Page 14 of A Mistake of Worth
“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 wassomething 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.
