“Excellent.” Max kept his tone neutral enough, but he couldn’t help feeling a swelling of pride and faint amazement.
It was one thing to hire his father to head the European expansion, quite another to hear that he was dedicating the time and energy toward it that he was. The bitter truth was that Max had expected the older man to outsource the effort to one of his assistants. A few weeks ago, that would have been the case, although a few weeks ago, Max would not have even considered recruiting his father for the help.
“Sometime next week I expect to be inviting Mr. Poole to a few of the sites we’re considering. I’ve already informed him and he’s promised to keep his schedule clear for it.”
“I look forward to reading both your report and his,” Max replied, a part of his brain hung up on the idea of his father keeping his schedule clear for anything pertaining to his son. It would be a first, for certain. “Thank you for accommodating my time zone. I won’t keep you up further.”
They ended the call, leaving Max to sit thoughtfully. His father’s apparent earnestness was impressive. He wished he didn’t harbor doubts about how honest it was.
“Father doesn’t lie,” he told himself.
For the most part, it was true. His father had concealed the true reason for his coldness and his antagonism toward Ethan and their marriage, but he hadn’t made up a lie to explain it. He likely wasn’t lying about anything as he worked on The Elite Poole Worldwide’s behalf, either, yet Max couldn’t shake the thin mantle of distrust that rested on his shoulders. Could a man who’d attempted to paint Max’s husband as a prostitute abruptly flip a one-eighty and support their marriage without reservation?
Max wasn’t pleased by his own answer to that.
A knock sounded on the door of his office.
“Enter,” he called.
Kimberlyn popped her head in. “I have a large delivery. Is now a good time to give it to you or would you like me to hold it at the front desk?”
“I’ll take it now. Thank you, Kimberlyn.”
She shouldered her way into the room before he could rise, carrying a large, rectangular cardboard box plastered with mailing labels. He met her halfway into the office, taking the heavier-than-it-looked box from her with thanks.
He studied it with interest after she’d left, for he wasn’t expecting any further orders for the wedding. As soon as he’d maneuvered the box around to read the return address, he raised an eyebrow.
A letter opener slit the packing tape cleanly, revealing plenty of protective wrapping within. A familiar smell wafted up to him, making him shake his head. He knew what he’d find even before his fingers finally settled on the smooth protective barrier of waterproofing.
There were not one, but two cashmere and wool overcoats inside, each enclosed in a garment bag which was in turn wrapped in tissue paper and bound by silk ribbon. One coat was navy blue, the other camel, proving that his father had at least been paying attention to Max and Ethan’s wardrobes while they were in Spain. But the choice of the classic British Warm overcoat nearly made Max shake his head. He didn’t know when he or Ethan would require such heavy-duty, if elegant garments in Las Vegas.
But practicality wasn’t the point, was it? Max sighed a little before hanging both garments in the closet where he kept a backup suit. Judging by their labels, the coats cost between four to five thousand dollars each. They were statement pieces, though the statement Philip was making wasn’t the obvious one. He wasn’t trying to impress them.
Settled back in his chair behind his desk, Max gazed at the hanging coats and allowed himself to lower his inner barriers. The gift was proof that his father wasn’t—as he’d feared earlier—only going through the motions and hiding animosity against Ethan or their marriage. It was the exact opposite. Throughout Max’s childhood, he’d received gifts of such monetary weight and flash. Few had meant anything to him emotionally, even though his young mind had recognized what they were—a substitute for a hug, for a word of encouragement, or god forbid, an admission of love. He could tell when his parents were pleased with him when a gift arrived for him at school, accompanied by a card written by a salesperson or one of Philip’s assistants, congratulating him for this or that.
Knowing what he did now, he could look back without rancor at his parents’ inability to voice how they felt about him. At least they had tried, in their own emotionally stunted way, to touch him. These coats represented more than they seemed on the surface. From the Pooles, this was an announcement of their acceptance of and affection for their son and his husband.
Dysfunctional, indeed. But perhaps, he mused with a wry smile, not all that unfortunate.
~~~~
This assignment was going to suck.
To an outsider looking in, it wouldn’t be obvious why Ethan should be unhappy with the job or with his client. Theo Smith came across as charismatic and charming as he did on TV. They’d been at this second location for nearly an hour now and the reality TV star showed no sign of flagging energy as he posed for photo after photo with the fans who’d been lining up since that morning to meet him. His smile was bright and wide for everyone.
But ever since Theo had revealed his true personality earlier at the Welcome to Vegas sign, Ethan couldn’t see his friendly charade as anything but what it was. Theo was an actor, but this kind of acting rubbed Ethan the wrong way.
But who am I to judge this guy? I don’t know his life.
Social media had painted one story. Theo had curtly offered a glimpse of another. The truth lay between. Ethan reminded himself that he had brought preconceived notions about Theo and his boyfriend (lover?) into this job when he shouldn’t have. His job was only to protect, not to make friends with his client or come to a conclusion about him.
It still was going to suck, though.
“Can I get a kiss, too, Theo?” begged the woman who was currently wrapped around him while her girlfriend took a photo of the pair with her phone. Judging by the way her arms stayed locked around his chest, she seemed unlikely to release Theo unless he said yes.
“Hugs only,” Ethan said firmly, fine with being the bad guy.
She threw him a nasty look before batting her lashes up at Theo. “Please?”
He smiled apologetically and gave her a consolation squeeze. “Sorry. The big guy says no. I gotta obey him or he’ll break both my legs.”
She giggled and threw Ethan another resentful look, though this one was tempered with a healthy dose of caution after Theo’s remark. She reluctantly released him and rushed off into the crowd with her friend, both of them staring at her phone.
Theo should have had a handler here. Publicity events like this one always had one. Ethan wasn’t sure if the guy and his agent were being cheap and using Ethan for double duty, or if neither of them felt a handler was needed. It made Ethan work extra hard to not only keep an eye on the crowd and who joined it, but also run interference when some of the fans became too handsy or demanding. The one young girl employed by the venue seemed barely capable of corralling newly arriving fans into line.
Ethan felt tired, though nothing he had done today was physically wearing. He was used to standing for hours at a time, often while not moving anything but his eyes. It was the noise that was getting to him—the constant calls out to Theo that he encouraged by chirping back with quips and flirty remarks, that bothered Ethan. He’d never begrudge a celebrity from acting friendly toward their fans, but the disingenuousness rubbed him wrong. Theo had reiterated at least three times during the drive from the first venue to this one that he couldn’t stand people and could barely tolerate his own fans.