3. Michael
Chapter three
Michael
T he Bar at The Athenaeum was dimly lit, all dark wood and strategic lighting.
Michael slumped in his chair, watching the Danish investors disappear into the elevator.
Jakob had been enthusiastic about MapricX’s building footprint technology.
Maybe too enthusiastic, given how many drinks he’d bought.
Fourteen hours of presentations. Michael’s head buzzed with scotch and exhaustion.
Rhys Blackwood had bailed after lunch with some vague excuse about “other commitments,” leaving Michael to handle the evening entertainment alone.
Typical. His business partner was better at the schmoozing anyway.
Had that old-money charm that made investors feel special instead of just useful.
Growing up a Blackwood meant treating high-stakes dinners with the ease of family Sunday lunch.
Michael checked his watch. 9:47 PM.
Movement at the bar caught his attention. A man settling onto a leather barstool, movements fluid and deliberate. Michael found himself staring.
Tall and lean, blonde hair still perfectly styled despite the hour. Sharp blue eyes and the kind of bone structure that belonged in magazines.
Even dressed down, the man radiated money.
Designer jeans that fit perfectly, and a white V-neck.
But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was the ease.
The way he placed his phone on the bar as though it belonged there, lifted two fingers to the bartender without looking impatient.
Elegant movements that seemed automatic.
Michael watched longer than he should’ve, drink forgotten in his hand. The scotch helped. It always did. He stood, crossed the floor, and slid onto the barstool beside him.
“Mind if I join you?”
The man turned, eyes assessing. A practiced smile curved his mouth. Polished, polite, and just distant enough to suggest it had been used more than felt.
“Be my guest.”
The man’s face was familiar. A fundraiser, maybe. A champagne toast. Michael’s brain clicked through old memories as the bartender approached.
“Henri Rohan,” Michael said, the name tumbling out before he could stop it.
Henri blinked, studying him. His brows furrowed slightly, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. A pause, as if he were filing through his mental Rolodex.
“Michael Taylor,” he offered quickly. “We met at the LaMontagne Foundation fundraiser. You were with...” He stopped himself before he said the vampire. That dark-haired man who’d never left Henri’s side that night.
Recognition dawned. Henri’s smile returned, warmer this time.
Real. He looked the same, but the edges were different.
Henri had a reputation for charm, confidence, and control.
But the way he hesitated now, needing permission to be present, didn’t match the man Michael remembered from Porte du Coeur’s galas.
“Right. Michael. You made a whole table of donors cry with that AR flood projection demo.”
Michael chuckled. “You made the silent auction guy forget how to breathe.”
There was something different about Henri tonight. The same immaculate posture, the same charm, but underneath, a tension Michael hadn’t seen before. A raw edge beneath all that polish. Someone trying very hard not to come undone.
“Are you staying here?” Michael asked.
Henri shook his head. “The Dorchester.”
“What brings you to London?”
“An acquisition meeting. Company called EcoSphere.”
“What brings you to The Athenaeum then?” Michael glanced around, curious. It was a beautiful bar, but not exactly where Dorchester guests typically wandered.
A hint of amusement crossed Henri’s features.
“The front desk clerk, actually. When I asked about bars with good whiskey, he lowered his voice as though he was sharing state secrets. Said this place has one of the finest collections in the area.” He gestured at his glass.
“Nice walk through Hyde Park, too. Needed to clear my head.”
“Head-clearing walks are usually job-related,” Michael observed, shifting slightly closer. Henri didn’t pull away. “EcoSphere. That’s the sustainable energy startup, right? Heard they were in talks with someone. Though a trip to London seems excessive for an acquisition.”
Henri’s laugh held an edge. “A month-long inspection tour, actually. My brother’s idea. He's the CEO.”
“A whole month?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Well, that explains why you’re drinking alone in a hotel bar on a Saturday night.”
“And what’s your excuse?” Henri countered, but there was a playful glint in his eyes now.
“Just wrapped up a meeting with investors. Though I have to admit, the view improved significantly in the last few minutes.” Michael let his gaze drift obviously down Henri’s form before meeting those blue eyes again.
A slight flush crept up Henri’s neck, but his smile turned sharp. “Careful, Mr. Taylor. Flattery could get you in trouble.”
“Maybe I like trouble,” Michael replied, enjoying the way Henri’s pupils dilated slightly. “And please, call me Michael.”
Something in Henri’s posture shifted. A barely perceptible tension, a wild animal deciding whether to bolt. Yet there was interest there too, clear in the way Henri’s gaze kept dropping to Michael’s mouth.
“I heard about what happened with your brother and his boyfriend,” Michael said carefully. “The kidnapping situation. It made international headlines. Is Ellis doing alright?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Henri answered too quickly, his voice tight. “Gabriel’s fine. Ellis is recovering.” He lifted his glass, taking a long swallow. His foot started bouncing against the barstool’s footrest.
Michael watched the slight tremor in Henri’s hand as he set down his glass. Without overthinking it, he reached out and placed his hand on Henri’s thigh, heavy and deliberate. The bouncing stopped immediately.
Henri went very still, staring at Michael’s hand. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. His stillness wasn’t rejection. It was something else. Caution, maybe. But it wasn’t a ‘no’. That was enough.
When Henri finally looked up, his blue eyes were wide with something between shock and relief.
“You seem tense,” Michael said softly, letting his thumb trace a small circle against the expensive denim. “Maybe you need something other than whiskey to help you relax.”
Henri’s laugh came out practiced, charming. “Cardio? A good run always helps.” But something shifted when Michael’s hand squeezed his thigh. Henri’s eyes darted down, then back up, his smile not quite genuine.
“Running’s good,” Michael said, maintaining steady pressure. “Though I can think of more enjoyable ways to get your heart rate up.”
Henri shifted in his seat, and Michael noticed with satisfaction how his pants were becoming tight. Surprising, really. Henri Rohan had a reputation as PDC’s most accomplished flirt, yet he seemed thrown by such direct attention.
“I only just got here,” Henri protested, though he made no move to dislodge Michael’s hand.
He gestured at the wall of bottles. “I’ve been trying to decide what to try.
The clerk mentioned some rare Japanese imports, and there’s a Scottish single malt.
..” His voice trailed off, tension returning to his shoulders.
Michael smiled. “Let me help with that.” He caught the bartender’s attention. “Two Dalmore 15, neat.”
The relief that crossed Henri’s face was subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders dropped, and something in his expression softened. Michael filed that reaction away.
When the drinks arrived, Henri took a careful sip. Despite his practiced appreciation, Michael caught the slight tightening around his eyes. The whiskey hit harder than Henri wanted to admit.
“Would you like a water back?” Michael offered. “Or soda?”
Henri hesitated, something flickering across his face. “What would you recommend?”
The question carried an undercurrent that caught Michael’s attention. He squeezed Henri’s thigh gently. “Two soda backs, please,” he told the bartender.
Henri relaxed again, more deeply this time. A pattern was emerging.
The bartender returned with their sodas and a menu. “Kitchen’s open for another hour if you’d like something to eat.”
Henri accepted the menu, but Michael noticed how his eyes darted across the options, tension creeping back. Before Henri could start weighing choices, Michael stepped in.
“The charcuterie platter would pair nicely with the Dalmore.”
That subtle relaxation again, accompanied by a grateful glance.
As they waited for food, Michael steered their conversation toward EcoSphere. Henri began explaining La Sauvegarde’s interest in sustainable energy, but kept pausing, seeming uncertain whether to delve into technical details.
“Tell me about their production methods,” Michael prompted. “I’m particularly interested in efficiency ratings.”
Henri’s expression brightened at the clear direction. He launched into an impressively detailed explanation, becoming animated as he spoke. Clearly, he was now in his element, having been given explicit permission to be technical.
As their first drinks emptied, Henri’s hand drifted toward his glass several times before pulling back. Michael caught the bartender’s eye and gestured for another round.
“Thank you,” Henri said softly.
The bar’s temperature dropped suddenly, the AC kicking in hard.
Michael noticed Henri suppress a slight shiver.
In his light t-shirt and jeans, clearly travel wear rather than his usual tailored suits, Henri was underdressed for the aggressive air conditioning.
Without hesitation, Michael shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over Henri’s shoulders.
Henri melted into the warmth for a moment, eyes fluttering closed, before catching himself. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” He started to shrug it off, but Michael’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“These bars always get cold,” Michael said easily.
“I’m fine,” Henri insisted, clearly wrestling with accepting the gesture. “I don’t need—”
“Henri.” Michael’s voice was gentle but firm. “Are you cold?”
Henri opened his mouth, but Michael cut him off. “Tell me the truth.”
Henri let out a slow breath, shoulders dropping. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “It’s ridiculous. It must be eighty degrees outside, but in here...” He tugged the jacket closer.
“Then keep the jacket,” Michael said simply, squeezing Henri’s thigh. The way Henri relaxed under both the touch and the directive sent satisfaction through Michael.
The conversation shifted back to business, though there was nothing businesslike about how Henri had settled into Michael’s jacket, occasionally turning his head as if catching Michael’s scent on the collar.
Their charcuterie arrived, and Michael found himself fascinated by how Henri would pause, fork hovering, until Michael suggested combinations. Each time Henri followed his recommendations, quiet contentment washed over his features.
An hour passed easily. Their bar stools had migrated closer, Henri’s thigh pressed firmly against Michael’s.
The contact felt deliberate, especially given how Henri leaned into Michael’s space whenever he made interesting points about market projections.
Michael had maintained physical contact throughout, his hand a steady presence, occasionally squeezing for emphasis.
Making a decision, Michael reached up with his free hand, gripping Henri’s chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing those blue eyes to meet his. The sudden stillness that came over Henri confirmed every observation he’d made.
“Invite me back to the Dorchester,” Michael said firmly.
Henri’s mouth opened, then closed, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
“Invite me back to your suite, baby.”
Henri swallowed hard, then nodded within Michael’s grip. “Would you... would you like to come back to my suite?”
“I would.” Michael released his chin, signaled for the check. He stood, offering his hand to Henri. “Shall we?”