Page 27 of After Felix (Close Proximity #3)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FELIX

I reluctantly leave the car. We’re met in the bookshop by the manager—a very intense-looking lady called Paula—and Max’s agent, who is a tall, skinny shark of a man called Connor. As in our previous meeting, Connor barely deigns to acknowledge me.

I’d met him a few days ago when he came down to the cottage with some papers. Max had introduced us, and Connor had obviously decided that I was Max’s latest resident twink. He’d directed his remarks to me somewhere over the top of my head, as if wishing I wasn’t there.

As we walk through the shop, I’m assaulted by memories.

Max leaning against that wall, his lazy smile in full force as he charmed me into bed.

I’d followed him to his hotel, full of confidence, protected by the Teflon exterior that was such a part of me then, letting life slide over me but never penetrate.

He took that, and he broke it, and I still hate him a little bit for it.

If I could go back, would I stop that foolish young man?

I shake my head. In all honesty, I probably wouldn’t.

Despite the pain at the end, my time with Max was the most formative of my life.

With him, I’d felt heard and seen for the first time.

He listened when I spoke. He paid attention to me.

I’d never had that before in my personal life, and I blossomed.

Max’s respect had given me a subtle confidence that I carry with me to this day.

Connor breaks into my thoughts by sidling closer. “We need to sort out that Max has everything he needs, erm…?”

“Felix,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I’m so sorry about that. It’s such a difficult name to remember. You have my sympathy. Men of a certain age have such a problem with their memories.”

Connor looks over at Max, as if seeking help, but Max is talking to the bookshop manager and unavailable.

“Just a word of warning,” I say softly. “I’m not a fixture in Max’s life, and I won’t be around for much longer. But that still doesn’t give you the right to talk to me as if I were a piece of shit. I wouldn’t let Max catch you. He wouldn’t be happy.”

“Oh, really?” he scoffs. “As if Max would be bothered. You men are here today and gone tomorrow, just managing to fill the time with demands of what you want from him.” He gives me a dark look. “And judging by what I booked yesterday, you’ve hit the jackpot.”

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.

I don’t actually want anything, and I’ve known him for a few years now, and he has never liked anyone who talked down to me.

” It’s one of the few sureties I have left about Max.

“Max punched the last bloke who told me I was an opinionated little twink.” I nudge him.

“The bloke actually had a point, but Max was hellbent on being chivalrous.” I sigh dramatically. “He’s such an Ivanhoe.”

Wheels turn in his eyes, and, after a moment, recognition dawns. “Wait. You’re that Felix?” he asks in a stunned voice. “Max has spoken about you. I thought you’d be…”

“Less spectacular than I actually am?” I say wryly.

“Older,” he finishes. There’s a long pause as he looks at me curiously. “Now, I understand,” he says slowly. “So, you’re Felix. The one Max?—”

“Yes, I’m one of Max’s many exes,” I interrupt blithely. “For my sins.”

“No, I mean?— ”

He’s interrupted when Max turns. “Everything okay?” he asks, glancing at the two of us.

“Fine,” I say calmly. “Connor and I were just taking a walk down memory lane.”

“It must have been a short walk, then. You’ve only met twice.”

I smile. “Such a lot can be said in such a short time.”

“After a few years of knowing you, don’t I know it,” he says wryly, a smile lighting his eyes. He glances at Connor. “Felix has been very kind to help me while my arm is broken. We mustn’t rain on his hospitality.”

There’s something steely in his voice that tells me Max has, as usual, noticed everything.

“Oh, er yes,” Connor says and gives me a warmer smile. “Felix and I are fine.”

“That’s good,” Max says serenely. “After all, it’s Felix who’s actually responsible for me being an author.”

“I am?” I say startled.

He smiles at me, and his eyes are full of warmth. “Don’t you remember instructing me to do it in that hotel room?”

I feel a blush hit my cheeks because I certainly remember what came before that conversation. “Hmm,” I say and turn to Paula. Her eyes are flitting between the three of us as if we’re on stage. “Shall we get sorted?” I ask quickly.

She brightens. “Of course. Come with me. I think you’ll like the setup.”

Still talking, she turns and leads us to the thriller section upstairs. The memories hit me fast and furious. When I cast a glance at Max, I find him watching me again. Connor and Paula bustle off to fetch something, and it’s impossible to avoid Max’s gaze.

“Talk of memory lane,” he says softly.

“There’s a hell of a lot of water under that bridge.”

“Is there? I wish I’d known then,” he says abruptly.

“Known what?”

He doesn’t have time to respond because Connor and Paula come back. Max gives a light reply to one of Paula’s questions, and we swing into getting everything ready .

There’s plenty of time for me to wonder about what his response might have been, because there really isn’t much for me to do. Paula will sit with Max while he autographs books, writing the names on sticky notes and attaching them to the covers so he can sign them quickly.

“Make sure you write big,” I interject. “Max won’t wear his glasses for love nor money.”

“I don’t need glasses,” he says in an affronted tone. “I don’t know why they gave me them.”

“Oh, Specsavers are so funny like that,” I say blithely. “Always giving out glasses to people who don’t need them. So careless.”

“I haven’t got them with me, anyway,” Max says sulkily.

I reach into my pocket and pull out his glasses case. “But of course you have,” I say smoothly.

Connor gives a snort of amusement. Max huffs, but puts them on when I fold my arms and stare at him. I try to ignore how the black frames suit his face, echoing that mass of grey-flecked black hair.

Connor gives me a look of appreciation. “You manage him well,” he mutters as Max turns back to Paula.

“He’s not a waiter,” I say. “I don’t need to manage him.”

“No, but you do need to be able to cope with him. He’s got a big personality, and he can ride roughshod over people without realising. He needs someone to bring him up on it.”

“Well, that’s not me,” I say, reaching into my bag and putting the Sharpie pack on the table where Max will be signing.

“Really?” He looks doubtful.

Wanting to be free of his knowing eyes, I leave them to it and drift off to look around the shop.

Max finds me a while later sitting on the beanbag in the children’s section.

“What are you reading?” he asks, amusement and curiosity vying in his voice.

I show him the book. “The Rupert annual.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I used to get one every Christmas.”

“Yes?” He leans against the bookshelf, his eyes focused on me .

“Yes. I loved them. I’m not sure why. I just liked the pictures.”

“But the question is, did you read the prose story or the comic book strip with the rhyming text?”

I grin up at him. “The rhyming one of course. Much less work. I loved that.”

“Rupert was certainly popular. I used to get the Beano annual.”

“I loved them. My dad’s mum always bought me one every Christmas.

My dad had a stack of them from the seventies too, and he gave them to me.

” I smile, tracing my finger down the book.

“I remember there was one that had this story in it about…” I pause, thinking, and Max’s expression is so interested it seems I’m giving him lifesaving instructions.

His attention has always been a tangible thing.

“It was Rupert and Jenny Frost,” I say, clicking my fingers as I remember.

“She got the weather wrong, and when you walked along, you’d suddenly find a patch of snow and ice.

It was a favourite, because I love the snow and always wanted it even in summer.

The front cover had Rupert with all these little paper snowmen with hats.

I wanted one of those little paper snowmen so badly too, but my mum was crap at making stuff like that.

She did try, but it was so scary-looking I had to hide it in the cupboard at night in case it tried to eat me while my back was turned.

” Max laughs, and I smile at the thought of her.

“That woman didn’t have an inch of artistic ability.

Even the stick figures she drew looked nightmarish. ”

He smiles, and it’s far too tender. I shift awkwardly, and he looks at the stack of books on the table. “The annuals are probably worth some money now. Do you still have them?”

I shrug. “Nah. My dad left us for another woman, and when he came back after a few months to pick up the rest of his stuff, he took the annuals with him because his new girlfriend had a daughter who liked them.”

He looks outraged. “What a fucker,” he hisses.

I shrug. “I suppose. They were his though.”

“He really is a wanker. I’m sorry because I know he’s your dad.”

I get out of the beanbag and put the book back on the display. “Yes, I gathered that was your opinion when I saw my dad last year in a pub. He said that after we split up, you found him in a pub and threatened him if he ever came near me when he was drunk again.”

“Yes.” He coughs and clears his throat. “Yes, well I think?—”

“Mr Travers?”

Max turns with relief to Paula, who is gesturing for him. He makes his escape, and I follow, a smile playing on my lips.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sighing and shifting around in an uncomfortable chair. Max and Paula carry on arranging the books, so I sigh louder. Eventually, Max and Paula look up at me.

“Something the matter, Felix?” Max says, an undercurrent of laughter threading his voice.