Page 44 of In the Frame

They nod.

“I’m a painter too, like Matty,” Noah explains easily, sliding an arm around Raheem’s waist, who leans into him. “And Raheem’s a sculptor.”

“You should come see our work sometime. We both have pieces in the group show at the Rose & Crown right now,” Raheem encourages me. “If you’re staying on in Brighton.”

“We have to get back to London tomorrow. I’ve got to work in the evening,” I say, disappointed. It would be great to spend more time with my friends in Brighton. But I have shifts lined up at Ivan’s I can’t afford to miss. “Another time.”

“Maybe you can have work in the next group show at the Rose?” Noah encourages me. “Ellie’s curating.”

“We’ll see.” I squirm slightly. I don’t want to tell them outright I’m not painting anything. Plus, they’re both putting their work out there, a year ahead to have their legs under them, while I can barely pull a pint, it feels like. I’m not going to become a server anytime soon, that’s for sure, and Florian can vouch for me on that front.

Florian places a hand on the small of my back, and my arms are immediately covered in goose bumps. “Let’s dance?” he suggests.

We go and dance ’til last call. The dancing cheers me up and pushes aside my discouraged feelings about my whole lack of art practice while everyone else is getting on with theirs. Sure, it sounds like it’s cool to be in London, but it’s also expensive, and right now, I’m just trying to survive. Creating work isn’t a luxury I have time for. Or space. And the outlook isn’t good for now. At least tonight, I’m here with friends, and there’s comfort in that.

And Florian.

The last people standing head out of the wedding venue. Paul and Caden left some time ago, and a group of friends and family volunteered to come back early to take down the decorations and tidy up. Which leaves me gazing at Florian as we retrieve our suit jackets. He’s readjusting his sleeves, fastening his cufflinks. He always looks so assured. I wish I could channel a fraction of that energy.

“Ready to go?” Florian asks, glancing up.

“Yeah.” I slide my hands into my pockets and nod, turning to lead the way out into the chill July night. It’s refreshing, the air with its humidity clinging to my skin. The streets are wet, though the rain has passed. I shiver and start to lead the way back to the hotel. I’m loose-limbed from all the wine.

Once we’re down the street from the venue, Florian glances over at me. We walk past shuttered shopfronts. Traffic is light on the street. “Are you alright? Did I do something to upset you?”

I blink, looking over at him. “No! What makes you think that?”

“You’ve gone quiet,” he says wryly.

My face reddens. Shit, very smooth, I tell myself. Of course he’ll think he’s done something wrong. “Oh no, it’s nothing you’ve done. It’s all me. Just thinking.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I give him another sidelong glance, sharper this time. “I don’t know if you want to see inside my head, to be honest. It’s messy.” Which is probably more than I should admit to, but I’ve had a lot of wine, and so has Florian, though all the dancing and water have helped a little. But being around my friends has made me feel more vulnerable than I expected, with complicated feelings.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Florian’s quiet too for a moment. He catches my hand and gives a light tug. We stop on the pavement in front of a comic shop, somewhere in the North Laines. The street’s empty around us.

And I feel it, something hot and tight and unwanted in my chest. A surge loosened by alcohol, and when I get like this, it’s hard to push back. I don’t want Florian to think he’s been fake boyfriending with someone who doesn’t have it together, at least on some baseline level.

“Hey,” Florian murmurs, searching my eyes, “I want you to know I had fun with you tonight. You can add that to whatever you’re thinking.”

My face heats up, and my eyes prickle, and I just stare at him, caught out. I expected him to push, to get me to spill, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds my hand, steady in front of me, his expression soft. There’s a flicker of his lips.

“And,” Florian adds, “it’s okay to tell me that you didn’t have a good time with our arrangement. But it was important for me to tell you how I feel⁠—”

Then, I search his eyes for a long moment. He’s calm, with a look of concern on his face I didn’t expect to see, and when I catch his jaw, he gives the softest gasp. I lean in to brush his mouth with mine, and he pulls me close, and our kiss deepens. His mouth is soft, and his hands hold my face between them, and right now, it’s everything.

When we look at each other, I feel off-kilter, like everything’s upside down. Too much wine, for sure. Did we just kiss? What if Florian thinks I’m creeping on him, taking advantage? “Was that okay?” I ask him.

“More than,” Florian whispers, brushing his lips against mine, and I shudder. “I’m so glad to be here with you tonight.”

Finally, we straighten. Blood pounds in my ears. It’s entirely overwhelming having him so close. I run a hand over his chest, his buttoned-up suit jacket, his gaze focused only on me.

“Very authentic fake boyfriending,” I manage unsteadily. “Top marks.”

He chuckles. “You said authenticity was important to you.”