Page 58 of In the Frame

“There’s a spare dressing gown at the foot of the bed, extra toothbrush and towels in the en suite. When you’re ready, please come up, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

After he retreats, I sit with my tea for a couple of minutes, enjoying the view of the trees outside the window. Then, I go about the business of getting ready for the day and finding my clothes, which have also been placed neatly at the foot of the bed. A glance at the bedside table tells me it’s 7:30 a.m. I usually sleep ’til 10:00 a.m. after Ivan’s, but at least we went to bed before my shift usually ends. Which makes it a little less painful getting out of bed and ready for the day.

When I’m showered and dressed, after enjoying some of Florian’s toiletries he has left out, I feel more awake. I retrieve my tea mug and head out of the room. The next room has the door wide open, and I peek in.

There’s a wide desk that has two big monitors on it, which are plugged into a laptop on some kind of stand, and a keyboard and mouse in front of the setup. Everything’s very orderly. The computer is on, and the screens show something. Curious, I step closer to glimpse Florian’s work world, so different from mine. One screen is on some kind of property listing page with the title Development Opportunities. The next is some kind of meeting agenda, but it doesn’t make much sense to me. I peer at the first screen again.

I gasp.

Then my stomach drops to my knees and quite possibly the level of the Underground. Because there on the screen, the main listing shown is the Rose & Crown back in Brighton, and under it in red: future redevelopment and the price for the freehold and property dimensions and even a floor plan. He can’t actually be thinking of going through with buying the Rose. Can he? I can see Raheem’s sculpture from the exhibition in the main photo, so it’s got to be recent. I squint at the fine print underneath the photos of the Rose. There are approved plans for flats and mixed-use, whatever that is.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Forcing myself to move before Florian finds me snooping in his office, I make myself stand in the hallway and attempt to compose myself. Calm down. Breathe. I take in a couple of deep breaths, but I don’t feel any calmer. I don’t actually know for sure he’s buying it. He could just be interested, like he said at Paul and Caden’s wedding. There has to be a perfectly reasonable explanation why the listing’s up on his computer right now.

How could my fake boyfriend want to redevelop the gallery, which has supported me and my friends so much through the collective? That’s a fake-boyfriend-ending sort of situation.

Except I don’t want to admit to snooping either. Stupid curiosity ruins everything. No wonder there were warnings about opening Pandora’s box. It’s impossible to put the lid back on once things spill out.

Shit.

Act cool. Like everything’s fine. Because it is fine. I don’t know anything to make things not fine, I tell the growing knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I finish off my tea and head upstairs at last.

Florian’s at the table, eating toast and drinking tea. Crumbs wouldn’t dare fall on his suit. He’s perfectly poised and alert, and he looks honestly like something out of one of those high-end men’s bespoke suit ads from Savile Row. He’s gorgeous, sitting in the morning sun, his hair shining.

“There’s more tea, if you like. And toast. And I can make an omelette or oatmeal if you prefer.” Florian nods at the teapot on the table. He looks perfectly relaxed. Happy, even. He’s a far cry from the raging tyrant on the night we met in Ivan’s, which feels like an eternity ago. Even though it wasn’t, not really. “Please, sit.”

I sit on the edge of a wooden chair, probably looking more stressed than I would like, and I help myself to more tea because more tea never hurt. I add more sugar than necessary because I’m preoccupied. “Toast’s great. Sorry, I’ll be quick. I don’t want to keep you.”

“I should apologize to you.” Florian shakes his head, looking wistful. “I should have mentioned last night I have an appointment this morning I need to get to.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

My heart stops. What if his appointment is with the owner of the building? What then? Think, Matty.

I sip on my tea. “Oh yeah?” I ask casually. “Tell me about your day.”

Florian smiles easily, like there’s no trouble at all on the horizon. No tempests. No teapot. I consider him, my fingers wrapped around my mug, and I hold my breath. “I need to head out of London. First to Greenwich,” he says.

My shoulders ease slightly. Thank God. Not Brighton. “What’s in Greenwich?”

“My brother, right now, at my parents’. And obviously my parents too. But they live in different homes. Gabe’s flat is actually not too far from mine.”

I blink. Florian obviously must have a family. He wasn’t hatched, at least not as far as I know. He definitely looks more human than avian, and he doesn’t seem to be some kind of shifter as far as I can tell. But it’s hard to imagine him with other people or the idea that Florian once was a kid, growing up.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I do,” Florian confirms. His expression is suddenly hard to read, like the corporate veneer has slid over his face like when we first met. “My twin. Gabriel.”

“Hey, I have twin little sisters back home. That’s amazing you’re a twin too.” I brighten, despite myself. I always feel happier when I think about the girls. At Florian’s now curious look, I continue. “The twins are ten, Maggie and Jess. And Leila, who’s fourteen. The hard part about being away in Brighton and London is missing seeing them grow up. But they just have to say the word, and I’m there, back in Glynde, for them.”

Florian smiles, his expression easing back into more of the Florian I’ve come to know. “Would this be by Glyndebourne Opera House? And twins are great.”

“Yeah, twins are cool. As for the opera house, it draws people in from all over, especially in the summer. Which is great business for our pub. We also offer picnic kits for people to take to the opera too. They always sell out.”

“You must have seen so many operas,” Florian marvels.

“Actually, none,” I confess. “I was either working to help my parents out at the pub, or my parents were working and too busy to go. There’s never a night off when you own a pub. Plus hotel. I was either helping with the pub or the girls.”