Page 87 of In the Frame

“Well, you have. I wish I could shut my heart off and not care about anything, but it doesn’t work like that. Not for me, anyway. Maybe it does for you. I don’t know.” I shiver again.

His hand slides along my jaw, and his thumb brushes my lower lip. “Please don’t shut your heart off. The way you feel so passionately about what you care about is incredible.”

“It’s a curse,” I say darkly, then bite his thumb lightly. Then I draw it into my mouth and suck. I feel Florian’s shiver run up his arm, and then he’s wiping tears from my cheek. “Fuck you.”

Florian’s quiet, watching me. Deadly serious.

Then I shift. “Come here,” I whisper.

He looks at me uncertainly, then shifts slightly closer in his bucket seat, reaching down to take my hand. “Matty…”

I lean over to kiss him with increasing intensity. Kissing with the salty taste of my tears on our lips. Our kisses are urgent. I reach for his face, pulling him tight. My tongue explores his with ferocity, like an interrogation. And Florian yields to me, his kisses just as passionate. My heart’s pounding so loud everyone in Glyndebourne must hear it. And I wish it were just me and Florian somewhere private, and I would ravage him ’til he’s as messily undone as I am.

When we straighten, there are tears in his eyes. “Matty, please. Tell me what I can do.”

I lift my eyebrows at him. “You know perfectly well what.”

Florian sighs and rubs his own eyes. He draws out his handkerchief and carefully wipes the tears from my eyes while my gaze is riveted to him. He looks ill.

“Let’s… let’s pretend for tonight, okay?” I say softly. “Make-believe. That we can be with each other however we want to be.”

“Will that make things better or worse?” Florian asks carefully. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Better for now.”

Florian at last nods. “Okay, petal.”

I kiss him lingeringly, more gently this time, and I feel him shudder. And when we straighten again, we gaze at each other like we’re in our daydream and not in a car park surrounded by cars and well-dressed people.

“I want you to have a special night.” His voice is barely audible. “Because you’ve never been here before. And I want you to know how much it means to me to have you here with me.”

I swallow hard, nodding. Shivers run up my spine. Right now, there’s no place I’d rather be than here in Glyndebourne with Florian. Even if I’m acting like I’ve lost my mind. I probably have. Probably when I was back in London. Noah’s probably right that I need to get checked out for Florian-induced madness. And I don’t know if there’s a cure to be found.

“Ready?” Florian asks in a whisper.

“Yes.”

Florian gets out of the car. I take a moment to compose myself, draw in a steadying breath to gather myself. When he opens my door and reaches for my hand to help me out, I’m surprised, but I take his and slip outside. We stand eye-to-eye, which is when I catch his face and kiss him so thoroughly he’s left flustered and reeling. And then he’s taking a moment as I turn away, looking at the shine of cars under the brightness of the high afternoon sun, letting the warmth soak into me.

Florian’s soon rummaging in the back. “Okay to help carry a couple of things?”

“Yes.”

He passes me a pair of folded camp chairs in their black carry bags and another mystery bag, which I sling over my shoulder, followed by a rolled-up navy tartan picnic blanket with a chestnut-brown leather carry strap. Then he takes two generously sized wicker hampers out and closes the boot. He locks the car and slides his keys into his pocket.

“Let’s get set up, then. We’ll come out for the interval for dinner. We have ninety minutes to dine. Alright?”

“Yes.” I give him a shaky smile.

Then, Florian slips his hand into mine, and I squeeze his fingers. Hand in hand, we approach the opera house. I can’t stop shivering, despite the heat of the late-August sun, being here together with Florian as though we’re in a dream.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Glyndebourne is magical. The grand opera house awes me as I enter with Florian. I don’t want to let him go because if I do, I’ll lose my way, I’m sure of it. We’ve set up our picnic blanket on the wool tartan blanket with chairs and the promised hampers with a feast. Florian’s being mysterious about what’s inside.

We find our seats. Prime box seats, because Florian. It’s utterly surreal. I lean into him, and he sits with his arm around me. I take in the soaring ceiling, the curving balconies, the contemporary finishes. Meanwhile, Florian breathes in the scent of my hair, and I still hold his hand tight in mine. As if I let go, he’ll disappear.

When Tosca begins, the opera’s incredible. I can’t stop shivering and crying. In my other hand, I grip Florian’s handkerchief. I have Florian’s arm still around me as an anchor. Occasionally, he brushes his lips to my temple, my cheek. I’m transfixed by the performances, the stunning costumes and sets. The artistry.