses enough lately to make it believable. When he entered through the main doors of the mall, he was startled to find Jackson standing in the huge lobby, waiting for him.

  “Thanks for coming.” Jackson offered his hand. Michael gave it a wry look and Jackson retracted it with a sheepish smile. He looked edgy, and Michael frowned.

  “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Jackson rubbed his hands on the denim covering his hips. He was wearing nicer clothes than Michael usually saw him in, too, and Michael’s concern ratcheted up a notch.

  “Jackson, what’s going on?”

  “Can we hold that until we’re in the restaurant?”

  Michael stared into the sky-blue eyes, noting the flush on the high cheekbones, the nervous way he kept biting and releasing his lower lip.

  “I guess so,” he reluctantly conceded, following Jackson onto the escalator.

  Aspens was on the third floor of the towering mall entrance. Bronzed branches and dark leather marked the decor, which gave it the feel of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. It also looked out over the city, which lost some of its midwinter dinginess that far above the ground. A hostess dressed all in black showed them to a booth with a city view, offering them menus before she departed.

  “The pizza is actually pretty good here.” Jackson fiddled with the cloth napkin.

  “I’m sure it’s delightful.” Michael leaned forward, his elbows on the tabletop. “What the hell, Jackson?”

  Jackson looked up at him, momentarily surprised, then blew out a breath, more nervous than a sigh. He stared at Michael’s intractable expression, then fumbled for something in the pocket of his short leather jacket. When he placed the small, velvet-covered box in the center of the table, Michael stared at it.

  “What?”

  “Open it,” Jackson prodded. He was back to chewing on his lower lip, and Michael huffed. He snatched the box up from the table and flipped it open, then stopped and stared.

  Nestled on the cushy black satin interior were two rings, a mingling of yellow and rose-toned gold twisted in an artful vine design. The etching caught the light, making them gleam warmly. One was quite a bit larger than the other, and Michael lifted his gaze to Jackson’s large hands.

  “Oh, Jackson,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Do you think he’ll like them?”

  Michael stared down at the matching rings again, his heart so full he was afraid for a moment he might tear up, and that would never do. He snapped the lid closed and pushed the box back toward Jackson.

  “Are you kidding? He’ll be doing backflips and driving us all crazy with the story of your proposal for months.” Jackson reached for the box a bit tentatively, and Michael instantly regretted his glib tone. Sometimes he could really be so obnoxious. He caught Jackson’s hand before he could retrieve the box, felt how cold it was, and realized how nervous the taciturn man was. Jackson looked up into Michael’s face.

  “They’re beautiful, Jackson. Truly. He’ll be thrilled.”

  Jackson exhaled, gave Michael a tentative smile. “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  Jackson pocketed the ring box as a waitress came to the table. Michael ordered a burger without looking at the menu; everyone had a burger.

  As she walked away, he returned his attention to Jackson. “So, are you proposing tonight?”

  Jackson took a drink from the glass of water the waitress had delivered, then shook his head. “That’s something I could use your help with too.”

  Michael stared at him, having a feeling Jackson was going to suggest something sappy and obnoxiously romantic, and he was going to be forced to go along because he loved his friend.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS ridiculously cold, and Michael tightened the gray scarf around his throat as he locked his car in front of David’s house. He wished it were May. Actually, he just wished it were any time other than this, and that he was anywhere else on the planet. On any other day of the year.

  A thin layer of snow in the yard crunched beneath his boots as he made his way toward the porch. He hunched into his jacket and glanced over his shoulder. He loved David; he even loved David’s house. In the daylight. After dark he always had the skin-crawly feeling that someone sat out there, watching him. It was five thirty and the sun had set, and the temperature had dropped. He climbed the front steps quickly, pausing to stomp the snow from his boots. He wanted to be home with a container of soup from the market near his apartment, spending the evening in his sweats, watching movies with things that blew up. Preferably anything remotely Valentine’s-Day related.

  God, Jackson was going to owe him.

  The doorbell echoed through the house, accompanied by the sound of a dog barking. David opened the heavy front door, giving Michael an anemic smile. Michael was tempted to smack him, but he managed to refrain. Instead, he bent and smiled at the little black-and-tan corgi who danced around his feet.

  “Hello, princess,” he greeted, sinking his hands into her thick, soft fur. The dog rolled to her back, short legs in the air, and he rubbed her belly. “How’s my girl?”

  “Skittish. She’s been whining at the door for the last hour. She’s also pouting.” David gestured for her. “In, Scooter.” The corgi went into the house, looking at Michael over her shoulder. David opened the door wider for Michael to enter, and he considered David’s face as he passed.

  “She isn’t the only one who’s pouting,” Michael observed. David sighed as he closed the door behind him.

  “You know, I get that he had to go out of town to deal with some leftover business from his dad’s estate. But did it have to be this weekend?”

  Michael gave him a flat look. “David, you have a boyfriend. The fact that he isn’t with you on Valentine’s Day is not exactly tragic.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.” David grabbed his black wool overcoat from the antique rack on the wall.

  “Not that one.”

  David looked at Michael with incomprehension.

  “Not that coat. Wear the gray wool military cut.”

  David apparently didn’t feel the need for restraint and rolled his eyes, returning the first coat to pull down the one Michael suggested. “What difference does it make? It’s not like I have to dress up for you.”

  “Nice.” Michael gave him a sardonic look. “Asshole. And it does make a difference. We’re going to eat at a nice place, and I won’t be seen with someone who cares so little for his appearance that he’d wear an old-man overcoat with that sweater and jeans. And take off that ugly scarf.”

  David glared at him. “Are you just unusually bitchy tonight, or is it the fact that you think Valentine’s Day is really stupid?”

  “Both.” There were several scarves on the coatrack, and Michael flipped through them, finally taking down a green-and-gray plaid to hold up next to David’s face. “This one is better.”

  “Thank you so much, Tim Gunn. I didn’t realize I was on Project Runway.”

  “If you were, you’d get voted off the first week. You can’t sew, remember?”

  There had been a disa
strous weekend with an expensive length of broadcloth and a borrowed sewing machine. Michael ended up ordering curtains from Wayfair.

  David stuck his tongue out at him, wrapping the scarf around his throat before donning the short jacket. He looked very nice, but Michael wasn’t going to tell him so.

  “So, where are we going, anyway?” David asked, following Michael out the door after he bent to give Scooter one last scratch behind her ear.

  “Lyra. Which is why I care how you look. I can’t be seen with a mess.”

  Lyra was a small, trendy restaurant in a newly revitalized area of town. There were tea shops and florists and antique stores, and one of the newer, classier gay bars just around the corner. They’d talked about trying it for months but for some reason always ended up somewhere else. David’s despondent expression lightened slightly.

  “My car or yours?” he asked, locking the door.

  “Mine.” Michael shot him a look as they walked down the stairs. “Unless you’re offering that cute little Mercedes.”

  David shook his head with a slight smile. “Not mine to offer. And it’s parked in my mother’s garage. Stopping there would add an hour to our evening.”

  That was true. Michael was very fond of David’s mom, but she was chatty. Besides, the Mercedes in question belonged to Jackson’s mother, who had moved in with David’s mom a few months before. They’d been friends for years, and it was a sensible decision for both of them. David’s mom, Beverley, was newly widowed after taking care of her husband during a long bout with cancer, and Shirley, Jackson’s mom, had been diagnosed with MS. Jackson had been living with his mom and trying to care for her while building a business. The moms, without consulting their sons, merely made a decision that was beneficial for everyone.

  “So why is Scooter pouting?” Michael hit the fob on his key ring to unlock the car doors. He crossed behind the trunk.

  “She hates it when her daddy isn’t home.” David opened the door and slid into the bucket seat.