That Telling MomentChapter 15

Stephen had expected many things from his first international business trip with Dabney. Awkward networking. Overpriced coffee. Perhaps even a panic attack in an airport bathroom when he realised he’d forgotten his passport.

What he hadn’t expected was to be three champagnes deep before they’d even neared Swiss airspace.

“Another, sir?” The flight attendant materialised beside his business class seat, brandishing a bottle with a subtle flourish.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Stephen said, already extending his glass.

His willpower had abandoned him somewhere over the English Channel, right around the time Dabney’s Head of Marketing had insisted they toast to “international synergy and optimised cross-border opportunity,” which Stephen strongly suspected was corporate gibberish for “getting pissed on company time.”

He took a careful sip, trying to project champagne literacy. After three glasses, it all tasted like expensive bubbles.

From the seat beside him, Ryland observed with scientific interest. “Your alcohol consumption has increased by approximately 127% compared to your usual workday intake.”

“That’s because my usual workday intake is zero,” Stephen replied, sinking deeper into his seat. “Relegated to the vodka I sometimes wish I could add to my morning coffee.”

He’d boarded the plane expecting to be crammed into economy while the senior executives enjoyed the champagne and legroom of business class. Instead, he’d found himself assigned to seat 3F, directly across the aisle from Victoria Harlow, Head of Legal, one row behind Eames himself.

“There must be some mistake,” he’d told the flight attendant, clutching his boarding pass. “I’m just junior counsel.”

“No mistake, sir,” she’d replied with a professional smile that never quite reached her eyes. “You’re in 3F. Business class.”

He’d taken his seat expecting to be ejected at any moment, only to discover that Ryland was assigned to the window seat next to a man in an aggressively tailored suit.

“My first transatlantic flight was in 1964,” the man was saying as Stephen settled in. “Back when Pan Am was still the gold standard of aviation. Those were the days. None of this modern nonsense.”

Ryland had blinked at him. “Considering that the average passenger mortality rate in 1964 was approximately 0.5 deaths per 100,000 passenger-kilometres, compared to today’s 0.01, I find your nostalgia for significantly increased fatal accident probability statistically irrational.”

The man’s mouth had opened and closed like a particularly well-dressed goldfish.

“Furthermore,” Ryland had continued, warming to his theme, “the fuel efficiency of modern turbofan engines represents a 70% improvement over the early turbojet designs of the 1960s, reducing both environmental impact and operational costs. I’ve been conducting research on applying electromagnetic field modulation to further improve combustion efficiency in aviation fuel, which preliminary data suggests could yield an additional 14.7% reduction in carbon emissions if successfully implemented. The prototype design incorporates a novel approach to ionisation that…”

Fifteen minutes into a detailed explanation of ionic plasma fields and combustion thermodynamics, the man had flagged down a flight attendant.

“Is there any possibility of changing seats?” he’d asked, voice cracking on the last word.

The flight attendant had glanced at Stephen, who had been watching the exchange with poorly concealed amusement.

“Would you mind switching seats with this gentleman, sir? He’d prefer an aisle.”

And that was how Stephen found himself next to Ryland, who had briefly paused his lecture on advanced propulsion systems to meet Stephen’s eyes with a smile that could only be called smug.

The bastard had done it on purpose.

“You deliberately drove that poor man away with science,” Stephen had accused, buckling his seatbelt.

“I simply provided factually accurate information in response to his commentary on aviation history,” Ryland replied, but the slight curve of his lips betrayed him. “If he found that conversationally overwhelming, perhaps business class isn’t appropriate for him after all.”

“You’re a menace,” Stephen said, but he couldn’t help laughing. “A brilliant, calculating menace.”

“I calculated a 92.7% probability that he would request a seat change within twenty minutes,” Ryland admitted. “Though I’d estimated 18.4 minutes, not 15.2. His tolerance for technical detail was even lower than projected.”

And that was the moment when Stephen realised, with the clarity that sometimes arrives after guzzling copious amounts of champagne, that he was utterly, catastrophically in love with David Ryland.

Oh. Oh no.

Because who else would weaponise advanced aeronautical engineering to manipulate a seating arrangement? Who else would calculate the exact probability of human discomfort with that level of precision, then look quietly pleased with himself when the numbers proved right?

Only Ryland. Brilliant, maddening, unexpectedly funny Ryland.

Now, as Switzerland sprawled beneath them, Stephen found himself pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, watching Ryland highlight passages in a dense academic paper with the focus of a brain surgeon mid-procedure.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Stephen asked, leaning slightly to peer at the text. “More electromagnetic field modulation?”

“Psychological impact of scent-based bonding in designation-influenced interpersonal dynamics,” Ryland replied without looking up. “The neurochemical research is promising, though their methodology has some concerning variables they’ve failed to adequately control for.”

Stephen blinked. “Are you reading about omega scent bonding? For fun?”

“For research purposes,” Ryland corrected, still highlighting. “Understanding the biological basis of scent response could potentially inform modifications to my own pheromone regulation practices. In certain contexts.”

“Certain contexts,” Stephen repeated. Heat climbed his neck that had nothing to do with the champagne. “Such as?”

Ryland finally looked up. Those blue eyes, that close, unblinking. “Social situations where traditional alpha scent broadcasting might create discomfort for nearby omegas. Or situations where more targeted scent communication might be beneficial.”

“Targeted,” Stephen echoed, suddenly finding it difficult to remember how oxygen worked. “Right. Very practical.”

“Precisely,” Ryland agreed, returning to his highlighting with renewed focus.

Stephen took another sip of champagne, wondering if it was possible to die from sexual frustration mixed with emotional confusion. If so, he would be the first documented case. They could name the condition after him. Huxley Syndrome: terminal yearning complicated by champagne and proximity to oblivious genius alphas.

By the time they landed in Geneva, Stephen was pleasantly tipsy and aware of every millimetre of space between his body and Ryland’s. The precise economy with which the alpha retrieved his laptop bag from the overhead compartment. The clean, cedar-and-rain scent that drifted over when he shifted position. The elegant lines of his wrists as he tucked research papers into a leather portfolio.

It was going to be a very long conference.

## +++

The Hotel d’Angleterre sat on the shores of Lake Geneva, a gleaming white testament to old money and discretion. The staff could probably tell your net worth from your shoes, adjusting their level of deference accordingly.

Stephen felt distinctly underdressed as they were ushered into a marble-floored lobby sparkling with crystal chandeliers. Dabney had apparently spared no expense for their delegation: Eames himself, Victoria Harlow, two senior executives whose names Stephen couldn’t quite remember through his champagne haze, Ryland, and himself.

“Welcome to the Hotel d’Angleterre,” announced a concierge with the neutral accent of someone who spoke at least five languages flawlessly. “Please, enjoy a welcome drink while we prepare your check-in.”

A silver tray appeared bearing flutes of something sparkling. Stephen’s hand moved towards one before his brain could stage an intervention.

“I really shouldn’t,” he murmured, even as his fingers closed around the delicate stem. “But it would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?”

“Social etiquette does suggest acceptance of hospitality offerings is the expected protocol,” Ryland agreed, accepting his own glass but not drinking from it. “Though your blood alcohol concentration is likely approaching the threshold for mild impairment.”

“Thank you for that clinical assessment,” Stephen replied, taking a deliberate sip. “I’m not impaired. I’m culturally adaptable.”

“Is that the term for it?” Ryland’s lips twitched. “Fascinating. I’ve observed you become progressively more ‘culturally adaptable’ throughout our journey.”

“It’s the altitude,” Stephen said with dignity. “Affects the… thingy. Brain. Chemistry.”

“We’re 375 metres above sea level,” Ryland pointed out. “Cognitive effects from altitude typically begin at 2,400 metres. Your current state is more likely attributable to the approximately 0.12% blood alcohol concentration you’ve achieved through consistent champagne consumption.”

“You’re calculating my BAC now? Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Both responses would be reasonable,” Ryland replied, and those blue eyes were bright with it now, the amusement he’d never quite learned to hide.

The concierge returned with keycards on a silver tray, distributing them with practised efficiency. “Mr. Eames, the Presidential Suite. Ms. Harlow, the Executive Lake View. Mr. Harcourt and Mr. Thompson, the Deluxe Suites on the third floor.” He turned to Ryland and Stephen. “Dr. Ryland and Mr. Huxley, the Windsor Suite as requested.”

Stephen, who had been mid-sip, nearly aspirated his welcome drink. “I’m sorry, the what?”

“The Windsor Suite,” the concierge repeated, smiling blandly. “One of our finest accommodations, with a private terrace overlooking the lake. The dual master bedroom configuration should be most comfortable for you both.”

Stephen set his glass down with exaggerated care. “There must be some mistake. We should have separate rooms.”

The concierge consulted his tablet. “According to our reservation details, Dabney specifically requested a suite with adjoining bedrooms for Dr. Ryland and Mr. Huxley. The Windsor Suite offers private sleeping quarters connected by a shared living area and terrace. Most couples find the arrangement quite satisfactory.”

“We’re not a couple,” Stephen said, then immediately regretted it as Ryland’s posture stiffened beside him. “I mean, we’re colleagues. Professional colleagues. Who work together. Professionally.”

Brilliant, Huxley. Absolutely masterful use of language there. Your legal education was clearly worth every penny.

“I see,” the concierge replied, in a tone that suggested he saw rather more than Stephen was comfortable with. “Unfortunately, we are fully booked for the conference. The Windsor Suite is a premium accommodation. Any alternative would represent a significant downgrade.”

“That’s fine,” Stephen said, desperation thinning his voice. “I’m happy to downgrade. Thrilled, even. I love downgrades. Smaller rooms. Less space. Fantastically character-building.”

The concierge’s professional smile never wavered. “But sir, I’m afraid we have nothing else available at present. The conference has filled our capacity.”

“Nothing? Not even a broom cupboard? Storage closet? I’m not fussy, really.”

Victoria Harlow, who had been listening with poorly concealed impatience, stepped forward. “For God’s sake, Huxley, it’s a suite with separate bedrooms. Not a prison cell with a single bunk. Sort it out between yourselves and stop creating a scene in the lobby. Don’t be such a prude.”

Stephen flushed. The entire Dabney delegation was watching his minor meltdown with expressions ranging from amusement to irritation.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” He accepted the keycard with as much dignity as he could muster. “The Windsor Suite will be fine. Perfectly adequate. Sorry for the confusion.”

As the group dispersed towards the lifts, Stephen risked a glance at Ryland. The alpha’s face gave nothing away, but his jaw was set a fraction too tight.

Stephen’s stomach turned. He’d made it sound like sharing space with Ryland was punishment. When the problem was the opposite. Three nights on the other side of a door from the man whose scent made his omega biology roll over and beg. Three nights of pretending his increasingly detailed fantasies weren’t running on a loop. He didn’t trust himself to keep his hands where they belonged, and that was the truth of it.

The lift ride to their floor was excruciating. Stephen stared at the floor numbers as they climbed, shoulders almost touching Ryland’s in the confined space.

“I apologise if the accommodation arrangement is uncomfortable for you,” Ryland said quietly as they exited the lift. “I can speak to Eames about alternative arrangements if necessary.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Stephen replied, guilt landing squarely in his chest. “It’s not… I didn’t mean to suggest… It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

They reached the door to the Windsor Suite. Ryland swiped the keycard. The door swung open to reveal crystal chandeliers, gilt-edged mirrors, plush carpets thick enough to lose small pets in. Through the French doors, Lake Geneva glittered under the afternoon sun.

“Fuck me,” Stephen breathed.

“That would be inappropriate in a professional context,” Ryland replied, deadpan, and it took Stephen a full three seconds to realise the alpha was joking.

He laughed, some of the tension breaking loose. “Right. Yes. Very unprofessional. I was just expressing surprise at the accommodations.”

“They are statistically significant outliers in the hotel room quality distribution,” Ryland agreed, setting his bag down and moving to examine the terrace doors. “The suite is approximately 2.7 times larger than average luxury hotel accommodations.”

Stephen ventured further in. A lavish marble bathroom with a tub that could comfortably fit four people. Beyond it, two bedroom doors on opposite sides of the sitting area. Each contained a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton with what appeared to be actual silk pillowcases.

“Well, I suppose we’ll manage somehow,” he said, aiming for lightness. “Try not to snore too loudly, and we’ll get through this with our professional dignity intact.”

“I don’t snore,” Ryland replied. “Though I do occasionally talk in my sleep. Usually equations or experimental parameters. My brother recorded it once for research purposes.”

Ryland had a brother. A brother who recorded his sleep-talking. Stephen pressed his thumbnail into the pad of his index finger and held it there.

“I’ll try not to disturb you if you start reciting the periodic table at 3 AM,” he managed.

Ryland nodded seriously. “I appreciate that. Though it’s more likely to be non-linear differential equations than elemental classifications.”

“Of course. Silly me.” Stephen retreated towards the room he’d mentally claimed as his. “I should probably freshen up before dinner. The delegation is meeting in the restaurant at eight, right?”

“Correct. 8 PM in the Windows Restaurant,” Ryland confirmed. “I’ll take the bedroom on the right if that’s acceptable.”

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. The left is great. Lovely. Couldn’t ask for better.” Stephen was babbling now, backing towards his room. “See you at dinner!”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, heart hammering. Three nights in a suite with Ryland. Three nights of knowing the alpha was on the other side of this door, probably sleeping in ridiculous silk pyjamas or, God forbid, nothing at all.

“Get it together, Huxley,” he muttered, moving to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. “It’s just a hotel room. Just a conference. Just three days of pretending you’re not desperately in love with the man sharing your suite.”

The water did nothing to clear his head. He sat heavily on the bed, staring at the adjoining door until his mobile chimed with a message notification.