Page 35 of After Felix (Close Proximity #3)
“Not…” I rack my brain. “Not Harry?”
He shakes his head with a wry look on his face. “No. I overindulged my taste for complicated men in my private life. My harmless crushes are reserved now for nice men.”
“So, why this song?” I ask, steering the subject to hopefully safer topics.
“I like the way he speaks French.”
I listen to the song for a few moments. “That isn’t French,” I say disgustedly. “He’s just saying he likes the sea. It’s hardly the language of poets.” I step over to him and draw him close. “I’ll speak French to you,” I say far too possessively.
He stares up at me, his eyes dark, and I realise what I’ve done. “Sorry,” I say.
I try to step back, but my arms have another say in the matter, and they refuse to let go. I automatically inhale his scent of oranges and fresh cold air and revel in the feel of the contours of his body against mine. It’s an extraordinary relief. Almost painful in its pleasure. Like coming home.
I expect him to pull free, but he just stares at me his face unreadable. “Go on, then,” he says, his voice low and slightly unsteady. “Say something in French.”
So, I do. I tell him how much I adore him; how sad the years have been without him.
I tell him how beautiful his eyes are and about the fullness of his red mouth.
I tell him how I turn around a thousand times a day to tell him something and how it still surprises me that he’s not there.
How it baffles me that someone I knew for so few months could have worked their way into the marrow of my bones, and there will never be any removing of him. I tell him I never want that.
The words trail away into silence, and he stares up at me, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark.
“Oh…” He clears his throat. “Oh, that was lovely.” He seems to recall himself and steps back slightly. “I mean well done on your language studies at school, Max.”
I gaze into his eyes, and when he makes to move away entirely, I say, “Wait!” and pull him back possessively. He stiffens and I work to moderate my caveman tone. “I’ll show you some decent music,” I say.
“Was it composed by a man with a mullet who takes off beer bottle tops with his teeth?”
I snort. “There’s nothing wrong with doing that,” I say primly. “Saves on buying bottle openers and those people are very in demand at parties.”
He laughs and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Go on, then. Show me.”
I take his phone and scroll through Spotify, shaking my head in despair at the playlist called “Happy Pop.” Finally, I find what I’m looking for and press Play.
“What is this?” he asks as the first notes spill into the darkened room like liquid gold on the air.
“Paul Weller’s ‘Gravity’,” I say. Keeping him in my arms, I begin to dance slowly.
“What are you doing ?” he asks, sounding more scandalised than if I’d bent him over the balcony and rimmed him. Knowing Felix, he’d probably have preferred that.
“I’m dancing,” I say. “It’s romantic.”
“Since when are you romantic, and why on earth are you doing it with me?”
There is no one else on earth I would ever want to do this with.
I pull him closer and notice that he isn’t struggling. “I should have done this a long time ago,” I say.
“I can’t think when we’d have had the time in between all those bouts of shagging we did,” he says, his voice muffled against my shoulder. “Just know that I’m enduring this for you, Max.”
I chuckle. “You’re such a brave little soldier.” I spin him in the darkened room. The moonlight on the water outside sends ripples of light over his sharp features. I tighten my arms, feeling his unruly hair brush my chin.
I will do anything to keep you. Anything , I think fiercely.
“This song reminds me of you,” I say out loud.
“Why?” he whispers .
“Because since the day I met you, you’ve been the thing that stops me floating away.”
“So I tie you down? How lovely.”
“Being tethered isn’t always a bad thing,” I say.
“And floating free isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
” I pause. I’m known for my way with words—I’ve written thousands of sentences, conveyed myriad ideas—but these feel like the most important words I might ever say.
“You strengthen me, give me a reason to stay and not go hying off. You give me peace. You always have.”
For a few moments all I hear is the song and his shallow breathing. “You hate romance, Max,” he finally says. “I remember that very clearly, so where is this even coming from?”
“I don’t hate saying such things to you because they’re not throw-away lines or things I’ve made up to sound pretty.
They’re the unvarnished truth. And the way I was with you before was my mistake—one of the many I made.
I never romanced you. I never said nice things.
I just tumbled you into bed and never got my head out of my arse after that. ”
The song finishes, the last notes dying away to be replaced by silence. When he pulls away, my arms want to keep him again, but I know I’m pushing my luck. I force my body to relax and watch him take a few steps back.
“It’s too late,” he whispers. “Far too late for that now. It’s all water under the bridge.”
“Water has a way of circulating, and Venice is full of bridges,” I say steadily, my eyes fixed on his face. “It’s not over for me and you know that. It never will be.”
“It is for me.”
I note his flushed cheeks and the tremor in his hands as he clasps them together. His body language does not say, “unmoved.”
“Okay,” I say placidly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
His eyes narrow. “You should do,” he says, drawing himself up and gathering his control. “I’m immune to you now, Max. We’re friends, and that’s all it will ever be.”
“Of course,” I say and lean back against a handy cupboard. “Well, friend, tomorrow I’ve got a lot planned for us, so go to bed and get an early night.”
“You’re not going to try and get me into bed?” He sounds bemused and adorably put out.
“Perish the thought,” I say cheerfully. “We need our energy for tomorrow.”
“What have you got planned?”
“Seeing some sights, eating out at restaurants I know.”
His expression becomes nonplussed. He nods, murmurs, “Goodnight,” and he walks away.
“And getting you back,” I whisper to his retreating form. “That’s my only real plan, Felix Jackson.”