Page 16 of In the Frame

In the end, my phone’s safely stowed away because I don’t feel like I have the right to text one very busy Florian De Ligt, what with his world-class business domination. Or, at least, he’s a serious up-and-comer in London. He’s got to have a few million under his belt. Thank you, internet. Because doing internet searches on one’s fake date is totally normal behavior.

I can’t imagine he did an internet search on me. If he did, what would he find? My Instagram, I guess. I don’t do other social media, so he’s not going to find lots.

Since I’m spoiled for location right now, staying at Arran’s, it’s only a ten-minute walk over to Sotheby’s. Just to be sure, I arrive five minutes early.

Guests arrive and enter, once checked in by the woman at the door, which is flanked by impressively large trees in willow planters, and enough planters of various sizes in front of the windows to make a lush container garden. Cars and taxis pull up to the curb, dropping passengers off, while others arrive on foot or from public transport, which is often the easier choice in central London.

I hang back, instinctively checking my phone. Of course, there’re no texts from Florian. It’s just as well. Glancing at the guests queued neatly at the entry, I’m relieved to see it’s a mixed bag when it comes to dress code. Most people have fallen into the smart-casual category, a few outliers on either side in the formal and informal categories. As for me, I’m in charcoal trousers and a lavender shirt, both of which are presentable enough, along with a few colorful leather bracelets that my sisters gave me, and my black-painted nails.

Glancing around, I try to figure out how to pass the time waiting. Do I join the queue to see if I’m on the list? Would Florian already be inside?

He’s too busy to be here already, I tell myself. And more or less at seven, a black car pulls up, and Florian emerges, dressed in a pristine glass-free suit, presumably coming directly from work. Wherever that might be.

Even though we don’t really know each other, aside from the strange reality of having been stuck together in an elevator for hours, followed by him showering at my flat, that is. And even if he is a spiky cactus, like Noah diagnosed, he’s the cactus I’m meeting tonight. Plus, I’m weirdly relieved to see him, otherwise left conspicuously alone on the pavement in the cool spring night. Not that anyone paid me any mind.

We walk to meet each other at the edge of the pavement. About the same height, we stand eye to eye. I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to greet him. With Noah or my friends, it’s a hug. Well, with most people I know, it’s a hug. Because hugs are great.

Florian and I definitely don’t have that sort of relationship. Plus, a handshake seems too formal. Instead, I hover awkwardly as the next option.

He gives me a curt nod of acknowledgment as if we’ve bumped into each other by chance at some work function in some parallel universe. “Good evening, Mathias.”

“Please, call me Matty. Everyone does. Except at the doctor’s or the licensing center when I had my road test.” Hazarding a smile, I shrug for good measure.

“I don’t want to be overly familiar.” As ever, he has an amazingly neutral expression, and his stunning green eyes—or are they hazel?—give nothing away. It would definitely be awkward if I loomed in to check for sure.

“You can be familiar. I mean, you’re supposedly my fake boyfriend, after all. Familiarity, as they say, goes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t go so far. And I prefer the term partner. We’re not in school.”

“Taking it up a level, I see. And here I thought you didn’t care,” I can’t help but tease him, since Florian’s so terribly deadpan and flawless in his tailored suit, doubtless from Savile Row a few streets over. “Since feelings are inefficient and all.”

Wow, I actually used his own words against him. Go, me.

Of all the unexpected things, Florian reddens slightly, and his gaze flickers away before he focuses on me again.

Oh my God, did I just make Florian De Ligt blush? Clearly, I’m imagining things.

“Sorry.” I look as contrite as I can, but inside, my heart’s thumping. “It’s just that if you want people to buy into the fact we’re a couple and not just two business acquaintances, I’m afraid we’ll need to be familiar. And there’ll be a little bit of touching, if that’s alright.”

He chews his lip, gives a short nod.

I feel a little sorry for him because I’m obviously picking up that he’s got issues either with me or with intimacy or quite possibly both. And even during fake boyfriending, I don’t want him to be uncomfortable.

“Here, let’s try this. Give me your hands.” I reach mine out to him, palms up. Tentatively, he takes my hands. They’re frozen. Without hesitation, I press his hands together, between mine, in an effort to warm them up.

“Are you always so cold?” I ask in amazement.

His blush returns, and he opens and shuts his mouth without saying a word.

“Sorry, I mean…” It’s my turn to redden. “I mean poor circulation, not anything else.”

“I don’t have any issues with my circulation.”

“Evidence to the contrary. Though I’ll give you that it’s cold out. And see, we touched, and the world didn’t implode.” With a smile, I nod over at the queue. “C’mon. Let’s join in before everyone drinks all the wine before we even go in, and you turn into a popsicle.” With a gentle tug on his hand, I lead him over to join the tidy queue of guests.

When it’s our turn, Florian’s all business again. His hand is still in mine. Which I can’t believe, but he hasn’t let go.

“For Florian De Ligt,” he tells the woman checking names on her list as he gives me a sidelong glance. “And my partner, Matty Gowen-Smith.”