Page 1 of After Felix (Close Proximity #3)

CHAPTER ONE

FELIX

I make my way through Waterstones, holding my phone and dodging around the people milling about in the shop. There seem to be a lot of them. Far more than is usual on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Felix, are you there?” my friend Tim says.

“I’m here,” I say into the phone. “Along with most of London. This place is bloody packed today.”

“It’s packed in a bookshop ?”

I laugh. “I know. Go figure. People want to buy books. The world must be close to ending.”

“Why are you even there, Felix?”

I steer around a group of women who are clutching books and giggling together. I eye them, bemused by their air of febrile excitement. Last time I saw giddiness like this was when Harry Styles was in HMV.

“I’m here to get Charlie a book for his birthday,” I say, spotting the biography section ahead of me.

“Really? Isn’t he a librarian? That’s like coals to Newcastle.”

“Have you actually met Charlie? Books are his thing. ”

“Saw him and immediately wanted to lick him,” he says seriously. “ So gorgeous.”

“He’s far too nice for you,” I say.

“I can be nice,” he says indignantly.

I laugh. “Really? So it wasn’t you who let down your ex’s tyres and hid month-old double cream in his airing cupboard?”

There’s an affronted silence before he laughs. He can’t stay serious for long. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But he totally deserved it. So, what book are you buying?”

I spot a table packed with many copies of a single book.

The cover is a painting in grey of a young boy in a war setting.

The only colour is a splash of red on his face which could be blood.

It’s haunting and memorable, and I recognise it because Charlie had the Guardian book review page open yesterday, and this cover was front and centre and rather helpfully ringed.

“Oh, some journalist’s account of his life,” I say carelessly. “Don’t know who wants to read that rubbish. Aren’t journalists supposed to be reporting news, not be the centre of it?”

“Oh my God, is it Max Travers’ biography?”

I look down at the author’s name. “Yes, that’s what it says on the cover.”

“Jesus, he’s fucking amazing. I saw him on the news this lunch, and he was so hot.”

“You were watching the news?”

“Well, the weather, darling. I wanted to see if it was going to be warm enough to wear my hot pants.”

“Tim, there is nowhere in the world that has weather hot enough for those shorts. They’re held together by spit and willpower.”

“I’ve never been a spitter.”

“You’ve never been discreet either. Anyway, go back to telling me about your crush on this Max person. I thought journalists were all squat little men who wear visors, and smoke and drink heavier than your auntie Val.”

“Jesus, that woman could pack it away.”

“I know. Do you remember meeting her in that pub in Battersea last year? I didn’t walk away from that meeting, Tim. I crawled. ”

“I told you not to try to keep up with her. Your liver will fail first.”

“Her liver must be made up of bile and bad intentions like that nursery rhyme said.”

“Wasn’t that sugar and spice?”

“Not for Auntie Val,” I say darkly.

“So, you’re buying Charlie that book? Ooh, if it’s got pictures, take some photos of them for me.”

“I’m not taking photos of pictures in a boring old book so you can wank over them without having to pay the recommended retail price.”

A woman giggles, and I grimace apologetically at her. “He won’t,” I assure her. “He prefers his porn to be actually moving. This isn’t the dark ages.” She laughs and walks away.

“Are you going to have to do your usual thing with Charlie?” he says sympathetically.

I sigh. “Yep. I’ll have to read it too, so we can discuss it.

Fucking hell, it’s huge. It’s going to take weeks of my life that I’ll never get back.

I’m far too young for the wrinkles that reading this shit will give me.

” I seize a copy. “Wow, it’s so fucking heavy too.

Still, if Charlie doesn’t read it, he can always use it as a doorstop. ”

A loud laugh comes from behind me, and when I spin around, I find a man leaning against the entrance to the travel section.

He’s staring at me. He’s obviously the source of the laughter because it’s still flirting with the edges of his wide mouth and dancing in his dark eyes.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered with thick black hair that falls in shaggy waves and frames a high-cheek-boned face.

I blink and consider rubbing my eyes because I have never in my life seen anyone this gorgeous in Waterstones before. I hope it’s a sign that my luck has changed. As I smile at him, I make a mental note to buy a scratch card on the way home.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He straightens from his leaning position.

I let my eyes roll down his body, and it’s well worth a slow pace.

His ancient jeans cling to the long lines of his legs and catch on the edges of a pair of battered motorcycle boots.

A white T-shirt and a leather motorcycle jacket with stripes down the arms complete the outfit .

“Just listening to your little book club,” he says casually, folding his arms over his chest. “It sounded lively.”

“Oh, really? Did you want to join? I have to tell you that there’s an admission price and you’ll have to learn the password and the group theme song.”

“What’s the theme song?”

“Pink Floyd’s ‘We Don’t Need No Education’,” I say.

He laughs.

“Oh my God ,” Tim hisses in my ear. “That’s your sexy, snarky voice, Felix. You’re flirting with someone, you dirty bitch.”

“Bye, Tim,” I say, clicking End on the sound of his laughter.

The man comes towards me and leans against the table of books. I catch the warm scent of sandalwood, and a smile plays over my lips as his dark eyes run all over my body. I let him look, secure in the knowledge that he’ll like what he sees.

I’m not the best-looking of blokes, but I work with what I’ve got, and I’m dressed in skinny jeans, black Converse, a white T-shirt, and blue tweed jacket that I found in a second-hand shop. I’ve wound a big scarf around my neck, and my hair is behaving at the moment.

I fold my arms and cock my hip slightly. “Like what you see?” I say boldly.

He grins wickedly. “I don’t know. It depends if I need a password for you too.”

I bite my lip, and when his eyes fall to my mouth, I deliberately run my tongue over the bite. His eyes glitter, and he leans closer, sending a wave of heat from his body.

I wink. “And what do you think my password will be?” I gesture down at myself. “Got to be something brilliant to unlock all of this magic.”

He raises his hand and trails one long finger down my arm. Even through my jacket, my arm tingles, as though he has magic in his fingers. We stare at each other, locked in a silent bubble in the packed bookshop.

“I think the password is ‘Room sixty-two at the One Aldwych’,” he whispers.

Usually, I’d laugh at the blatant come-on, and his eyes dance as if he’s expecting it, but then his hand strokes down my arm again, and my cock throbs in my tight jeans as if it’s connected to my arm.

I breathe in sharply. His own chest rises and falls as his smile falls away.

Silence falls for a long few seconds, and then I make myself step back.

Immediately, disappointment crosses his face.

“Well,” I say briskly. “I’m astounded at your ability to crack what is essentially one of the most complicated passwords in the security industry.”

He breathes in and smiles widely. It’s blinding this close up. “Well, I’m obviously a prodigy.”

“Don’t they usually wear spectacles and go to Oxford Uni at the age of five?”

He bites his lip, the smile playing in those dark eyes. “I’m a bit of a late developer.” He straightens and holds out his hand, the palm up and somehow innocent looking. “Ready to go?” he asks.

I stare at him. Am I ready? Am I really doing this—letting a bloke pick me up in a fucking bookshop?

I let my gaze play over that stunning face and slide down that fantastic body.

He has an air of mischief and mayhem about him.

As if at any minute something is going to happen, and it’ll probably be either fun or get me arrested.

I grin. “Course I am.”

My grin stays on my face as I buy the book, but abruptly leaves when he pulls me out of the shop and over to a?—

“Oh, no. I’m not getting on that ,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the motorcycle parked by the kerb.

He grins at me. “It’s a Norton Commando.”

“It could be Daniel Craig’s dick and made of gold. Still doesn’t mean I’m riding it.”

He throws his head back and laughs loudly, attracting the smiles of a few passers-by. His laugh is hearty and seriously contagious. I feel a smile trying to break free and fold my arms, glaring at him.

Instead of being cowed, he bends to the bike and comes back with a helmet. He steps towards me, but I inch back.

“You’re not thinking of putting that on me, are you?”

He watches me, smiling. “That is the normal and legal way of doing things. ”

“No way. You’ll mess up my hair. It took ages to do this morning.”

He looks at my mop of dark hair which is, as usual, beginning to defy my attempts at styling it. I just know it’s standing up here and there, as if the follicles are making a break for freedom. Friends take the piss out of it, but he leans closer and runs his fingers through it.

“All this hair,” he says reverently. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. It’s got a mind of its own.”

I swallow hard. Bloody hell, he’s potent. It’s like he’s stroking my dick. I step back, and his hand falls away. “Not only a mind of its own,” I say briskly. “It’s practically moved out and got itself its own house and stock portfolio.”

He grins, but his gaze is still pinned on the dark waves. “I like it,” he says, his voice deep.

I swallow hard and take the helmet from him. “I can’t believe I’m hooking up with a complete stranger and letting him take me on this death trap.”

“It’s not a death trap,” he says earnestly. “And my name is… Sam. So, now we’re not strangers.”

I laugh. I’m pretty sure that’s not his real name. “Well, Sam the Stranger. Just so you know before I get on this bike, I’m excellent at sex and do my best work while I’m still alive.”