Page 15 of After Felix (Close Proximity #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

FELIX

Those thoughts are still in my head the next morning when I wake up next to Max.

I turn my head on the pillow to look at him.

He’s asleep. I’d woken up in the middle of the night and prodded Max to get into bed properly, and now he lies with the white sheets pushed down to his waist, his olive skin glowing in the early morning light.

His hair is an inky mess on the pillow and his stubble heavy.

He looks like a very disreputable pirate and a hungover one at that.

I smile at him. My anger from last night has faded, and in the morning light, I’m slightly embarrassed by the fuss I made.

So he fucked a mate. His relationship with his best friend is obviously much more complicated than he let on.

It could have been far worse. Like if he’d admitted he’d fallen in love with someone—that would be the one thing I couldn’t compete against.

Snuggled against him, feeling the sun on my face and the warmth of his body, all my misgivings have begun to seem silly. After all, I’m a boy in bed with the man he’s come to love.

As if sensing my thoughts, Max stirs, stretching out and giving a contemplative grunt. He tries to open his eyes but groans and squeezes them shut. “Can you kill me now?” he says in a conversational tone.

I laugh, grateful for the normality. “Not sure I’m up for murder this close to breakfast.”

He opens one eye and squints at me. It’s bloodshot and bleary. “Please don’t mention food, Felix.”

“Too late.” I stretch and snuggle in closer. “Apparently, they’ll be delivering breakfast to our room to avoid crowding downstairs.”

“Are they? When did they say that?”

“After your fortieth brandy,” I say wryly.

He groans and rolls onto his back, scrubbing his hands down his face. “I’m so sorry,” he says, peeking at me through his fingers.

“Which bit are you sorry for, exactly?”

“Well, I was going to say for getting so drunk, but now I’m worried that there might have been even worse behaviour involved,” he says cautiously.

I smile because he does look very worried. “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The sun is shining, and you’re suffering badly. Life is perfect.”

He laughs huskily. “Felix, you really are a very callous man.”

This characterization reminds me of the thoughts I’d had before I’d gone to sleep—my ponderings on intimacy and vulnerability.

Am I brave enough to mention that I want us to be more to each other?

There doesn’t seem to be a better time than after sleeping together and waking up marooned in a warm bed that smells of both of us.

“Not always,” I say slowly.

Worries gather on his forehead like storm clouds. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

I wonder whether to abort this, but this weekend I feel as though I’m barely able to hold on to the string that tethers him close. And I’m suddenly desperate to keep what might be slipping away from me. I should say something before he flies away.

“I’m not really callous about you,” I say tentatively. “Despite my joking.”

His expression isn’t encouraging. He’s watching me as if I’ve morphed into a killer clown .

My resolve falters, but I press on, saying in a tumble of words, “You’ve come to mean such a lot to me, Max, and I?—”

“I know,” he says quickly. Like he’s desperate for me to stop.

I talk over him. “And I know it’s not what we agreed, but I’m really hoping that I mean something to you too.”

“You do ,” he says, but it sounds pained rather than happy, and my stomach falls to my feet.

Shit.

“So how about us dating?” My voice is overly bright, and I wince at the stunned silence that falls between us and lasts far too long.

“Oh, Felix,” Max says. There’s so much sadness in his voice. Worse, there’s a note that sounds suspiciously like pity.

I’ve abruptly had enough, my face flushing red-hot. “Doesn’t matter,” I say, maintaining my too-peppy voice, throwing the covers back. “It was just a thought. No harm done. Ignore me. Maybe I’m still drunk.”

“No, wait,” he grits out, seizing my arm before I can leave the bed. “Please wait, Felix. I need to?—”

The sudden trill of his phone interrupts, and for a second, we stare at each other, the only sound the phone and our raised breathing.

“You should get that,” I say. He grunts out an obscene curse, and I pick up his phone. “It’s Ivo.” It really is a miracle how I’m able to keep my voice sounding so even and clear. Because inside, I feel like I’ve been punched.

“Of course it is,” he mutters. But he still grabs the phone and connects the call.

That hurts for some strange reason, and I finally force myself from the bed and make my way into the bathroom.

I start the shower, wanting to escape his shrewd eyes. Standing under the hot water with my eyes closed seems the best way to do that at the moment. The door swings open, letting in a cold blast of air. Okay, no escape for Felix.

I swipe water from my eyes and stare at him. He’s dressed in faded jeans with flip-flops and a T-shirt advertising a motorcycle workshop. His hair is a dark mess of waves, and he has a pillow crease down his face .

“I have to go and help Ivo,” he says reluctantly. “The florist who’s supplying the flowers in the village has broken down in her van. I’m going to pick up the flowers.”

“Oh, that’s good,” I say brightly. “Good on you for helping Ivo. You are the best man, after all.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and then he seems to steel himself. “We need to talk,” he says.

“No, we don’t.” I shake my head to emphasise my point and squeeze some shampoo into my hand.

“We do. Felix, look at me, please.”

I meet his dark eyes. They look pained.

“Felix, I’m sorry,” he says. “I need to tell you something.”

His phone rings again, and he gives a truly vile curse.

“We’ll talk after,” I say steadily. “You need to go to Ivo now.”

“You promise?” He hovers, looking uncertain.

I nod brightly. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere. We can talk after the wedding.” Relief crosses his face, and I gesture toward the door. “Go on. We’ll talk in a bit.”

He nods and leaves the bathroom. His body language screams that he’s glad to be gone, and I actually feel sick. I rest against the shower wall, letting the water pound down on me, my eyes clenched shut. “Well, that did not go well,” I say out loud.

I wonder what to do now. Do I pretend I never said anything? Does it even matter?

I’ve done it now, and Max clearly already has a foot out of the door.

I switch off the shower. I’m not going to think about it anymore and act morose or worried. If I’m going to salvage this and keep seeing him—which is my deepest desire—then I need to keep it light.

Make him laugh and be easy, I tell myself as I dress in my dark grey suit. It could be that he’s just freaked out by commitment. Maybe if we went back to what we were, I can raise the idea at another point, and he might be more receptive.

I wonder at what I’ve become. From free and easy to this. I’m actually pitiful at the moment. How did it happen?

“You fell in love,” I say out loud to my reflection in the mirror. The words should be joyous, but my haunted eyes tell a different story. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection firmly.

A few hours later, I’m not sure I can.

The wedding was beautiful. Even a former commitment-phobe like myself could appreciate it.

The ceremony took place in the house’s orangery, which was full of scented plants and warm sunshine.

Henry and Ivo’s vows were the simple ones without any additions, but the way they looked at each other supplied all the extra feels.

Warm and loving and as if they’d finally come home to each other.

We’re currently sitting down at the meal in a big wood-panelled room with French windows that lead out onto a stone terrace.

The speeches have been incredibly funny and dry and full of embarrassing stories about both men.

I know I’m biased, but I think Max’s was the best. He’s wonderful talking in front of people.

Where I’d have broken into a sweat at more than ten people, he stood relaxed and handsome, his face full of laughter in front of three hundred people, making them laugh until they cried.

It had been a little bit like watching a stranger though, because this urbane, sleek man who was chock full of charisma was not the Max who had repaired my boiler, put his number in my phone, and ate my arse out within twenty-five minutes of meeting me.

Maybe if I’d known this man, we’d never have connected at all. Perhaps I’d have been too intimidated.

I listen to the conversations waxing and waning around me and realise with a start that I’ve been quiet for rather a large portion of the meal.

It isn’t so much the quiet that’s surprising.

It’s the fact that Max doesn’t even appear to have noticed.

He’s staring down at his drink, a smile that seems false playing across his mouth.

I clear my throat and shift position next to him, but he doesn’t even react. It’s like he’s an island, untouched by everyone. Normally if I’m quiet, he’ll want to know what I’m thinking and bug me until I tell him. Now I could be a complete stranger to him. Totally unconnected and insignificant.

He’d seemed so adamant about needing to talk to me before he’d left on the flower run. But after returning, he made no attempt to talk to me. Instead, he’d dived into the shower and took so long that I took the hint and vanished downstairs. When he joined me, his face was totally blank.

The theme carried on throughout the day.

Oh, he was by my side and made some of the usual motions, but they were somehow empty.

His mind seems as far away as the moon. The moon or at the top table .

My stomach gives another sickening twist as I follow his gaze, once again, to Henry and Ivo.

Drinking or staring at the happy couple are the only things he’s done all through the meal.