Page 31 of In the Frame

The rest of the afternoon passes by quickly, with everyone taking over a corner of a local pub for a meal before the rehearsal at 5:00 p.m. We successfully go through the exercise of successfully marrying Paul and Caden off, with Raheem the faux celebrant. It’s a fun night, and we carry on into a gastropub after for more eating. The foolhardy decide to go clubbing, while I call it a night and go back to the hotel by 10:00 p.m. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s going to be longer yet, so I’m hedging my bets—and budget too.

I stop by the front desk, where I told them earlier I expected a delivery.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gowen-Smith. There have been no deliveries for you.”

Panic rises. “What do you mean there have been no deliveries?”

“I’m afraid exactly that.”

“Nothing suit-shaped?”

“Nothing at all for you, unfortunately.” The young woman at the front desk gives me a sympathetic smile and a shrug. “Suit-shaped or otherwise. But we’ll let you know if anything arrives for you.”

“Okay. Right. Thanks.” My fingers tighten around my room key card in my pocket as I head upstairs. Shit. What does this mean? Other than I’m down a suit for tomorrow.

Florian said he’d see to it that my suit was delivered. Though he didn’t quite promise, he seemed quite assured, and I didn’t have reason to doubt him.

Disappointed and not sure what I’m going to do tomorrow, I head back to my room to flop bonelessly onto the bed and indulge in a moment of moody gloom. Though I should be careful not to wrinkle this shirt because it’s what I’m going to have to end up wearing tomorrow. Reluctantly, I peel myself off the bed, change into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and resume full flop.

I watch TV for a while. I try and fail to read my novel. After an aborted attempt, I go back to the TV. And by midnight, there’s still no call from the front desk.

Shit. I’m officially screwed. And it’s technically tomorrow.

Rolling over, I reach for my phone and text Florian. He likes efficiency, right? And New York’s a few hours behind, so it’s not like it’s an indecent time to text him.

My suit didn’t show up at the hotel. Still lost?

Maybe Noah’s hypothesis that Florian wanted to keep it for himself is right. Because right now, I have no other explanation. I should have known this would end in disappointment, but it feels worse after our earlier call. There was a moment when I thought everything was finally turning around.

Despite my angst, I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, uninterrupted by any phone chimes from Florian or the front desk.

Chapter Sixteen

My phone ringing in my ear wakes me at 8:30 a.m. as I’m splayed on my stomach, enjoying the comfortable hotel bed. But I knock the pillow I’m hugging to the floor in my flail for the phone.

“H’llo?” I manage without looking at the display, half-awake, rubbing an eye. Sunlight fills the room through the partially drawn curtain, draping it in an otherworldly glow. Except all that registers properly at first is way too bright.

Please let it be the front desk and not a telemarketer, please let it be the front desk and⁠—

“Matty. I have something you need.” A voice in my ear smooth like honey, a whisper of something velvet, and I’m dreaming of Florian.

Except—wait. That’s actually his voice. The front desk wouldn’t call sounding like that, sultry and hot.

“Florian?” I bolt upright, propping myself on an arm as I try to take stock of my surroundings and the time. It’s morning. Early. My voice is heavy with sleep. “Is that you?”

A mixture of frustration and joy, like a fist to the stomach. For letting me down. For the thrill of hearing his voice. For finally fucking calling me.

“Yes.” Efficient as ever. Definitely Florian.

“Where’s my suit?” I cut to the point, awake enough to realize it’s less than five hours to the wedding, or at least the time we’re meant to be showing up at the venue.

“At the front desk. I’m sorry it’s late to you.”

“Oh, thank God. I was going to have to go naked. Nobody wants to see me in my birthday suit. Especially not at a wedding. Seriously, Florian, you said the suit would be here yesterday and it wasn’t and it’s been no end of stress⁠—”

“I’m sorry.” His voice isn’t cold, exactly. More subdued than anything. Contrite? Florian can’t possibly feel bad. Can he? I can hardly believe my ears—he’s apologizing to me? “I broke my word to you.”

I’m quiet for a moment, chewing my lip. He absolutely should at least have the decency to be sorry.