Page 79 of In the Frame

“Okay. Next, another beach painting. More people, more beach.”

“Also stunning.” He gazes from the painting to me and smiles, eyes dancing.

I shake my head at Florian, but the smile that comes is genuine this time. “Focus on the work.”

I show him more, portraits of my friends with my loose, expressive style, my love of colors and mood. “I try to capture their energy. Try to paint them live when I can. It’s just different than working from a photo, but I can do that too. There’s just more movement in the work like this.”

“These are so beautiful,” Florian tells me after I show him a portrait of my mum, putting it on the easel. We both study the painting. “You’re very talented,” he says.

“Talent only gets you so far.”

“And skilled.”

“Yes, skill,” I acknowledge. “But, yeah. It’s complicated.”

“Please consider continuing on with your work,” Florian encourages me. “I’m sure you would have buyers.”

“How do you know?” I press my lips together, amused. Florian doesn’t know about the art world.

“Because I would love to buy a painting.”

“Florian, these aren’t for sale.”

He gives me a hopeful look. “The beach paintings? As you’ve confirmed yourself, I have many blank walls.”

I just laugh and shake my head. “Nice try. Very funny.”

When he still looks at me like that, his gaze fixed on me with hope in his eyes, his mouth soft, it’s easy to forget that this is the man who is shutting down my art community. And maybe he’s trying to make amends. Or get back into my good books. There’s a chance he might genuinely like the paintings. But it’s hard to know what’s what.

“I’ll give you £2,000 each for the two beach paintings.”

“Florian. Be serious.”

“I am serious. What part of me doesn’t look serious?” He frowns at me, sliding his hands into his pockets, his head tilted to the side. The breeze from the open window ruffles his dark hair. His cheeks have a hint of pink since it’s warm up here.

“The most I’ve sold a painting for is £500. For similar work and size.”

“Nonsense. Undervalued.”

“Undervalued?” I peer at him, startled by his certainty. “How would you know? Sales are based on past sales records.”

“Perhaps. And perceived value. And scarcity. After all, look at auctions. Is that painting you love by Hockney worth £90 million? I don’t know. But someone paid that price because they think it’s worth it.” Florian’s convinced. There’s a tilt to his head, as if he’s waiting for me to dare challenge him.

“Florian, that was an auction with multiple bidders driving up the price. This is just me and you in a loft, looking at my work.”

His gaze is more intent. “Do you disagree with me that your work has value?”

My mouth opens and shuts. “Monetarily, some small amount.”

“Value,” Florian tells me, “is more than money.”

I shake my head, holding his gaze, which doesn’t waver. Then, I realize he’s close. Very close. So close I’m dizzy and thinking some desperate thing. I reach out and brush his lips with my fingers. He nips them, lightly at first, then catches my index finger between his teeth and holds me there for a moment ’til I shiver, and he releases me.

And then I lean forward to kiss him, melting against his mouth, letting him draw me close. God, I’ve been aching for this. I’ve missed him so much. He tastes of tea and honey. And I want more. I grasp his arse, and Florian shudders.

When we straighten, he’s flushed, his gaze riveted on mine. “Matty,” he breathes.

Then I lower to my knees, after glancing over to make sure the door is closed, and run my fingers along the front of his jeans. He hardens under my fingers.