The Heir Apparent E-Book

Tere Michaels

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 277

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The heir apparent to a vast international company, Henry Walker has focused his entire life on pleasing his cold and distant father, a futile effort that's left him no time for life, love, or making his own decisions. He has just one friend—one dirty little secret—Archie Banks. Raised on the Walker estate alongside Henry, Archie is now Henry's driver, bodyguard… and occasional lover. Archie is loyal, but he's about to graduate from college and has plans for his life that don't include living every moment at the beck and call of Henry's father. Not even for Henry. With no warning, a shocking kidnapping leads to tragedy and chaos, thrusting Henry and Archie into a dramatic struggle that threatens them individually and as a couple. Can they find a way to heal the hurt of the past, save the company that is Henry's birthright, and find a future together?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

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Copyright

The Heir Apparent

By Tere Michaels

The heir apparent to a vast international company, Henry Walker has focused his entire life on pleasing his cold and distant father, a futile effort that’s left him no time for life, love, or making his own decisions. He has just one friend—one dirty little secret—Archie Banks. Raised on the Walker estate alongside Henry, Archie is now Henry’s driver, bodyguard… and occasional lover. Archie is loyal, but he’s about to graduate from college and has plans for his life that don’t include living every moment at the beck and call of Henry’s father. Not even for Henry.

With no warning, a shocking kidnapping leads to tragedy and chaos, thrusting Henry and Archie into a dramatic struggle that threatens them individually and as a couple. Can they find a way to heal the hurt of the past, save the company that is Henry’s birthright, and find a future together?

Chapter One

FROM THE penthouse of 15 Central Park West, Henry Walker watched the sun come up from an insomniac sprawl on the floor of his bedroom. He suspected there was a Henry-shaped body indent in the plush white carpet, from all the nights he’d spent watching the New York City skyline blink over the tops of the Central Park trees. Without looking Henry knew his alarm would begin its shrill insistence in less than two minutes and his day as Norman Walker’s heir would begin.

The sheets were wrapped around him, pulled off the bed when he gave up staring at the ceiling at around three. Henry timed the twist and turn, arching one long arm to slap the alarm just before it clicked to six.

Practice makes perfect.

Henry unraveled himself from the covers, rolling until he was lying in an undignified, naked, starfished heap in the middle of his bedroom floor. Not exactly the next cover of New York Business Weekly, but pushing back into the rug, letting himself sink a bit deeper….

… imagining sinking all the way down into the floor and hiding….

His backup alarm—all the way in the kitchen, so he had to get up—began chirping, chasing away the weirdness of his thoughts.

And so began his Tuesday, like every Tuesday before it. The cogs in the wheel of his life were turning and he had a schedule to keep.

Shower time. If he skipped conditioner, he might just have time to jerk off.

TUESDAY MEANT his father was in the office. Tuesday meant the navy Hugo Boss with a vest and boring dove gray tie, wingtips and a pocket square that “wasn’t too flashy.” He ate four waffles—multigrain, no syrup, God his life was so depressing—as he stood over the sink, ignoring his beeping phone. Norman didn’t text, his assistant Kit would be on the subway and the particular chime didn’t signal anyone he really wanted to talk to. Jackson DeForrest III was far too much to handle before caffeine.

And that was also sad, because his act of defiance involved hiding from his own damn phone.

IN THE elevator he checked his watch (7:01) and then his office Blackberry, his iPhone cooling in his pocket, still on ignore “Jackson the insufferable bore” mode. Even with the glut of traffic plaguing Manhattan at this time of the morning, they should be able to make it across town to the office on time.

The doors opened as the elevator car reached the lobby; Henry locked his spine, lifted his chin and became Norman Henry Walker III as he stepped onto the black marble floor.

“Mr. Walker,” the doorman said, tipping his ornately decorated red hat in Henry’s direction.

“Good morning Carlos,” Henry murmured, adjusting the strap of his leather computer bag over his shoulder.

“Car’s outside sir.” Carlos opened the heavy glass doors of 15 CPW onto the sidewalk.

“Marvelous.”

Henry pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and snapped them on, affecting his bored rich executive look as he stepped into the May sunlight.

“Weather looks good today, sir.” Carlos’s deference gave way to Roman’s baritone as he walked alongside Henry to the end of the magically pristine carpet that led from the front door to the sidewalk.

“Glad to hear that, Roman.”

An obnoxious black Hummer, washed and waxed to showroom perfection, sat at the curb as his driver walked around to open the door. The monster resembled a tank, tricked out to pretend to be appropriate for city living.

“Sir,” Archie said dryly, his Ray-Bans and heavy black-suit-capped broad shoulders giving him an air of danger as he pulled on the handle.

“Archie,” Henry said, politely formal. “Good day, Roman.”

“Sir.”

Archie slammed the door behind him and Henry took a second in the darkness, hidden behind bullet proof glass and tinted windows, to blow out a breath. A performance so artificial he expected to stumble over a director and cameras one day.

Archie got in the front seat and flicked on the overhead light in the back seat.

“Ready, sir?” he asked in his monotone chauffeur “Lurch” voice, and Henry shot him the finger.

“Shut up.”

Laughing, Archie checked the mirrors and pulled into traffic, heading for the offices of WalkCom International.

His morning drink waited in the holder, a giant-cupped fragrant fruity blend from the deli near Archie’s apartment in the Village that Henry had taken a shine to. A warm feeling flared in his chest as Henry sipped his tea, reading the morning business dispatches as they slipped through the city.

WalkCom is reportedly aiming to post record earnings this year, despite the financial climate. The manufacturing conglomerate with energy and steel interests around the world weathered the recession in ways that can only be described as miraculous.

WalkCom CEO Norman Walker recently returned from an extended honeymoon in the Maldives with fourth wife Liberty Frank Walker. Walker is still reportedly recovering from his second heart attack last November and said to be contemplating retirement.

“When did New York Business Weekly become The Enquirer?” Henry asked, tossing the small glossy paper to the floor in disgust. The preoccupation of the press with his father’s health brought all sorts of uncomfortable feelings to Henry’s chest. He dusted imaginary lint off his trousers, crossing and recrossing his legs.

“Another story about the old man’s ticker?” Henry could feel Archie watching him in the rearview mirror but he didn’t look up.

“Yes. And more mention of that and Libby than our numbers,” he grumbled. “The society pages covered the wedding—we don’t need a recap every time they do a story.”

“They can’t figure out why you’re still in business while everyone else is scrambling.” Archie effortlessly changed lanes, honking at a drifting cab as he turned and blew through a yellow light.

Henry blew out a breath, his slightly-too-long bangs ruffling above his eyes. “The reason is my father and they should show some respect.”

“Drink your tea and relax. His majesty is in the office today and I’m sure you’re wearing the wrong tie.”

Archie laughed at his own joke; he laughed harder when Henry kicked his seat. Like he could feel it. Like Henry could kick hard enough to rattle the brick house that was his driver.

“You should show some respect too,” he said halfheartedly.

Archie flipped him the bird for the second time.

All too soon, they pulled to the front of the pre-war Upper East Side building that housed his father’s company and the only faintly relaxing part of Henry’s day was over.

“Have a good day, sir,” Archie murmured as Henry slid out of the back seat. “Be a good boy.”

Henry twitched to sock him in the stomach but he refrained. Roughhousing in front of the guards would be—awkward.

THE GUARDS threw him routine smiles as he walked to the private elevator bank that would take him to the penthouse floor.

“Morning,” he called politely, eyes quickly drifting back to the gossip rag clutched in his hand. Of course he could have just left it on the floor, let Archie toss it out, but he felt guilty any time his—friend/lover/Archie—had to clean up after him.

The crap about retirement continued to sit ill with him as he waited for the elevator to arrive. His father had only just turned sixty-two. He avoided thinking too much about the second heart attack and the implications of it—because ignoring the odds was what Norman did and Henry couldn’t imagine a world his father didn’t storm and bluster his way through to a successful outcome.

The elevator door slid open and the attendant—a very nice, very elderly man named Neil—nodded as he stepped inside the small cage.

“Mr. Walker,” he wheezed, closing the doors and hitting the button.

“Neil,” Henry said loudly, tucking the newspaper into his leather satchel. He pulled his phone from his suit pocket, checking for messages that might have piled up in the three minutes from car to office.

Can we get together tonight?

Henry scowled at the phone. It was entirely within his power to text back and let Jackson know he had no interest in seeing him. As a matter of fact, Henry would like Jackson to lose his number and forget he existed.

Of course, he didn’t do that.

Impulsively, Henry hit Send and heard the connection, ringing, the pickup. A booming voice speaking over the roar of New York City traffic and Pantera blaring from the speakers.

“You realize you were just in the car. Miss me already?”

“Hardly.” Which was a lie.

Neil turned around and gave him a rheumy grin.

“What’s wrong?”

“David is trying to fix me up with someone…,” he started, only to be cut off by Archie’s snorting laughter.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, ignoring another text coming through as well as the rumble of his Blackberry.

“I’m trying to imagine who David Silver, King of the Fuddyduddies, would fix you up with,” Archie said. “Tax attorney? Owner of a professional lacrosse team? The human equivalent of the color beige?”

Henry tried not to snicker. “He does public relations for the Lambert Polo Club.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I have to go out with him at least once, don’t I? We talked on the phone and he’s very… enthusiastic.” Henry wanted to erase Jackson’s fawning from his brain—along with a solid ten days of texts. “I don’t want to be rude.”

Henry heard Archie cursing another driver out, then an aggressive series of honks.

“But—maybe you could do it for me.”

The horn died away. “Invite him to dinner. I’ll drive you. He’ll be pissing himself in fear before we get to the restaurant.” Archie’s voice oozed smooth and sexy through the line. It reminded Henry entirely too much of when they were teenagers and his cohort-in-crime would convince him to do something against the rules. He made it all sound so delightful and so worth the consequences.

“Are you going to lay your gun on the front seat?” It sounded dirty or, at least, Henry wanted it to.

“And flex. So much flexing. That all might backfire, though. Once Beige McPolo gets a look at my… packages… you might have to beat him off. Me.”

“You’re an idiot. Remind me to fire you later.”

The mocking laughter ended when Henry shut off his phone but he felt himself relax a hitch as the elevator dinged.

HENRY WALKED into the executive suite of WalkCom on the top floor of the building, slipping back into his serious demeanor. No chrome or glass or modern art for Norman Walker’s company—no, the entire decorating scheme was hunter green and warm wood tones, gold framed scenes of picturesque English country sides and heavy oak furniture.

It looked like a barrister’s office, circa 1950, as imagined by Hollywood.

Quiet-voiced staff buzzed around, dodging in and out of the small kitchenette with heavy cream-colored mugs of hot caffeine. There were plenty of nods and smiles for Henry; he knew how to make friends and influence people, part natural charm and part hard-core Heir to the Fortune training since birth. Not to mention they all knew one day he would be the boss.

“Morning, Maria,” Henry said as he passed his father’s longtime secretary. She was standing at the corner of her desk, poised to announce his approach like she was lying in wait. Her timeless navy suit and sensible shoes spoke of the time warp that was his father’s company. He imagined her looking very much the same thirty-odd years ago when she started here.

“Henry.” She said his name as a teacher might to a wayward but charming child. The same tone she’d been using since he was five years old.

“Is he in?” He paused, eyes flickering to the heavy double door that protected his father from the outside world.

Maria’s gaze went to the enormous phone console on her desk.

“Yes, but he’s on the phone,” she said sweetly. “Can I get you some tea while you wait?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be in my office—please let me know when he’s free.”

Maria smiled fondly. “Yes, Henry, of course. I’ll call you as soon as he’s able to speak to you.”

He was officially dismissed; at some point he imagined he should remind Maria he wasn’t a boy in a private school uniform, eating cookies and drinking milky tea at her desk while his father finished up “one more call.”

Or maybe not. That probably wouldn’t happen until his father stopped treating him the same way.

With one last nod to Maria, Henry turned and walked down the small hallway next to his father’s reception area. It was a corner office but it was also the smallest one on the floor, at the dead end of a hallway that housed server storage and a supply closet. The “future CEO” didn’t necessarily rate something larger in his father’s mind.

His father—during the long lectures on humility and paying your dues—advised him that even an heir had to earn his perks.

“Hey, Kit,” Henry called as he came around the corner. The artificially apple red pixie cut popped up from beneath the awkwardly jammed desk in front of his office door—followed by the rest of his assistant.

“Morning, Henry.” Kit Kelly had a piece of bagel in her mouth but managed not to choke as she greeted him.

“Any messages?”

“I went through your voicemail, so about fifty, they’re on your desk. You have a ten with David, an eleven with Xavier Pense.” They both made identical frowning faces at the prospect of a meeting with the senior board member or “senior blowhard” as Kit referred to him. “A twelve with the lawyers, then lunch with your father and a tactical meeting about the Medlow deal.”

“Do I get to actually eat real food today?” Henry walked into his office, Kit trailing behind in her ever-present “black dress and cardigan” uniform. She hopped on one foot, wiggling into her skyscraper heels and gave only a snort as a response. His father was on a medically recommended bland diet, which meant boiled chicken and steamed carrots in the executive dining room.

“No, sorry. I’ll make sure I meet you between the eleven and the twelve with a snack.”

“Thanks.”

Kit hit the lights—no fluorescents at WalkCom—and Henry dropped his satchel on the tiny leather visitor’s chair that catty-cornered his enormous desk. The monstrosity was an antique, the workspace of a duke or an earl or something like that, a piece his father bought him for his twenty-first birthday and entrance into “the family business.”

It was also impractical, the size of a Volkswagen, and Henry was saddled with it until the day he died. It was like a giant stale-smelling metaphor.

And seriously—there were eight hundred drawers. He kept losing his pens.

“Okay, let’s start the day,” Henry sighed as Kit ran back to her desk for a notebook and pencil.

The antique clock on his desk said eight ten. He was already behind.

“HERE.” KIT shoved the napkin-wrapped hot dog at him as he half walked, half jogged down the hallway.

“Really?”

“Mmmmm, taste of New York! Most likely meat from an animal!” Kit handed him a napkin and bottle of water as she put his folders under one arm.

“No, really.”

“The dining room had nothing portable and oh right, this wouldn’t happen if someone would approve vending machines on this floor,” Kit muttered. Her two o’clock sugar craving was a popular topic of conversation. “Your father wants you in his office ten minutes ago so your meeting with the lawyers is pushed to twelve-twenty.” She veered off as the hallway split and Henry tried to eat the street vendor special without getting mustard on his six-hundred-dollar suit.

Maria was sitting down, typing away on her dinosaur-era computer. She had only recently—reluctantly—gotten rid of her typewriter.

“Henry,” she said, a slight reproach in her voice as he chewed his food as quickly as he could.

He swallowed the last bite of hot dog and sucked down the water.

“Mint?” he coughed and Maria opened her top drawer. She handed him a wrapped sweet, reluctantly handing it over like she was keeping track of his sugar consumption.

“Thanks.” Henry wiped his mouth, tidied his suit and checked his hair in the reflection of Maria’s polished desktop.

“Go, go,” she said.

Henry steeled his back and knocked at his father’s door.

“Come in!”

Norman Walker was sixty-two and, Henry firmly believed, carved from the steel he sold. Anyone who looked at his father artfully colored in varying shades of gray, behind his behemoth desk, framed by sunlight and an air of determination would never for a second believe the retirement rumors. His father would give up this office the day he gave his last breath, a hundred years from now.

Henry snapped his spine perfectly straight, smiled blandly, and stepped into the lion’s den.

“Henry,” his father intoned, not looking up from the opened folder on his desk.

He sat down quickly, in the purposely uncomfortable chair angled in front of his father’s desk.

“Father.”

The pleasantries ended there; they were at work and when at work, one did not introduce the sentimentality of familial relationships, which made very little sense to Henry—even when they were alone, his father eschewed all outward appearances of warmth or affection. He might have remembered a hug when he graduated from Harvard.

The meeting’s agenda was typed out—by Maria—and his father passed him a copy, finally looking up.

“Are you ready?” he asked and, wildly, Henry felt like that question weighed more than usual. He blinked then shook his head slightly.

“Yes, of course. We can start with the Malaysian deal.”

Norman grunted in response.

And their day—like every day since Henry joined the company five years ago—began.

AN HOUR passed, then two. Henry lost his voice briefly, and knew a few points were deducted from his presentation of a potential project’s analysis by getting up to fetch a glass of water from the cut crystal decanter on the bar cart.

His phone was back in his office but he knew Kit had rescheduled his afternoon yet again, curtly informing his other meetings that Henry was with Norman, which was like a get out of meetings free card. No one questioned it.

Henry grew hot and sweaty under his suit coat. In another world, people working this hard in a sunlit room with no air-conditioning or an open window would have stripped down to their shirts, rolled up sleeves, and discarded ties. In another world, there would be a bathroom break, more ice in the bucket, maybe caffeine.

That was not this world and Henry hadn’t even unbuttoned his jacket.

Then relief—a knock at the door followed by it opening without even waiting for Norman to call out.

Only one person had balls that big.

Henry’s godfather and Norman’s right-hand man, David Silver, sauntered into the room, the sterling-haired picture of jocularity.

“Good God, Norman, it’s a hundred degrees in here.” He opened the door, leaning through to call to Maria. “Maria! Please turn on the air-conditioning.” Like his initial entrance, he didn’t bother to wait for a response.

Norman made a face of displeasure but David ignored him, plopping down in the second uncomfortable chair.

“Are we ready for the meeting tomorrow?”

No one at WalkCom did pleasantries.

Norman and David launched into a discussion about their meeting with potential new investors scheduled for the next day, leaving Henry to fetch David’s customary three fingers of Macallan. Sometimes his job felt more like an internship.

Thirty minutes later a lull dropped into the conversation; Norman shuffled his endless pile of folders on his desk, to make sure they’d covered everything he wanted, even after scanning the agenda. This left David and Henry sitting side-by-side, and then David’s grin turned devilish.

“So—did you phone Jackson?” David asked, innocent as a babe as he turned his body toward Henry.

A quick glance at his father registered little; no change to his expression as he glanced over his desk one more time, his compulsive need evident as he made sure nothing had been missed.

“We talked several times. I’m going to arrange a dinner—” Henry started.

“Not tonight. You’re coming up to have dinner with Libby and I at the house.”

Norman’s stern voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Oh. Of course.” Henry struggled to sound enthusiastic—though there was a certain sense of relief to have another excuse to avoid Jackson. “That sounds lovely.”

“Well, don’t keep him waiting for too long. He’s a fine young man from a good family.” David’s ease of discussing Henry’s being gay, in the open, in front of Norman, made his throat constrict as if he’d just eaten a plate of shrimp. An allergic reaction—cold sweats, airway tight, burning cheeks—to having his sexuality paraded in front of Norman. They didn’t talk about this, ever.

David didn’t care. David didn’t have anything to lose; his money helped WalkCom exist. David’s father and Henry’s maternal grandfather had been close friends since childhood, and when Norman took over, it was imperative the two younger men joined forces. David to prove he was more than a legacy and Norman—well. Norman didn’t come with any sort of pedigree, just brains and an intense desire to succeed. They couldn’t do this without each other.

“I’ll make sure it happens in the next few days,” Henry murmured, feeling a trickle of sweat forming under his hair.

“Get a haircut first. Norman, how are you allowing this?” David teased, slamming his hand on the desk as he stood. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. I am off for the day.”

“We’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight thirty sharp,” Norman said, the first words after what felt like an excruciatingly long silence. “Don’t be late.”

David waved, then clapped Henry on the back on his way out the door.

The quiet he left behind was brutal.

“You have more meetings,” Norman said—not a question, he knew Henry’s schedule before Henry did.

“Yes.” Henry shifted in his seat. “Are we driving up together?”

Norman started shaking his head before Henry’s question was entirely of his mouth.

“Be there by six. Libby is arranging dinner to be served at 6:20.”

“Yes, sir.” He waited to be dismissed—one one thousand, two one thousand, three—then got the curt nodded that signaled he could go.

Henry got all the way to the door, hand on the gold knob, before Norman spoke again.

“Make sure you schedule dinner with that… person. It would be rude to ignore David’s introduction.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, pushing his way out into the fresh air of freedom—such as it were—of the world outside his father’s office.

Sixteen words. The closest thing to acknowledging Henry being gay he had heard from his father in over ten years.

On legs made of rubber, Henry walked back to his office in a daze.

ARCHIE BANKS pulled the SUV through the evening traffic—that unique blend of madness on the Upper East Side that included tourists, residents, and businesspeople clogging the sidewalks and filling up the restaurants that lined the affluent neighborhoods. Winter had given way to a rainy April and now an unseasonably hot May, and no one was eager to be inside. Archie parked illegally in front of the WalkCom building, tossing a wave through the window at the meter maid patrolling the area.

She gave him a flirty smile. And didn’t make him move.

Henry had texted earlier—the day was being cut short, but no explanation as to why. The console clock read 4:55; he never expected Henry to be early, so he cranked the Metallica and the air-conditioning, and loosened his tie. He anticipated a quick end-of-the-day trip—drop Henry off, go home to get ready for dinner with his mother, make dinner with his mother on time, then home before ten to finish his homework. Tomorrow morning his start time was early due to a business meeting in Westchester.

Which meant Mr. Walker would be gracing him with his presence. He had to remember to dust the back seat—and make sure there was Mozart, not Metallica playing when he opened the door.

Mr. Walker’s only son, Henry, was far less high maintenance. Also, Archie had never blown the senior Mr. Walker in the parking garage at the Met.

Good times, good times. Henry and champagne usually ended in a very good time. Archie had filched several high-quality examples of the bubbly from the estate wine cellar for that very purpose.

Archie dug out the book he was reading—Love in the Time of Cholera—for one of his three online classes, and flipped the worn paperback to chapter ten. Fiction wasn’t something he generally had time for, and his business degree didn’t stress the importance of magical realism, but sometimes there were limited options when it came to class selection. Then again, it didn’t matter—not anymore. For the first time in six years, there was no “next semester.” A few short weeks, one last push, and he was done.

Soon he’d have a job that didn’t require a gun permit and a uniform.

The job hunt began months ago, with Archie sending out applications and letters to the myriad of companies in New York City. There were a few interviews and even fewer second ones but to his great joy, Ferelli and Sons had called him back for a third meeting, day after tomorrow.

This was a chance to fly the coop, go somewhere no one expected him to open a door or beat the rush hour traffic on an airport run. Ferelli and Sons ran a small importing company, and they were looking to expand their operations into Asia. Most importantly, they didn’t do business with WalkCom so Archie felt like this was his chance to start a new life. He had been waiting so long for this opportunity. He could taste the welcome change.

Wonderful and terrifying all at once—WalkCom had been signing his paychecks since he was seventeen, and while it was hardly his life’s dream to caretake rich people, it was home in so many ways.

It was also where Henry was. All his excitement always felt tempered by the reality that wherever he went, Henry wouldn’t be there.

His phone buzzed a few minutes later. Henry’s signal that he was on his way down, and Archie now had a part to play.

He straightened his suit jacket—specially tailored to fit his broad shoulders and six-foot-five-inch frame—and readjusted his tie. He slid his black sunglasses into place to hide his amused gaze, and he exited the driver’s-side door with an exaggerated stretch of his muscular body.

Some bodyguards got by blending into the background for the element of surprise. Archie preferred to flash his brawn right up front.

He walked to the opposite side of the vehicle, leaning against the door with a dangerous air, a flexing of his muscles under the heavy weight of his suit. People skittering along the sidewalk generally didn’t notice him, but a few tourists flashed him alarmed expressions.

Archie Banks looked scary as shit.

Henry came flying out the front doors a second later, blond hair slightly too long and in his eyes as he hustled to the car like the hounds of hell were on his heels. Archie went into chauffeur mode, opening the back door with a sharp jerk as Henry got close.

His boss gave him a solid eye roll as he walked by.

“Ah-nuld.”

“Oh, that joke never gets old.” Archie sighed as he slammed the door, narrowly missing Henry’s wingtips.

“Congrats on the half day. Home?” Archie asked when he got into the front seat, locking the doors and lowering the epic beats of “Enter Sandman” before Henry died from having real music inflicted on his ears.

“Unfortunately not. Apparently I am required to attend dinner with Norman and Libby.” Henry sounded anything but enthused, and Archie checked the dash.

“Are we waiting for your father?” He felt a slight panic—this wasn’t his best tie, and he was sure the back seat could use a vacuuming.

“No. Norman is taking the other car, and we’re supposed to meet him up there,” Henry said. “Let’s stop and pick up some wine. Maybe flowers?”

“Not a problem.” Archie pulled away from the curb. “You need to change first?”

“Why? Do I look rumpled or something?” Henry’s eyebrows formed a snooty upside-down vee, which Archie found strangely attractive as he watched in the rearview mirror.

“Actually you do.” Archie had a split-second annoyance he couldn’t think of a better insult. Damn it. “His Majesty isn’t going to put on the air-conditioning until someone actually dissolves into a puddle of water so you might want to wear less clothing to the office for a while.”

Henry sighed dramatically scrubbing his face. “Fine, drop me off at my apartment, and if you could grab the wine and flowers, and pick me up when you’re done that would help. It shouldn’t make us too late.”

Archie nodded, cutting through the swarms of cabs and commuters to get into the left lane.

“Are you staying over at the house, or am I waiting?” Archie made a quick right as soon as the light turned green, heading toward West End Avenue, where Henry’s apartment building was.

“Staying over I assume.” Henry flashed him a frown in the mirror. “Is that going to cause you any problems?”

Archie didn’t say anything. It would wreak a bit of havoc with his schedule, in addition to breaking yet another dinner date with his mother and delay his interview prep until tomorrow since he didn’t have time to run home and grab his laptop. Again. “My hours are what you decide they are,” he said finally.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I’ll eat dinner with Magnus, then finish my book.” He shrugged, settling quickly into a more formal tone.

“That isn’t an answer,” Henry muttered, looking out the window with the frown still in place.

Archie rolled his eyes; he had never been good at ignoring Henry when he was sulking theatrically. Not when they were children together, and not now.

“It’s fine—you owe me,” Archie teased, his voice gentle.

A small smile crawled across Henry’s mouth as their gazes met in the rearview mirror.

“Whatever you want,” Henry murmured. He licked his lips slowly.

Archie managed to keep the Hummer off the sidewalk.

“Deal. Now stop frowning. You only have a few good years of wrinkle-free skin left,” Archie said with a smirk.

“Duly noted.” But Henry was definitely pleased as he swiped his phone open and began scrolling.

ARCHIE SWUNG around and idled at the entrance of the building. There were three bottles of Chateau Malescot St. Exupery in the portable cooler on the floor of the front seat and two-dozen purple hydrangeas wrapped in green paper laid neatly next to him. He lowered the volume on the Pantera flooding the Hummer with sound.

He checked the dashboard clock and picked up his phone. His mother would be back from physical therapy by now, and he needed to break the news that he wouldn’t be home for dinner.

Again.

“’Lo?”

“Mum, it’s Archie.”

Evelyn Banks went from those strong, reserved British tones to a delighted coo in ten seconds flat. Long years of answering another family’s phones as an employee gave her quite the artificial affectation—until she knew it was her pride and joy calling. And since Mr. Walker had hired a fellow Brit for a reason, she made sure to never lose a speck of her accent.

“Archie, darling. I just got home, but I have beef and potatoes in the cooker for you.”

He could hear her shuffling about the small kitchen of her Brooklyn apartment, the tap of her cane and the drag of her leg against the floor. All the arguing in the world couldn’t convince her to come live with him in the city after her stroke; she liked her freedom, and she also liked pretending Archie needed his privacy for relationships.

If she only knew.

Archie closed his eyes, tried to school his voice into something other than resigned.

“That sounds delicious,” he said gently. “But I’m afraid I have to work tonight, Mum. Can I come and have a late lunch with you tomorrow instead?”

He caught the sigh under her breath.