Chapter 4
FOUR
Baby steps. Rafe was willing to consider the idea of marriage for a visa. It was a baby step. He hadn’t said yes, but they were moving forward.
“Let’s do something fun today,” he told Rafe as the two of them finished breakfast in Rafe’s flat, one floor up from where Jake was staying.
It was Saturday, three days after Jake had arrived, and although he’d finally adjusted to UK time, he hadn’t had a chance to go grocery shopping yet. Fortunately, Rafe and the rest of the Hawthornes had been willing to feed him until he could go out to forage for supplies.
Not that he had a lot of money for supplies.
“What qualifies as ‘fun’ in your world?” Rafe asked as he tidied up his kitchen, putting everything away in its place. Jake was surprised every spot wasn’t labeled.
Jake shrugged and grabbed a cloth from the sink to help by wiping down the counters. “Let’s go into London. We could ride the London Eye, do a Thames riverboat tour, see the Tower of London.”
Rafe stared flatly at him. “That’s really what you want to do? You want to go to all the tourist traps?”
Jake laughed. “Why not? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re in London?”
Rafe studied him for a long time, so long that Jake’s body heated, and not in the good way. Any second now, Rafe would see through the string of lies he’d told and send him packing. It’d only been three days, but if he could just push things to the point where Rafe agreed fully to marry him and he secured a fiancé visa at least, then maybe he could breathe a little easier.
Just when Jake thought he’d have to go downstairs and start packing, Rafe dropped his shoulders with a sigh and said, “Alright.”
Jake burst into a grin. That was more like it.
“We could take the train into town, if that’s easier,” he said, rubbing the counters with more vigor, then rinsing the cloth in the sink. “You know how I love trains.”
Rafe cracked a smile. It was a small one, but it had Jake beaming like he’d won a prize. Rafe had the most beautiful smile when he let himself go. He really was gorgeous. He was tall, dark, and handsome in a classically British style. Now that he’d met the rest of Rafe’s family—and the Hawthornes were growing on him, but families were still timebombs to him—he could see those good looks were genetic. But Rafe also had a sort of earnestness that made him beautiful, whether he was cleaning up a kitchen, strolling through the grounds of his family’s impressive estate, or drenched in sweat from the hot shop.
Jake particularly liked him dripping in sweat. He’d like to make Rafe sweat in other ways, too. He’d tried flirting in the last few days, and so far, he’d gotten signals that said horizontal happy times weren’t out of the question.
“We’ll drive,” Rafe said, heading out of the kitchen, Jake following. “Traffic will be awful, but I’ve got connections when it comes to finding a good parking space.”
Jake couldn’t wait to learn what those connections were. He practically bounced out of the flat and downstairs to the parking lot on Rafe’s heels.
He was well aware that he was a cliché, manic American most of the time. But he was in England, the place he felt most at home, despite not having been born there. He couldn’t contain his enthusiasm for things that Rafe and his family, and everyone else on that sceptered isle, probably took for granted every day. He loved sitting on the wrong side of the car, listening to commercials in thick, British accents on the radio as they drove, and seeing signs for sales at the shops in pound signs instead of dollar signs. He was exactly where he wanted to be, forever, and every little thing made him smile.
All he had to do now was play his cards right so he could stay in the place that made him smile forever. And Rafe was a huge part of that.
“So no classes on weekends?” he asked as they wound their way through congested streets toward the heart of the city.
Rafe shook his head. “Not in the summer. Dad says the number of people signing up for classes over the summer versus those flying down to Ibiza or some other island isn’t worth the cost of staying open on weekends.”
Jake nodded. “Sensible.”
“Mum and Dad don’t like having classes on the weekend even during the rest of the year, though that’s when a lot more people would be able to come,” Rafe went on. “They want our weekends to be for family time and our own artistic pursuits.”
“That’s nice of them.”
It was nice, though Jake still couldn’t believe anyone’s parents would be so accommodating to a family that was as queer as Rafe’s.
Then again, the entire point of leaving his place of origin and all the baggage it had heaped on his shoulders to run away to England was because he wanted something radically different from the life he’d lived. It was so hard to forget sometimes that not everyone, every family, was the same, and that there were people in the world who might actually accept him just the way he was.
“It must be incredible having your own hot shop right in your backyard,” he chatted on, watching the world he so desperately wanted to be a part of zip past the car windows.
Rafe nodded. “It’s convenient. It was especially nice when I was younger. It meant I could develop my skills faster. Although Dad and I pretty much had to build the hot shop from scratch.”
“Does Robert blow glass, too?” Jake asked.
“He used to, but it wasn’t his specialty,” Rafe answered. “He was a painter for the most part, but as soon as he got the idea for the arts center, back in the nineties when the school folded, he invested everything the family had in building up the facilities. I was interested in glassblowing so we got a hot shop.”
Jake smiled. That was perfection right there. Who needed world renown and a jet-setting lifestyle when you had every artistic facility you could possibly dream of at your fingertips?
“My hot shop is good,” Rafe went on. “It used to be the stables for the house. We gutted the building and replaced the insides with the equipment you’ve been working on. But Hélène Rénard’s studio in Paris is much nicer.”
Jake tensed. “You’ve been to Hélène’s hot shop in Paris?”
Throwing in Hélène Rénard and the possibility of an apprenticeship had been Jake’s Hail Mary when it came to convincing Rafe to marry him. The truth was that he didn’t have anything to offer Rafe. Not really. He’d met Hélène once at a benefit in LA five years ago, but he didn’t think he’d made much of an impression on her. Hélène’s apprenticeships were one of the most scintillating secrets of the glass world. Everyone knew she helped young artists now and then, but they didn’t know she worked intensively with them, too. He’d only found out that she sometimes took up-and-coming artists on through the grapevine.
He'd needed something big to convince Rafe to marry him, and Hélène Rénard was as big as it got in their world. Now that the carrot was dangling, he needed to get Rafe’s name on an official document along with his as soon as possible so he could stay in the UK. But if Rafe knew Hélène better than him, things could get dicey.
“I’ve never been,” Rafe said. “But I’ve heard about it and seen pictures.”
Jake wanted to heave a sigh of relief, but compulsion had other ideas for him. “Oh, it’s amazing,” he said, his heart rate kicking up. “She has the finest equipment money can buy, several furnaces, and a whole team of assistants. The whole thing was built in an old warehouse near Bercy. She has a permanent gallery on the first floor.”
He held his breath, hoping he’d given enough detail for Rafe to believe he’d been there instead of just reading articles about the place.
“It must be outstanding,” Rafe said, no sign of calling Jake’s bluff. “I’d like to keep improving the stable until it’s at that level someday.”
Jake let out a breath and smiled, asking questions and prompting Rafe to talk about his plans for the hot shop as they continued their drive. Whatever he could do to divert questions away from him, he’d do. He delayed the inevitable moment when Rafe asked the wrong question and unraveled his web entirely for as long as possible.
Once they reached London proper, he had more than enough to talk about. They parked someplace near Hyde Park, in an underground parking garage that was reserved for members of some sort of gay men’s social organization called The Brotherhood that Rafe belonged to.
“We’ll come back and have lunch at The Chameleon Club later,” Rafe said as they walked up an external flight of stairs to the street without going into the club. “It’s a short walk to the Tube from here, so we can go wherever you want to go stand around looking like a bloody tourist first.”
Jake laughed. It was a genuine laugh. Rafe had no idea how charming he was.
They crossed the street and headed up a bit to the nearest Underground station, then hopped on a train to take them to Westminster. It was by far not Jake’s first trip to London and he’d actually done most of the really touristy things before, but visiting them again was like saying hello to an old friend.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been on the London Eye before,” he said after he and Rafe bought their tickets.
“I can’t believe we have to wait in line for two hours to ride an overgrown Ferris wheel,” Rafe groused.
Jake laughed and elbowed him as they walked over to join the queue. “You’re not really this much of a grump. What’s gotten into you?”
He meant the question to be playful, but Rafe’s frown deepened. “I don’t know,” he said, looking up at the wheel, out over the Thames, through the crowd of tourists, and anywhere but at him. He even rubbed his forehead like he had a headache coming on.
“It’s me, isn’t it,” Jake said, his insides twisting despite his efforts to keep smiling. “I’m that garish, annoying American who showed up out of nowhere to throw a bomb in your life.”
A few of the people standing near them looked at Jake in horror.
“This isn’t America,” Rafe mumbled. “Keep your bombs to yourself.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how good my bomb could be,” Jake replied in a low voice. Innuendo was the low-hanging fruit of desperation, but that was because it usually worked.
Sure enough, Rafe snapped a look at him, his cheeks flushing and his eyes wide. “Are you really flirting with me in the line for the London Eye?” he asked, incredulous.
“I could do a better job if you want me to,” Jake said, brushing his hand over Rafe’s backside as subtly as he could.
“Not in front of the children,” Rafe said through clenched teeth.
He had a perfectly straight face, and there was an Asian family with three small kids near them, but the twinkle in Rafe’s eyes said he was joking.
Jake loved it. So much that it almost brought tears to his eyes. His plan was going to work. Everything would be okay. He knew coming to Rafe for help was a good idea. The two of them could be more than friends. He was certain he could win Rafe over if he played his cards right.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “Kids love me. I used to volunteer at an after-school arts program in Ann Arbor when I was in high school.”
The prickly, panicked feeling that always came over him when his compulsion kicked in suddenly had Jake dancing from foot to foot and wishing the line would move faster.
“You’ve got more patience than me, then,” Rafe said. “I don’t do well with children.”
“Yeah, it was just that one year,” Jake said, switching his tone so Rafe would think he didn’t like kids either. “I prefer much more adult pursuits.” Anything to make Rafe feel a connection between them.
He swayed closer to Rafe, brushing Rafe’s arm with his.
Rafe cleared his throat and took a big step forward as the line advanced.
Panic settled in Jake’s gut. He had to make certain Rafe liked him. This whole fake marriage plan depended on convincing Rafe he was the best thing that had ever happened in his life and that marrying him and helping him with a visa would benefit him, too.
“Don’t you just hate how full of tourists places like this are?” he asked, sniffing and imitating the way Rafe stood.
“I beg your pardon,” Rafe said in the most British way possible. “You’re one of those tourists.”
“I am not,” Jake protested as they moved forward again. “I’m British at heart.”
“Why?” Rafe asked, making the single word as dry as the Mojave. “Why would anyone who doesn’t have to be here want to move to this place?” He glanced around with his nose wrinkled.
“Because it’s home,” Jake said with a sigh. “I can’t explain it, I just feel safer here. Everything is simpler here. It’s quieter and kinder and not so tangled.”
“Tangled?” Rafe arched one eyebrow.
Another wave of anxious heat flooded Jake. “I mean, the English way of life is simpler than things in America.”
It was generic enough that Rafe might let the whole thing pass without question.
Rafe stared at him for a long time without saying anything. That was worse than if he’d called Jake out on the spot. Rafe wasn’t stupid. He knew something, knew there had to be a reason Jake would drop his life on a dime and attempt to start over on another continent with only the contents of a suitcase and a backpack. Jake just had to keep it together long enough to get that visa and then the whole, sordid truth could come out.
“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked to fill the brittle silence.
“No, not really,” Rafe said in the most banal way possible.
“Well, I am,” Jake said. “You’ll have to hold my hand when we’re up at the top.”
Rafe sent him a look that said he knew full well what kind of fishing Jake was doing.
He knew, but when they got to the front of the line and climbed into their pod along with a dozen other people, he reached for Jake’s hand.
“Since you’re afraid of heights,” Rafe said with a wry grin.
Jake’s heart melted. Rafe didn’t have to play along with him. He didn’t have to do anything. When he called him last month to blurt out his proposal, Rafe could have told him to bugger off and hung up the phone.
But there they were, slowly rising up over the grand city of London, and Rafe was holding his hand. Even though he’d lied about being afraid of heights and Rafe probably knew it.
He’d lied and Rafe had still accepted him. Maybe this could work after all. Maybe he should just tell Rafe everything, tell him how he’d been caught lying on his resume, how he’d been fired from his production glass job, and how he’d nearly over-drafted all his accounts and drained his savings. Maybe Rafe would help him instead of telling him to go fuck himself, like the friends they’d had in Corning had done, like all the people he’d once considered friends had done.
Rafe was his last hope, and he was determined to hold onto that hope as long as he could.
An hour and a half later, that hope wavered.
They were sitting at a small table in what had once been a Georgian ballroom but was now the public dining room of The Chameleon Club. A gorgeous waiter with olive skin and black hair had just brought their sandwiches. Jake had just taken his first bite of turkey and brie with cranberry compote, and Rafe stared seriously at him and asked, “Why were you such a self-serving, arrogant arse in Corning?”
Jake nearly choked on his sandwich. “What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely, reaching for his glass of water.
“You were a loud, obnoxious fool,” Rafe said, picking up his roast beef sandwich without lifting it to his mouth. “You had to answer every question first, you spoke over other people, and when Hero Yoshito stepped over to assess my work, you dragged him over to your display without a second thought.”
Jake swallowed his water uncomfortably, then set his glass down. He stared at it for a few seconds as he scrambled to construct a plausible story that would make Rafe happy instead of telling him the truth.
The problem was, Rafe deserved the truth. Especially since he needed Rafe to stop himself from crashing and burning. In this particular case, the truth would be better than a lie to win Rafe over.
“I needed that internship,” he said, shoulders hunched a little and head bowed, looking at Rafe like a dog afraid of being kicked. “I…my last studio glass job didn’t work out. I needed that internship to boost my credibility.”
“But you’re already one of the most talented and well-respected artists in our field,” Rafe said, radiating frustration. “You’re friends with everyone. The rest of us didn’t stand a chance against you. The least you could have done was share the spotlight.”
“I was scared,” Jake said, barely audible, though he did manage to hold Rafe’s gaze. “I needed that internship.”
“Well, you didn’t get it,” Rafe said, raising his sandwich at last, “and none of the rest of us did either. Yoshita went home and plucked someone from an art school in Tokyo and the rest of us went home. Now I’m teaching glassblowing to locals from suburban London instead of showing at galleries.” He bit into his sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said, feeling horrible. “You really are talented, Rafe. You don’t need one of the greats to notice you in order to shine.”
Yes. That was the track he needed to take with Rafe. If he could build up Rafe’s self-esteem to the point where he didn’t need someone like Hero Yoshita’s or Hélène Rénard’s coattails to ride then Rafe would become a famous glass artist, the two of them could get married, he’d get his visa, and maybe something even crazier, like the two of them falling in love, could happen.
He bit into his sandwich again, watching Rafe to try to figure out where his thoughts were going. The trouble was, Rafe was watching him, probably with the same intent. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to use Rafe after all. In so many ways, the two of them were equally matched. That was great in the hot shop and undoubtedly in bed, too, but dangerous when it came to these games he was playing.
They ate their lunches in silence, though Jake didn’t know how he managed to choke his sandwich down with the weight of anticipation sitting on his stomach. When they were finally done and Rafe signed something adding the cost of the meal to his tab, Rafe leaned back in his chair and smiled.
It was terrifying.
“So,” Rafe said, clapping his hands together. “Screw this London touristy shit. How would you like to see some real England?”
Jake sat straighter, buoyed by the enthusiasm in Rafe’s question. It was like Rafe actually liked him.
“I’d love it,” he said, heart beating faster.
Rafe pushed his chair back and stood. “Come on, then,” he said, gesturing for Jake to follow him away from the table. “I’m going to show you what real England is all about.”