Page 32 of In the Frame

“Go get your suit and make sure everything’s in order.” Now he’s all business, commanding. More like the Florian I remember. “Call me back when you do.”

He hangs up.

“So fucking bossy.” Does he think I’m his employee? What the hell was I thinking? I stare at the phone in my hand. Like, what the actual fuck? Why is he being so weird? The answer to that is obviously because it’s Florian.

This must be how the rich entertain themselves, by pranking people like me. Shaking my head, I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and run a brush through my hair because I’m not going to face the front desk person fresh out of bed, no matter how demanding Florian is. There’s a baseline for common decency. I put on a robe over my pajamas and step into the slippers that the hotel has for their guests, cloud white and soft against my bare feet.

I glance at my reflection long enough to run a hand through my mussed blond hair in an effort to at least get it out of my eyes and blearily wash my face. Annoyed, I check myself out. Presentable enough for a guy not to embarrass himself at the front desk to pick up a suit.

Remembering at the last moment to take my key card, I head downstairs, padding along in my slippers down the staircase, which leads to the lobby of the hotel. I rake my hand through my hair again for good measure as I round the corner of the lobby toward the front desk across the reception room.

And I stop dead.

Because standing right there, just inside the main entry, is Florian, impeccably dressed, if not a little tired-looking, with a couple of leather bags. He gives me a tentative smile as I gawp.

“Good morning.” Florian stands nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets, in a light trench coat over a suit. He’s an admirable figure dressed in navy, posture perfect. Despite the casual body language, his expression’s more on the pensive side.

“Fuck me,” I say out of pure shock.

This is obviously proof Florian’s just been trolling me this whole time. And I get upset.

“You said you were in New York,” I tell him accusingly. “And I’ve been fucking dying over a stupid suit, and you—you’re sitting in London and having a laugh at me⁠—”

“Stop.” He raises a hand. Florian gazes wearily at me. “Please.”

Which makes me even more angry, and flustered, and hot. I ball up my fists, tension running through my body between frustration and I don’t even know what this feeling is, but being told to stop is making me even more upset than I am already.

“Don’t tell me what do—” I’m fuming.

Some distant part of me is aware we’re fighting in the lobby in front of the wide-eyed clerk, who is doing her earnest best not to notice us, but this is pretty fucking awkward to say the least. And he obviously doesn’t have the slightest clue about why I’m upset, which only makes me more upset.

“Look.” Florian approaches me with his bags. He shows me the paper luggage tags from British Airways. From… today?

I frown at him. “I don’t understand,” I complain, then press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’m too sleepy for this, and I haven’t had any coffee after my abrupt awakening. “What… what are you even doing here?”

At last, my shoulders droop. Confusion is a permanent feature across my face at this point. Normally, I’m a morning person, but the stress of all this has caught up to me, and I just can’t with this situation.

“I’ve brought you your suit,” Florian says, matter-of-fact, and hands me a leather garment bag made from butter-soft leather. He gazes at me, something guarded in his eyes.

I draw in a slow breath to calm myself down. My body’s still taut as my brain tries to absorb what he said a moment ago, on high alert. “You’re supposed to be in New York.”

“I made you a promise. I needed to do my best to make amends, since there was a problem yesterday with delivery. Which led me to the only sensible remaining option… I’ve brought the suit to you myself. To know that it got to you, and on time. After everything.” Florian almost looks… well, shy?

And I stare at him. “But… you didn’t answer my text. Not last night. Not this morning. I don’t think, ’cause I would have heard the chime and⁠—”

“I was on a red-eye flight,” Florian says sheepishly. “Which is why I didn’t text you back. I was on the plane and didn’t see your message until after the plane landed and I turned my phone on again. I arrived very early today, London time, collected your suit, and brought it directly to you. And now I can leave you to enjoy your day with your friends in peace⁠—”

“You flew from New York to bring me my suit?” My voice climbs in disbelief, my heart thundering as if the regular world’s gone mad, and somehow, we’re left standing in the front room of this hotel, with the vast blueness of the sea behind Florian through the window. The sun dazzles off the water into infinity.

“It’s important to you. Which means this is important to me too.” Florian’s voice is soft. “And I’m sorry.”

I stare at him.

Florian’s close enough for me to touch, still holding a luxurious bag slung over his shoulder. Looking… nervous? “I realize you’re angry and…” He trails off, looking at me. “And you obviously have every reason to be.”

He’s holding his breath, and I’m holding mine. An impossibly long moment stretches on. And on. Neither one of us dares breathe or move. Until finally, finally, he yields to me. My heart leaps then.

Just as he’s starting to turn away, I catch his arm. Florian gasps slightly, his body jerking in response to my touch, his gaze locked on mine—and I couldn’t look away for all the art or money in the world right then.