That Telling MomentChapter 14

Stephen Huxley arrived at Dabney on Monday morning with what could generously be described as a hangover, and more accurately termed an existential crisis in physical form. The Dabney gala had left him with several unfortunate souvenirs: a pounding headache courtesy of champagne that cost more than his monthly rent, sore toes from stiff shoes that had attempted to amputate them. And the increasingly inconvenient realisation that he might, against all rational judgment, be developing genuine feelings for David Ryland.

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered to himself as he punched the lift button with unnecessary force. “This boyfriend thing is a performance. A strategic non-denial with appropriate proximity parameters. Nothing more.”

His brain, the treacherous organ, helpfully supplied a sensory memory of Ryland’s face pressed against his neck, inhaling deeply, as if Stephen’s scent were some sort of neurological stabiliser. The alpha’s hands tightening on his waist. Those blue eyes when he’d finally pulled back.

“Nope,” Stephen said aloud, earning a concerned glance from Janet in Accounts as she joined him in the lift. “Not thinking about it.”

“Rough weekend?” Janet asked politely.

“Something like that,” Stephen replied, staring fixedly at the floor numbers as they lit up in sequence. The gala. The dancing. The drive home. That moment in the car where neither of them had moved, where the air between them had gone thick and warm, and he’d nearly done something catastrophically honest.

The pathetically quick wank in his bathroom after, his imagination replacing his own hand with Ryland’s elegant fingers, coming so hard he’d nearly blacked out while the shower drowned out sounds that would have his father running out of the flat to escape.

Strategic non-denial his arse.

By the time he reached his desk, Stephen had constructed an airtight plan: professional distance from Ryland until these feelings subsided. He straightened his pen pot. Aligned his keyboard with the edge of his desk. Opened his inbox. All very controlled, very measured.

This resolution lasted approximately forty-seven minutes, at which point his phone lit up with a text.

Ryland: Server room available at 13:27. I’ve acquired optimal lunch provisions from the Lebanese establishment on Belmont Street. Their hummus contains 14% more protein than the Dabney canteen’s nutritionally questionable version.

Stephen stared at the message, an unwelcome warmth spreading through his chest. Ryland had remembered his offhand comment about liking Lebanese food. Had gone out of his way to get it. Had calculated the exact protein content difference.

Oh, he was completely fucked.

Before he could formulate a response that balanced professional cordiality with his new emotional barricade construction project, a shadow fell across his desk. Stephen looked up to find Dominic Harcourt, Senior Legal Counsel and walking embodiment of alpha privilege, perched on the edge of his desk. He’d sat his Savile Row-clad arse right on Stephen’s carefully arranged paperwork.

“Huxley,” Harcourt said, shifting to make himself comfortable in a manoeuvre that positioned his crotch approximately fifteen centimetres from Stephen’s face. “Just the omega I’ve been looking for.”

Stephen leaned back in his chair, creating critical distance between his face and Harcourt’s family jewels. “Fascinating opening line. Is this the part where I’m supposed to fetch your coffee, take meeting notes, or perhaps offer a supportive shoulder rub while you explain complex legal concepts my omega brain couldn’t possibly grasp on its own?”

Harcourt’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d built a career on family connections and aggressive handshakes, with just enough actual legal talent to avoid being completely useless. “Still got that sharp tongue, I see. I was beginning to worry your new… association might have softened those edges.”

“Just had coffee with Ryland, actually,” Stephen said, the lie slipping out with impressive smoothness. “He sends his regards.”

The effect was immediate. Harcourt straightened, subtly adjusting his position so that his crotch was no longer in Stephen’s immediate personal space. His scent retracted, that alpha dominance vanishing like a cat pretending it hadn’t just fallen off a windowsill.

“Yes, well,” Harcourt cleared his throat. “That’s sort of why I’m here.”

“Do elaborate,” Stephen said, leaning back in his chair. “Preferably from a standing position that doesn’t involve having your testicles in my direct eye line.”

Harcourt actually stood up, which made this possibly the most successful interaction Stephen had ever had with a senior alpha at Dabney. “Victoria Harlow has been reviewing staffing for the European Renewable Energy Conference in Geneva next week.”

“Fascinating. Would you like me to prepare a congratulatory card for whoever’s attending?”

“You’re being added to the delegation,” Harcourt said, appearing to enjoy Stephen’s momentary shock. “Harlow was impressed with your work on the Crawford merger. Thinks you could benefit from some exposure to the European energy sector regulations.”

Stephen blinked. “I’m quite junior for an international conference.”

“Yes, well,” Harcourt’s smile turned sly, “you’re also apparently the most qualified Ryland Wrangler we’ve got.”

“I’m sorry, the most qualified what?”

“Ryland Wrangler,” Harcourt repeated, as if the term were standard corporate nomenclature. “You know, someone who can prevent our brilliant but socially catastrophic Director of Research from causing an international incident. Again.”

Stephen bristled. “So I’m not being sent for my legal expertise. I’m being sent as a glorified babysitter.”

“Think of it more as specialist diplomatic support,” Harcourt suggested. “With a generous per diem, five-star accommodation, some excellent professional development. Plus, you know,” he waggled his eyebrows in a manner that should have been illegal in professional settings, “quality time with your… whatever Ryland is to you.”

Stephen considered the proposition. Being reduced to “Ryland Wrangler” was professionally insulting. But Geneva. Five-star accommodation. Per diem. Professional development that would look excellent on his CV.

And yes, fine, quality time with Ryland, though that was rapidly moving from the “pro” to the “it’s complicated” column.

“Out of morbid curiosity,” Stephen said, “what exactly has Ryland done at these conferences that necessitates a ‘wrangler’?”

Harcourt’s expression suggested he’d been hoping for this question. “Oh, where to begin? There was the time he told Professor Hideki Nakamura, literal Nobel laureate, that his methodology was ‘fundamentally flawed and embarrassingly outdated’ during the welcome drinks reception.”

“I see,” Stephen murmured.

“Then there was the solar energy symposium in Barcelona, where he walked out of his own presentation because someone asked a question he deemed ‘scientifically illiterate.’ And let’s not forget Vienna, where he reduced the Dutch Energy Minister to tears with a thirteen-minute explanation of why her country’s offshore wind strategy was ‘the renewable energy equivalent of trying to power a city with a hamster wheel.’”

Stephen winced. “He does have a certain… directness.”

“Directness,” Harcourt repeated dryly. “That’s one word for it. Others might include ‘terminal honesty syndrome’ or, my personal favourite, ‘catastrophic candour disorder.’” He paused. “The point is, it has been noticed that you seem to be the only person who can manage Ryland’s social difficulties without triggering a full-scale meltdown. Harlow thinks you could be an asset to the delegation. In multiple capacities,” he added with what he probably thought was a subtle emphasis.

Stephen ignored the insinuation. “When do we leave?”

“Sunday morning. Conference runs Monday through Wednesday. You’ll be briefed on the specific legal aspects later this week.” Harcourt straightened his already impeccable tie. “So, you’re in?”

Stephen thought about his meagre savings account, the “Get Dad Out of That Bloody Deathtrap of a Flat” fund that could use a boost from unspent per diem. He thought about the way Ryland had looked at him in the car after the gala. That half-lidded, intense stare that had sent heat pooling low in his belly.

“I’m in,” he said, wondering if he’d just made a terrible mistake. “Though if you ever refer to me as a ‘Ryland Wrangler’ again, I’ll find a way to ensure all your case files are mysteriously reassigned to the Newcastle office.”

“Noted,” Harcourt said with a smirk. “I’ll have HR send over the travel details.”

As soon as Harcourt was out of sight, Stephen pulled up Google on his computer and typed: “Things to do in Geneva.” If he was going to be professional babysitter to the most brilliant, infuriating alpha he’d ever met, he might as well enjoy some Swiss chocolate while doing it.

His phone buzzed again.

Ryland: Your lack of response suggests possible message delivery failure or deliberate ignoral. If the former, please disregard. If the latter, I apologise for any social protocol violations in my lunch invitation. No pressure to accept. The hummus will be consumed regardless.

Stephen stared at the message. His mouth did something traitorous and soft. God help him.

Stephen: Message received. 13:27 works. I’ve just been informed we’re both going to Geneva next week for the European Renewable Energy Conference. Apparently, I’m being sent as your diplomatic attache.

Ryland: Excellent news. Your presence will significantly improve the statistical probability of me not causing an international incident. Also, Geneva has superior chocolate. I’ve compiled a spreadsheet ranking 27 local establishments by cocoa content, ethical sourcing metrics, and taste optimisation factors. Will share over lunch.

Stephen laughed out loud, earning curious glances from nearby colleagues. Professional distance be damned. How was he supposed to maintain emotional boundaries with someone who created chocolate assessment spreadsheets?

Stephen: Looking forward to it. Both lunch and the spreadsheet. And Geneva.

He set his phone down and caught his own reflection in the computer screen. A grown man grinning at a text message about chocolate spreadsheets like it was a love sonnet handwritten on parchment. Christ. Next he’d be doodling “Stephen Ryland” in the margins of legal briefs and constructing elaborate fantasies about sharing a fondue dinner with Ryland.

There was no point denying it anymore. His feelings for Ryland had mutated from professional arrangement into something altogether more inconvenient. Like a harmless cold developing into full-blown pneumonia. The symptoms were mortifyingly obvious: the flutter in his stomach at precisely timed lunch invitations, the way he’d mentally catalogued Ryland’s micro-expressions, how he’d actually downloaded a bloody astronomy app last night because Ryland had once mentioned finding constellations “mathematically satisfying.”

Geneva was either going to be the making or breaking of whatever this was. Stephen wasn’t entirely sure which outcome terrified him more.