Page 33 of In the Frame

He fully turns back to me.

“Florian,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, reeling.

And I do an outrageous thing, a reckless thing, since this is a fully outrageous morning, and keeping in the spirit, I catch his face between my hands. Florian shivers under my touch. His dark stubble’s rough against my fingers, the texture pleasing.

Then, right then, I kiss him.

It’s a soft, gentle kiss at first, turning into something bolder, more daring as he responds to me, kissing back tentatively to start. As we respond to each other with growing certainty, we progress to tasting each other more intently and deeply, lingering to savor the unexpected, sweet taste of him while blood crashes in my ears. Florian smells so good, his deep cologne making me wild. At that moment, I could float away, untethered with a momentary, newfound joy.

We continue more hungrily, lost and found again, until finally, we at last come back to our senses, looking at each other in awe beneath the bright sunlight as if actually seeing each other for the very first time. In the hotel lobby, of all places. Still with the view of the sea behind him and the promise of summer ahead.

His face is still between my hands. So warm. Incredibly warm.

Florian looks stunned, a bit flustered, but his expression is soft, and oh God, what’s happening?

“I promised you a kiss.” My voice is caught deep in my throat as if oxygen has left me forever, because the world spins, and I don’t want to let go, and hell, who knows and who cares who’s watching. “If you remember.”

“You… you did say that.” Florian’s voice is barely audible. “But I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I… I actually did.”

And I do the only thing I want to do in that moment: I brush my lips against his again, lingering.

Florian shudders against me with a quiet gasp. His fingers grip my bicep through the plush robe.

Forcing myself to straighten is an extreme act of willpower because the lower, primal part of me could continue. Pressing into him, I can tell he’s more than ready too. But this is all too much of a shock for 9:00 a.m. In my hotel lobby. Florian’s blushing, looking away as at last I let him go. I give the clerk a wry grin across the room when our gazes meet for a fleeting second.

Clearing my throat, I try to regain my bearings and refocus on him. Because what the hell just happened here?

“I’ll leave now,” says Florian.

“Like hell you will. Not after that.”

He blinks and gives me the most beautiful, open smile that does something ridiculously melty to my insides. “Are you sure?”

“You need to stay,” I tell him, matching his earlier authority. “I just… let me get dressed. We can go for breakfast, at least. A fake breakfast.”

Florian nods, all businesslike again. Brisk. “Fake breakfast. Yes. Sensible. I’ll go outside and get some air. Go do what you need to get ready since I didn’t give you any warning. And please check the suit. I actually brought you a second from New York, just in case.” He hands over the garment bag to me. “Yours.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, shit. I can’t accept this.”

“Go,” Florian growls, a dangerous sound, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that I like very much (and he’s so close, in this dazzling light, that I can confirm his eyes have gold flecks in green). “I’ll wait for you here.”

I touch his cheek again, scratch lightly along his jaw as he leans into my fingers more firmly, and at last pull myself away. And, well, go.

Chapter Seventeen

A while later, we’re in a café together, and we’ve fully embraced awkward after the hotel. The short walk over was mostly silent, each of us lost in careening thoughts. At least my thoughts are careening. Florian’s too orderly for chaos. Too controlled.

Meanwhile, I’ve got no roadmap on how to deal with a man after I spilled drinks on him, got us stuck in a lift, agreed to a fake art date, and, after some suit-related curves, got here. Where we are exactly, I can’t tell you, other than off the Brighton seafront. Which is beautiful through the café window.

We look at each other across the table after Florian returns with coffees. Apparently, both of us are too nervy to eat straight off. He sets the mugs down on the table and sits.

“I—”

“I’m sorry⁠—”

We look at each other. I fidget with the cuff of my shirt.