Fur and Honor (Steel Bonds)

Chapter 5

Hal had no time to dwell on what made Miles shut down and all but flee his apartment. Rescheduling that day’s meetings threw his already packed schedule into upheaval. The year-end rush to finalize deals was on, and it felt like every firm in the city needed some facet or other of Delacour Shipping. His shareholders would thank Hal. His sleep schedule did not.

He barely had time for a productive sit-down with Mrs. Grant, much less to try for another private moment with Miles. At least his new assistant did start using the car service for business-related errands, even if he continued to take the train back and forth across the city every morning and evening, no matter how late Hal’s schedule kept them all in the office. Or in another building’s conference room. Or in yet another restaurant’s private dining room. Once Mrs. Grant discovered Miles was perfectly capable of notetaking, she insisted he accompany Hal when work took him past traditional business hours. Hal relished the opportunities to send his assistant home with some of the finest meals in the city, especially when Miles claimed he was too busy during Hal’s meetings to eat. Miles’s job might entail making Hal’s life easier, but Hal never wanted that to come at the expense of Miles’s health and well-being.

He simply found that having Miles closer to hand enabled Hal to use his assistant more effectively and productively, which lightened his working burden. A burden he refused to admit he’d taken on himself. In years past, his capable staff had performed these tasks when, like the majority of New Angouleme’s noble class, he’d gone home for the holiday season.

He wasn’t “that boss.” He wasn’t trying to take advantage of an employee. Not trying to do something silly like woo him, no matter how much his wolf rumbled in contentment whenever Miles sat or stood close enough for his spicy scent to reach Hal. He knew better than to bend the limits of professionalism a second time and risk another incident of Miles disappearing into the city.

An over-exaggeration. Miles rode the subway back to the office.

Hal definitely knew better than to do something as ridiculous as purchase a coffee mug with the Ramblers logo and leave it on Miles’s desk. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a souvenir shop that catered to that sort of crowd. The irony that this was the sort of task he now had an assistant for was not lost on him.

Tonight, at least, Hal had the comfort of his own conference room for a meeting that simply could not have been scheduled for a more reasonable time. He’d asked Miles to arrange dinner for the group, and the only thing he looked forward to—besides Miles sitting to the side, notebook in hand—was one of his favorite meals from the short list of restaurants approved for such catering jobs.

He also appreciated the shorter travel distance. Miles wasn’t at his desk when Hal stepped out of his office, probably busy prepping the conference room. He’d barely seen Miles all day, with his assistant running all over town dropping off holiday bonus checks to various charities supported by the company or directly by the Delacour family.

“A word, Cousin.”

Hal bit back a growl at the man who popped around the corner. “I’m a little busy, Bradford.”

“You’ll want to hear this.”

Bradford snagged Hal’s elbow as he passed, but Hal shrugged him off. “I’m sure it can wait until morning.”

“It’s about Miles Cavanaugh.”

He whirled around in the middle of the hall, muscling Bradford into his office and shutting the door. “What about Miles?”

A hint of smirk ruined Bradford’s attempt at sympathy. “You need to let him go.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Hal really didn’t have time for whatever bullshit Bradford was trying to feed him. “You were part of the group urging me to get an assistant. Now that I have one, you want me to get rid of him?”

“You have to think of the image you’re presenting.” Bradford scurried behind his desk, as if that would protect him if Hal decided to wring his neck.

“Miles has been nothing but professional. You know Mrs. Grant wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I never said Miles was the problem.”

Hal planted his hands on Bradford’s desk and leaned closer. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had lunch at the club today. Two tables over, Lord Alvey—the one who’s CFO of Atlantika Procurement, not his idiot elder brother—took great delight in imitating how much you drooled over the hot piece of ass you’ve been flaunting all over the city lately.”

“I don’t have time for your homophobic bullshit.” Hal turned, past ready to be on his way and put this ridiculous conversation behind him.

“It wasn’t about Miles being a man.” Bradford emerged from behind his desk, taking his life into his own hands by reaching for Hal again. “They were mocking you for acting so proprietary over some human.”

“What, they have a problem with me not being an asshole to my employees?”

“Entering every room first. Ensuring you sit between him and every other wolf in the room. Sending him home with food.” Bradford lowered his voice, as if someone in the hall might overheard his scandalous words. “Hal, you’re treating him like pack.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Except, even as Hal refuted Bradford’s words, his mind sped over the events of the past week and strung together multiple examples of his cousin’s claims. His ability to deconstruct action into motivation only worked on himself when someone else shoved his face in it, apparently. Even then: “I’m not firing Miles.”

“Then don’t fire him.” Bradford threw up his hands. “Move him into the mail room. Transfer him to the Trimountaine office. Or farther away to the Lenapenn office. Move him into your penthouse and make him your sugar baby, for all I care. But the way you’re acting around him now, if it continues much longer, will hurt your professional reputation. Which hurts Delacour Shipping’s reputation.”

Hal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His steady exhale proved Bradford wrong. Lord Marcus and Lady Elspeth Delacour, Earl and Countess of Calaitum, had raised their children to embody professionalism. A few poor decisions in his youth aside, he’d never done a damned thing to hurt the family’s reputation. “I’m sure Lord Alvey was taking liberties with the details, since Atlantika Procurement was not successful at getting me to cut our costs during contract renewal. Especially after he had the audacity to suggest we switch to non-union workers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a dinner meeting with the new owners of Waterside Logistics.”

“And Miles will be there, I assume?” Bradford raised his eyebrows as he opened his office door for Hal. “I’m sure you won’t mind me sitting in.”

Hal brushed past Bradford, who could join or not for all he cared. Back in the hall, he followed the low chatter of voices toward the north conference room, which had the better nighttime view of the island that made up the city of New Angouleme. The tantalizing aroma of meats and spices urged him forward, reminding him he’d skipped lunch for more contract review even after forcing Miles and Mrs. Grant down to the employee café.

That was called being a good manager, not further evidence of the bullshit gossip Bradford tried to ruin his evening for.

He expected the food offerings to already be picked through, though he trusted Miles to save him a plate. When he paused in the conference room doorway, he found the Delacour Shipping staff mingling with the owners of Waterside Logistics on the far side of the room from their presumptive dinner, completely untouched. Usually, the restaurant provided printed cards identifying each option with any dietary warnings. Had whichever restaurant Miles selected forgotten them? Though Hal had also never seen such an eclectic and mismatched collection of platters from any of the usual places.

Behind him, Bradford peered over Hal’s shoulder and sucked air between his teeth. “What the hell is this?”

Miles glanced their way from his position next to the table, posted up as if guarding its contents. “Lord Delacour,” he said, dipping his chin in an abbreviated bow. “Your guests preferred to wait for your arrival before eating.”

“Lord Delacour’s new pet expects us to eat that mess?”

“He really has lost his mind over that dock rat.”

Hal’s werewolf hearing picked up the snide exchange from across the room, but years of experience prevented any external reaction. “A word, Miles, if you please.” Bradford slipped out of the way as Hal spun on his heel and marched back into the hall.

He walked far enough away that they could no longer be seen through the conference room’s glass walls, leaving only Bradford any chance of overhearing the conversation. When he drew to a halt, Miles stopped an appropriate distance away—by human standards. Earlier in the day, Hal might have closed the gap between them. Now, with Bradford’s warning fresh in his ears, Hal kept his heels planted firmly to the carpet.

Which gave him a perfect view of the stunning suit Miles now wore. “You visited Chaput’s shop.” He looked fucking fantastic in the clothes crafted by Hal’s personal tailor. Practically edible. The garments fit the man’s form so much better than the previous ad hoc collection of second-hand business casual clothing, which had drowned him in shapeless fabric. Before, Hal had appreciated Miles’s bulk. Now he could actually see the muscles that could probably manhandle him with ease, and fuck , maybe Hal’s interest was more blatant that he’d previously assumed.

Miles’s hands twitched, as if he resisted tugging at his jacket sleeves. “Mrs. Grant seemed to think that what I wore needed to better reflect your status. Suddenly, my position included a clothing allowance. I’m guessing this shares the same funding source as the personal account I now have with your car service.” His lips curled in a knowing smile.

Hal stepped closer. Fuck Bradford and his warning. No one was around to see, and now Hal caught the edge of Miles’s body heat and a whiff of delicious spice blended with fresh wool. “You look fantastic.”

“Thank you, sir.” Miles stood his ground, both hands braced on the ever-present cane. Even better, he didn’t argue over Hal’s thinly veiled generosity. Instead, a hint of pink touched his cheeks. “But I assume you didn’t call me out here to discuss my outfit.”

Right. Damn it. Hal had a reason for this private conversation, even if all he wanted was to continue devouring Miles with his eyes. “Which restaurant catered this dinner?”

“The meal isn’t from a restaurant. Sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Every estimate I received from Mrs. Grant’s list of usual restaurants was, frankly, outrageous. I thought seasonal upcharges might be the issue until I went through the account histories. For a group this size, it made much more sense to reach out to a new, ah, vendor.” Miles’s earnestness grew as his explanation picked up steam. “I can vouch for the quality of the product, even if the presentation isn’t quite what you’re used to—”

“Miles.” Hal appreciated both the due diligence and attempt at business lingo, but neither were the issue at hand. And he didn’t have time for subtlety. “Who cooked dinner?”

The pink at Miles’s cheeks bloomed into a full flush. “My mother. Sir.”

Whenever Miles tacked that bit of formality to the end of an answer he worried his boss might not like, he simultaneously squared his shoulders and dropped his gaze for a beat. Hal’s wolf twitched at the delicious dichotomy of brashness and subservience every damned time. So did his dick. He also didn’t have time for either of the horny bastards right now.

The explanation clarified the behavior Hal spotted in the conference room, though. “I have no doubt your mother is an amazing cook. But the snobs in there have turned their noses up at it.” Because they didn’t have werewolf noses. If Hal’s wolf hadn’t been so fixated on Miles, he’d already be whining for them to get back to the food. Too much longer out here, and they’d be lucky if Bradford left them any.

Miles nodded. “They did, sir.”

“Well, they’re idiots. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Hal cupped the back of Miles’s neck.

They both froze. Miles wasn’t one of the younger cousins, where such a touch between pack would go unremarked. Nothing more than a reinforcement of positive connection, maybe with a gentle squeeze offering reassurance of support rather than disappointment. He needed to drop his hand before—

Rather than breaking away, heat flashed in Miles’s eyes. For a beat, he swayed closer to Hal as if tugged by an invisible magnet. “Yes, sir?”

After swallowing around a dry tongue, Hal found his voice. “We’ll walk back in there. You’ll pass plates to me and Bradford, we’ll serve ourselves, and we’ll sit down and eat. The rest of them will have to follow suit or risk offending me. And they don’t want to offend me when they want favorable contract terms.”

“That’s all business is, huh?” Miles chuckled. “Playing polite society and trading favors.”

With effort, Hal dropped his hand and forced half a step more distance between them. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I’ve been paying attention.” Miles’s gaze swept down Hal’s body. “Sir.”

In his new togs, Miles looked the part of personal assistant to Lord Henry Delacour. Most people would have let the position go to their heads, either spending his money like water or becoming nothing more than the bland peons who trailed behind his peers. By contrast, Miles surprised Hal at every turn. He hoped that never changed.

Since backing Miles into the nearest wall and licking a line up his neck wasn’t an option, Hal returned to the conference room. He strode directly to the table of food and accepted a plate from Miles, as planned. Bradford needed no encouragement, and the other meeting attendees fell in line as he anticipated.

Flavors burst in Hal’s mouth at the first bite of a spiced beef dish, and he suppressed a moan of appreciation. Around the conference table, hesitant bites turned to enthusiastic eating. He shot Miles a quick wink before diving back into his food. Roasted vegetables, a hearty pasta side, and buttery rolls. No better choices for a cold winter evening.

When was the last time he’d had a truly home-cooked meal? At least two years. His sister Charlise used to test her latest creations on him and their aunt, but those casual family gatherings became a thing of the past when both women succumbed to the virulent illness that targeted werewolves.

He made a mental note to follow up on ensuring that Miles’s mother was added to the regular vendor list and approved for catering future small-group meals. Splitting his attention to business matters required a heroic effort as he guided the conversation to the meeting’s agenda.

A whisper from the back of his mind noted that Hal would be able to enjoy such home-cooked meals on a regular basis if he continued to grow closer to Miles.

Claimed him as pack, perhaps.

Shut up, wolf.