12. Chapter 12
Henrik
I t’s mid-afternoon when Mal steps tentatively into the penthouse. I don’t rush him, but it’s a near thing.
I’ve been tense ever since he called hours ago.
I hadn’t even realized he left until my phone rang and Mal’s soft voice came over the line, unfamiliar sounds in the background of the call.
My heart had beat like mad, and I chastised it.
I shouldn’t be so concerned over Mal’s whereabouts.
That certainly has never been an issue before.
And yet, with Mal, someone I’ve known for mere days, all I wanted to know as his soft breathing filled the other end of the line was why he left. Where he was. If he was okay.
It must be because of last night. The guilt remaining that something I did caused his panic attack. The lingering concern over his wellbeing. I’m simply worried, as any person would be.
Right?
“Henrik?” Mal asks softly, padding up to where I’m standing in the kitchen. He touches my arm lightly, as if to announce his presence, and I wrinkle my nose.
“Why do you smell like animals?”
“Oh.” His hand falls away. “I can go shower.”
“Wait,” I say, reaching out and snagging his shirt. Mal stops moving, and I take a step closer. “That wasn’t a criticism.”
“Oh, okay. I was at a cat shelter,” he says tentatively.
“A cat shelter,” I repeat, feeling around Mal’s torso.
I’d like to say I’m only checking him over, making sure he’s whole, but I’m not entirely sure I can convince even myself of that.
The truth is he’s warm and solid under my palm, and I like the reassurance that he’s here.
That, for the time being, he’s mine. That he’s not stepping away, and, if anything, is leaning forward into my touch.
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing audibly. “Um, I guess I like cats?”
I huff through my nose. “You sure about that?”
I can imagine him rolling his eyes. “Yes, I like cats,” he says in a more determined tone. “I usually volunteer once a week at an animal shelter downtown. Is that a problem?”
My eyebrows pop up in surprise. “No, not a problem,” I say, slipping my fingers down Mal’s nicely defined obliques. His breath hitches, and one of his hands lands on the outside of my shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to be a cat person.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, his fingers dimpling into my arm as I run my nails over his abs.
I can’t stop touching him. It’s preposterous.
He’s like this shiny new toy I don’t want to be apart from.
I want to keep him out of the box, in my hands.
I know I told him he’s not a doll, but I do want to play with him.
Over and over. I want to take Benji’s advice and bend him over the kitchen island.
I want him in my bed. In my arms. I want to be wrapped up in him while we fall aslee—
I take a step back.
What the hell?
As my fingers fall away, Mal makes a displeased little sound I do my best to ignore.
“No reason,” I answer, throat tight. “You probably want that shower.”
“Oh,” Mal says simply, feet shuffling a bit.
I internally curse as he turns away and takes a few steps.
“Mal.”
He stops. “Yeah?”
“Earlier. Did I do something to upset you? Is that why you left?” I can’t believe I’m even asking. I shouldn’t care this much.
Mal is quiet for a moment. “I saw my bank balance.”
I wait for more, but there is none. “And?”
“I wasn’t expecting it,” he says, yet I’m still not comprehending what he means.
Did he not receive his advance? I’ll have to call Benji and have him—
“I have never, ever , had money like that,” Mal says softly. “I know to you, it’s not much. But to me, it’s…”
He doesn’t finish his thought, and I take a step closer. “It’s what?”
“Terrifying.”
With that, he walks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen, fighting not to follow.
“Boss.”
“Hm?”
Benji nudges me subtly, and I realize Diane is wrapping up her summation of last month’s earnings. I sit a little taller in my seat, and Benjamin snickers quietly.
I force myself to pay closer attention until the meeting with the charitable board wraps up a few minutes later, and then I stay put as everyone else files out of the conference room.
The weight of my PA’s gaze burns a hole in the side of my head as we wait.
Once everyone has gone, I grab my cane, and Benji follows me down the hall to my office, slipping inside before shutting the heavy wooden door.
“What?” I grit out.
“Where was your head?” he asks lightly, trailing after me as I walk to my desk. I drop into my heavily upholstered seat and fold my cane, storing it inside the drawer on the top right. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nearly nod off during a meeting before.”
“I wasn’t nodding off,” I mutter brusquely.
“Oh? Pray tell, then, what were you doing?”
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Oh,” Benji says.
“Oh what?”
He makes a sound like a little chuckle hidden away behind closed lips. “I get it.”
“Get to the point, Benjamin. What do you get?”
He lets out a long sigh. “You have no flair for dramatics. You were thinking about him .”
I do my best to appear unaffected, even as my muscles lock tight. “Him who?”
“My God, boss. The jig is up. I know you better than that. You know I know you better than that. So spill. What’s the deal with the new boy?”
“He’s not a boy,” I grumble.
Benji lets out a surprised hum of sorts. “He’s in his twenties. You’re in your forties, and I’m…well, fabulously unageing. But to us, he’s a boy.”
“He’s twenty-seven, and he’s…”
“What?” Benji asks, placing his hand on my desk. The scent of his cologne, expensive and woodsy, with a hint of apricot, wafts close. “You barely know the kid. He’s the next in what we both know is a long line of distractions—”
Benji stops when I make a sound low in my throat, and even though I try to mask my slip, crossing my ankle at the knee and leaning back in my chair, I know I’ve been caught. Damn it .
“My God, Henrik. Do you actually care for this one?”
“No,” I snap. Of course not. “Like you said, I barely know him.”
Benji is quiet for a moment, and I power my computer on, hoping he’ll get the hint and head off. He doesn’t.
“Is the sex that good?” he finally asks.
“Benjamin,” I bark, turning his way.
My smartass PA chuckles, stepping back out of reach—a wise decision. “I’m zipping my lips.”
“I didn’t think you were capable of such a thing,” I mutter, slipping in the Bluetooth earbud that’s synced to my computer so I can get to work.
“Then you do know me well,” he says. He’s partway to the door when he stops, his loafers squeaking as he turns around. “And like I said, I know you, Henrik. And I’ve never seen you like this. I don’t know why this one is different, but I suggest you don’t fuck it up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask in irritation.
“It means,” he says, papers crinkling like he’s shifting his workload in his hands, “that you’re always waiting for people to disappoint you. And I suggest you don’t. Because if you expect Mal to disappoint you, too, then eventually, he will. You’ll find a way to lump him in with the rest.”
With that, Benji walks out the door. It thuds closed in his wake, leaving me to ponder the validity of his words.
I scoff, dismissing Benjamin’s accusation that I look for the worst in people. And certainly dismissing the notion that Mal is somehow different from the rest. That I see him differently.
That I care for him.
Because I don’t. Sure, I’m curious about what’s going on in his life, why he’s struggling, but any decent human being would be. And I admit I feel protective over him, but it’s probably lust gone wild. It’ll pass.
Like Benjamin said, Mal is just one in a long line of meaningless boys—men. There’s no reason to entertain the idea of getting close. No reason to expect anything would be different this time around.
By the time I get home, I’ve mostly convinced myself Benji is full of shit.
I’m positive the only reason I was reacting so strongly to Mal the other day—the only reason he was stuck on my mind today—was because of his panic attack.
Because, like I said, I was concerned, as anyone would be.
There’s a big difference between concern and like .
Although wasn’t I feeling unhinged before then?
“Henrik?”
I almost jump. “Hm?”
Mal’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. And, now that I think about it, I can smell something cooking, something herbaceous and fresh. “You were just standing there for a moment. Is something wrong?”
I step into the foyer, toeing off my shoes and sliding them onto the mat before following the source of the smell. “No, I’m fine.” Apparently still distracted, though. “Are you cooking?”
“Yeah,” he says, reaching for me when I stop a few feet away. He lets his fingers sit on my arm like he’s giving me the chance to orient myself to his position, and I appreciate it more than he knows. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I admit, stepping closer and subtly inhaling Mal’s own scent as his hair tickles my cheek. Mal pulls a short breath between his lips, making me wonder if I wasn’t so subtle after all. “What are you making?”
It’s been a long time since anyone other than Benjamin or his husband have cooked for me. I don’t exactly have a large circle of friends. And seeing as I’ve avoided my family of late, that leaves me with my own company.
And, of course, the escorts. But none have put in the effort to cook before. Not until Mal.
Not that that means a thing.
“It’s a Mediterranean orzo dish with olives, tomatoes, feta… What are you doing?”
I pull my face out of the crook of Mal’s neck and draw back a step. Shit . Motherfucking shit.
Mal doesn’t let me go far. His hand clamps around my forearm as he continues tampering with the meal on the stove. “It’s fine,” he says, sounding amused. “You’re very tactile, aren’t you?”
I grunt, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but really damn pissed off at my own behavior. The truth is I’m not normally so…clingy. There’s just something about Mal that draws me in like a magnet.
Goddamn it. Maybe Benji is right. Maybe I do like Mal more than the others.
It doesn’t matter, though. That’s the honest truth. At the end of the day, I’m paying him to be here. Nothing lasting could ever come from such a situation. I wouldn’t be able to trust it.
And I’m not looking for lasting. All I need is for now .
“Smells good,” I say, focusing on much safer topics.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing my arm before his touch disappears. “Do you want wine?”
“If you’re opening a bottle, sure.”
“I don’t drink much,” he says, stepping around me to open the cabinet. “But I’d have a small glass. Your wine is better than the crap I usually have.”
He chuckles a little, but his admission surprises me. Considering he mentioned frequenting that club he went to on Friday, Sublime, I assumed he was the partying type.
“You don’t drink?” I ask, mentally combing back over our prior interactions. He had a couple glasses of wine his first night here, didn’t he?
“Not much,” he clarifies.
“Why not? You’re young.”
He chuckles again, tapping my hip as he passes by. I follow him over to the table, taking a seat. “I’m twenty-seven. Not that young.”
I raise a brow. “So what would that make me?”
Mal chokes on his laugh. “You’re not old.” The wine cork pops free, and then there’s the sound of gentle pouring. “Glass is on your two,” he says, using the positioning of the hour hand on an analog clock to guide me.
“Thank you. But you didn’t answer my question,” I point out, finding my wine and taking a sip. “Sauvignon Blanc?”
“I guess? I figured white would go well with the pasta, and I liked the flower on the label.”
I chuckle. It’s a good thing I only keep my favorites in stock. Mal won’t be able to choose wrong any which way, even without knowing wine.
My houseguest takes a seat and picks up his fork. “I never have more than one drink,” he finally says. His voice is soft yet sure, and it’s easy to tell there are a lot of unspoken words rattling around beside what was said.
But what I find curious is that Mal could’ve easily begged me off. He could have said that he simply didn’t like drinking or passed the subject by. Instead, he chose a very specific way to give me information without giving me the full story.
And as he sits there, still not eating, waiting like he expects for me to push, I wonder… “Do you want me to ask why that is?”
It’s a good ten seconds before he says, “I would be okay with that.”
My heart kicks in…surprise? Bewilderment? Hope?
I set down my wine glass. “Why do you never have more than one drink, Mal?”
He blows out a breath, as if he doesn’t want to talk about this when it’s clear he needs to. “It makes my anxiety worse.”
I let that roll around in my head for a moment. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What else makes your anxiety worse?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, so I slide my chair closer to the corner of the table and hook my foot around his ankle. He lets me tug him a bit closer.
“Alcohol, caffeine, too much sugar, anything that makes me feel out of control… My life,” he says simply.
My heart clenches at the raw emotion in his words. At how desperate he sounds to escape whatever worries are chasing him down.
How he sounds beat up. Tired.
And as Mal finally digs into his food, his foot hooked around mine, I wonder if his problems are much grander than he’s let on.