Page 46 of In the Frame

“Thanks. I feel a bit better.” I sigh. “I guess I worry the trajectory isn’t good.”

“Give it a chance.”

I tilt my head, considering him. “You don’t even know if my paintings are any good or if they’re just rubbish.”

Florian gives me a look. “That’s because you won’t show me them.”

“Even if I did, you have admitted to knowing nothing about art,” I point out helpfully, in case he’s forgotten his lack of knowledge about art. “Which is why you’ve enlisted my help.”

“I know a little more now, thanks to you. And I’m grateful. I must confess I’ve heard a little about the Rose & Crown in Brighton before. But you’ve given me valuable insights from your perspective.”

“Oh?” I look at him, startled. The Rose can’t be making waves in London circles for a bunch of mostly emerging and early career artists.

Florian flushes a little. “I was browsing property listings a while ago, and we have a lead on a purchase.”

I stare at him. “On the Rose?”

“It was profiled in opportunities around Brighton, which is cheaper for me to invest in than London properties.”

“Invest how?” I eye him with trepidation.

“Well, I buy properties and redevelop them. Potentially. I invest where I see opportunities. And the Rose may be one such opportunity.”

“Right. I see.” I don’t know how alarmed I should feel right now. A lump forms in my throat. It’s tough to swallow it down. After all, I try to reason with myself, it’s not Florian’s fault if the Rose is for sale and it was profiled somewhere. On one hand, that makes sense. On the other, it feels like a punch in the stomach that he’s even considering the sale.

He hesitates, gazing at me. And it looks like he wants to say something more but thinks better of it. Then he glances back at the gallery display for a long moment.

Overhead, the skies have lightened toward dawn in one of the longest days of the year. Even so, we’ve pretty much been out ’til the sun’s risen, which won’t be long now. I smother a yawn with the back of my hand.

“Should we continue walking?” Florian asks at last.

I nod with a last glance at the gallery. “Yeah. Let’s go to the hotel.”

And we start walking again. I’ll dive into this Rose situation another time when it’s not in the middle of the night, down a lot of wine.

Chapter Twenty-Five

When we reach my hotel—a boutique hotel with a view of the waterfront, a total treat booked some time ago when I had more cash as well as a great sale on hotel rooms, plus points from my credit card—Florian hesitates outside the front steps. The sky is pink with predawn light, and seagulls reel on the breeze over the sea.

“Are you coming in or planning on sleeping rough?” I ask Florian.

He smiles and shakes his head. “No to sleeping rough. I certainly don’t want to impose.”

“Where are you going to get a hotel at this hour?” I point out. “And for only a few hours? I have a late checkout at noon, thankfully. We can crash, and then we can go back to London. You can find your car, and I’ll find the train.”

Florian blinks. “Of course I’ll drive you back to London.” As if he didn’t even need to think about it.

Then I smile at him. “Thanks. That’s really great.” I’m about to offer petrol fare, but I think Florian can handle it with his corporate empire. “C’mon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. We’re just crashing. I used to crash with my mates all the time.” I shrug, using the fob to tap into the entry, with Florian behind me.

We walk back up the steps to my hotel room. The room fills with morning light. Once in the room, I step out of my shoes by the door and slide off my suit jacket. I hang it in the wardrobe, along with Florian’s. Then, we both pause. Florian looks a little flustered. I turn my attention to drawing the curtains.

“Please, go ahead with the en suite if you like.” I glance over my shoulder at him. Florian does. I take advantage of the opportunity to change unobserved into my boxers and a T-shirt, being extra neat with my clothes, rather than tossing them over the desk chair, so Florian doesn’t think I’m a slob. He probably has staff to hang his clothes for him. And do his laundry. What a thought.

When he emerges, I beeline into the en suite. As I wash my face, it occurs to me that it’s probably a wild, wine-fueled idea to have Florian stay in my bed like it’s totally normal. Even by fake boyfriend standards. I mean, I’d totally have my boyfriend stay in my bed. Once, when I briefly had a boyfriend in uni, Jack slept in my bed. At the same time as me. Totally legit. Facts.