Page 34 of After Felix (Close Proximity #3)

He glances back at us and smiles. I catch my breath because it’s the smile he used to flash at me so often—full and wide, with a wicked edge.

“He’s very beautiful,” Giulia murmurs. “And sharp. But fragile too. It’s there under the pretty exterior. Be careful with that boy, Max, or you’ll lose him completely.”

It had taken her only a few minutes to see him clearly, and I’m jealous of her talent. I’d been dazzled by his sparkling exterior and sharp tongue and recognised his layer of fragility far too late.

“I will,” I vow. “I’m getting him back, Giulia. This is my chance.”

“Yes, I think you will too,” she says. There’s more hope than certainty in her voice, but I can work with both.

She hands me the room key. “Two bedrooms, Max? You’re losing your touch.”

“Thank God for that,” I mutter. “If I’d touched many more men, I’d have been in danger of losing the skin on my fingertips.”

She laughs and turns to deal with another customer, and I gesture to Felix to join me at the lifts.

“She seems nice,” he says as the doors open, and we get in.

“She’s lovely. She and her husband have run this place for twenty years. They restored the building from scratch, as it was falling down. Their sons do a lot of the work now, but she still likes to keep her hand in.”

The lift pings and Felix follows me out and into a corridor carpeted with a gorgeous blue-and-gold oriental runner. “She seems to know you well.”

“I’ve been coming here for years. It’s a home away from home.”

He smirks. “Only you would call a fifteenth-century palazzo a home.”

I search my pockets for the key to our room. “I’m at home anywhere. It doesn’t matter whether it’s an expensive hotel or a tent in Afghanistan.” I pause. “Although I have to say, I prefer a hotel. Hot water and a nice bed should never be taken for granted. ”

He leans against the wall. “I have to say it’s one of your best qualities,” he says in a contemplative fashion.

I’m startled, and I must show it. “I’m astonished that you think I’ve got one good quality, let alone a few.”

He walks into the room as I gesture him in. “You have many good qualities, Max. That’s what makes it all so difficult. Wow! This is bloody amazing.”

I follow him in, shutting the door and leaning against it unconsciously, as if my body wants to keep him from escaping.

It’s a beautifully lavish suite. Two bedrooms run off the main room, which has an antique sofa and rather delicate-looking chairs.

They’re upholstered in rich blue fabrics that echo the silk paper on the walls, the whole effect one of quiet opulence, as if we’re staying in someone’s home.

I eye Felix and see him relax as if he senses that vibe.

He’d had a wobble on the Orient Express, but now he seems to be at home. Good.

He makes a beeline to the floor-to-ceiling patio doors that lead onto the balcony. It has a spectacular view over the Grand Canal. Opposite us is the church of Santa Maria della Salute and, despite the sunlight dipping into night, the water is busy with boats and gondolas.

He hangs over the balcony, his eyes everywhere and his face alight. “This is amazing,” he murmurs, shooting me a quick glance before being drawn back to the view. “It’s too expensive.”

“No, it isn’t,” I say briskly, preferring to watch him rather than the view.

I never get tired of his face. His cheeks are flushed with the cold, and his hair is a wavy mess from the wind, and he has never looked more beautiful to me.

I never get tired of him, period. He’s endlessly fascinating to me.

“I would like to draw your attention to the fact that there are two bedrooms in this suite,” I say. “Just to fend off any accusation of being some sort of rake.”

He grins at me. “Bagsy the biggest bedroom.”

“Well, of course,” I say sourly. “Why discontinue the theme of our trip so far?”

He laughs and heads off to explore the suite. I smile when I hear his shout from the bathroom. “Oh my God, Max, this bath is huge . It’s big enough to swim in, and it’s right in front of the window. I can lie there and look out on the water.”

“Don’t stand up though, or the boaters will get a lovely view of your dick,” I say.

My knowledge is born of experience—I’d startled a boatload of nuns a few years ago.

“I suppose my role in this scenario is to fetch you food and drink.” I smile as I pick up his luggage and follow the sound of his voice.

“Oh my God, look at this bloody bed. It’s sodding huge. Is it an antique?”

I come round the corner to find him sitting on the huge four-poster bed, bouncing up and down lightly. I shake my head. “You look like a kid.”

He laughs. “I feel like one. This is amazing.” He stops bouncing. “Thank you,” he says seriously.

“What for?”

He arches one eyebrow. “For world peace.” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “Thank you for all this. You shouldn’t have done it.”

“I should have done it when I first met you,” I say, keeping my tone brisk so he doesn’t startle away. “We should have gone straight from the bookshop to Venice and stayed here. I should have romanced you.”

“Well, nothing says romance quite like dangling a room key and promising a good shag. And if we’d headed to Venice, you’d have missed out on the world-class shagging within ten minutes of meeting me.”

I make some remark that I’m hardly paying any attention to, and he laughs, but I was speaking the truth.

I should have got to know him the first time we’d been together.

I should have romanced him. If I had, would we have missed out on the heartbreak and the lost years?

My cynical side says we’d have imploded in the same way anyway because of Ivo.

But my more idealistic side insists we’d have lasted.

I would have realised almost immediately what I had, rather than throwing it all away on a silly and ancient dream and realising my error far too late.

He crosses to the window, as if magnetically attracted to the view, and I contemplate the best time to bring up the subject that will allow us to finally move forward.

We have to talk about Ivo. Every time we get close to discussing him, I freeze, or he changes the subject.

It’s as if neither of us wants to spoil the delicate detente that we have going between us.

I’ve always thought that if I could have just stayed sober at Ivo’s wedding and talked to Felix properly, he’d have stayed, and now I have this deep-seated fear that if I finally address the Ivo issue, it still won’t make any difference, and he’ll leave.

And then I’ll have nothing, because even hope will finally have fucked off and left me.

“I’m going to unpack,” I tell him. “Get changed, and we’ll go and have dinner.”

Tonight we’ll talk, I tell myself firmly. No more prevaricating. Get the job done.

Three hours later, we’ve finished a post-dinner walk, and I follow Felix back into the hotel room.

“Well done, Max,” I mutter under my breath, “Great talk.”

I never got near any of my chosen subjects, because Felix started to ask me questions, and I’d been swept up in his company.

He was always interested in a wide variety of topics, but now he’s more widely read, and he’s become fanatically interested in politics.

We ate on the hotel terrace, watching the sun sink into the horizon while drinking a bottle of wine and arguing passionately and amicably about the state of UK politics.

I completely forgot to turn the conversation the way I wanted.

“What did you say?” Felix asks, glancing at me. He’s dressed in skinny black chinos, a white shirt, and a grey V-neck jumper with a heavy shawl-collared black cardigan slung over the top. His cheeks are flushed from the cold wind and wine. He looks beautiful.

“It was a lovely walk after dinner,” I say quickly.

He grins. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, Max.”

His words hit me in my heart because Venice will always be my special place. I want to take him everywhere. To the small bars I know, the little squares that tourists don’t find. I want to climb the staircase of the Scala Contarini del Bovolo with him and show him Venice in the early morning light.

“You have a planning face on,” he informs me, taking off his cardigan and throwing it over a chair. He opens the tall doors to let in the cold night air. I miss the scents that linger in Venice during the summer months, but the chilly wind is exhilarating.

“Not at all,” I say. “You know me, Felix. I like to take life as it comes.”

“Only if it comes at one thousand miles an hour.”

“You know me so well.”

“A fact that my therapist and I continue to bewail,” he calls as he walks out onto the balcony.

I laugh. “Do you want a drink? Giulia keeps a cocktail cabinet in here.”

He pops his head around the door, his face alight with mischief. “Going to get me drunk and try to have your wicked way with me?”

I swallow hard. “It never took much alcohol before,” I say feebly and wince because I just made him sound like a tart.

He laughs and walks back into the room. “You are quite right, Max. I’m just easy.”

“You have never been easy for a second of your life,” I inform him.

His laughter is rich and bright in the high-ceilinged room, and, as always, it makes me smile. “I’m going to put some music on,” he declares as I open the cocktail cabinet and pull bottles out.

“Oh dear,” I say faintly into the depths of the cupboard. Our musical tastes will never coincide. He likes poppy stuff with lyrics that make me want to gouge my eyes out, while he declares that all of my music is “Dad Music.”

A second later, I wince at the tune. “Is this someone from One Direction?” I ask.

He grins. “I’m awarding you points for getting a band name right. I was very sad when they split up.”

“It was such a tragedy to music,” I say solemnly.

He laughs. “This is Niall Horan.”

I cock my head to one side. “You actually like this?”

“I do, Grandpa. I really do. I always liked him best. ”