Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
By the time dinner comes around, I’ve come home a little early with my dad to freshen up and help get ready.
Mum’s busy making salads and marinading food for the grill.
Dad joins in to help her. The twins set the table, with some help from Leila to get down dishes and glasses from higher up in the cupboard.
I have a quick shower, nerves getting the better of me, and the warm water helps me calm down.
Everyone’s downstairs when Florian arrives, his black Mercedes pulling into the lane behind my parents’ vehicles. With the open windows, I can hear the gravel crunching, first as he drives slowly to park, then his footsteps as he goes to the front door.
I meet him there and answer before he rings the doorbell, pretending I’ve got chill. “Hey. You found us.”
Florian smiles, obviously pleased. “I brought this as a thank-you for having me over for dinner.” He offers a bottle of wine.
“Come in.” I step back after accepting the wine. Florian passes close enough I can smell his sunscreen, along with his cologne. It makes something tingle at the base of my spine. And then lower. Which is very terrible timing. And who knew I could get turned on by sunscreen?
When Florian enters, the twins immediately pounce. Maggie arrives first, skidding across the hardwood floor in her white socks.
“Hi, I’m Maggie. And this is Jess,” Maggie informs him immediately, grinning. The twins look like small versions of Mum, with their ginger hair and freckles.
“Are you Matty’s boyfriend?” Jess asks without missing a beat, right on her heels.
Maggie elbows her. “We’re supposed to ask his name first.” She peers up at Florian. “What’s your name?”
“Girls.” I eye the twins, reddening. “Sorry,” I say to Florian. “We don’t usually invite guests over for an interrogation. Maggie, Jess, this is Florian.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And I’m Matty’s friend,” Florian says smoothly.
They look disappointed. “Leila says you’re Matty’s boyfriend.” Jess peers up at him without guile.
“He’s a friend,” I say firmly.
“Who happens to be a boy.” Jess laughs.
“Welcome to chaos,” I inform Florian, who’s grinning.
“It’s fine,” he assures me. “Don’t worry.” He turns to the girls and crouches to get more on their level. “Do you want to know something?”
They approach Florian curiously. “What?” Maggie asks, obviously curious too.
“I have a twin brother.”
Which results in instant glee from the girls.
“Is he identical?” asks Maggie.
“Who’s older?” asks Jess, more or less at the same time.
“We’re not identical,” Florian concedes. “I’m older by three minutes.”
“I’m older,” Maggie says proudly. “Fifteen whole minutes.”
Florian makes the rounds of introductions with my parents and Leila, which go more smoothly. Soon, we sit outside on the patio with drinks, as my dad grills chicken and veggie kebabs on skewers. At the back of the garden, the twins burn off some of their energy on the swing.
Florian looks relaxed, as if he comes around for dinner all the time.
He’s very polite and as charming as expected.
And when dinner’s served, he tries absolutely everything.
Mum’s made dips and a chickpea salad and a lettuce salad too, and it’s all delicious, right down to the bread she baked this morning. Even the twins settle in to eat.
“Thank you so much for the excellent meal and company,” Florian says once we finish. The twins clear the dinner plates.
“We’re not done yet,” Mum says cheerfully. “I hope you saved room for apple pie.”
I perk up. My favorite dessert.
“Absolutely,” says Florian.
And we tackle the pie. My parents are very interested in Florian, who talks about his business as an investor and developer, that we met at my work in London, minus the tray-spilling disaster. He tells them he’s from London and grew up in Primrose Hill.
“My mum’s a barrister, and my father’s also in business,” Florian explains. “I took after him. And I have my brother, Gabriel. Unfortunately, no sisters.”
“They must all be so proud of you,” Mum remarks.
Florian smiles, but I can see it doesn’t reach his eyes. My family won’t know the difference. But I do. “They appreciate my accomplishments,” he says smoothly. “My parents are also very driven in their careers.”
I can’t say I’m feeling particularly driven about my career path at the minute. Instead, I glance at Florian, who sits beside me. I wonder what the rest of his business investments are like. Or if he’s only driven by profits.
Then Maggie diverts the conversation to how her bunny had babies, and the twins give an inventory of the extensive number of pets under our roof, from goldfish to the dog and cat.
When Florian says he doesn’t have any pets, they’re scandalized.
And when he tells them he had adopted an old senior cat who eventually went on to kitty heaven, they’re both delighted that he’d save an old cat and also sad that she died.
I don’t know how to read Florian. Especially this charming version of Florian that my family’s fallen for just as much as I have. It’s so hard to reconcile with what he’s doing with the Rose.
After dinner, we help with the clearing up, and Florian insists on helping with the dishes, which is essentially us loading the dishwasher.
The twins go to play outside in the garden after they’ve brought everything inside.
Leila retreats to her room. Dad goes back to the pub.
Mum tells us we can have more pie if we want, but we’re stuffed.
She puts the kettle on for tea if we would like any.
Her phone rings, and she excuses herself to go answer, leaving Florian and me standing in the kitchen, leaning against opposite counters, waiting for the kettle.
The sun’s lowering, and the garden has long shadows.
It’s warm and bright, and the evening light has a golden glow.
Florian’s quiet, watching me. At last, he speaks. “I should probably go soon. Let you get on with your evening.”
Then, I swallow hard, shaking my head. “Not yet. I need to show you something.”
His eyebrow lifts, and I redden. “Not like that.”
He laughs, and I laugh, and it cuts the tension.
“If you’d like, I could show you a few of my paintings,” I say.
His eyes widen, and instinctively, Florian moves closer. I don’t know if he even realizes. “I would love to see your work.”
Soon, we take our tea upstairs, up the back of the house on the narrow staircase that leads to the loft extension.
“This house is very beautiful. It feels like a proper home,” Florian tells me as we walk down the hall to my studio room. “Mine feels so spartan.”
“You do have a lot of blank walls, I couldn’t help but notice,” I say.
Family pictures hang on the wall, with a handmade quilt draped over the staircase guardrail. The cat pads past us as if she’s off to do something important.
“That’s Misty,” I say, opening the door to my loft studio. It’s warm and darkish in here, and I immediately open the closest skylight for fresh air. The room smells faintly of oil paints. I turn on the studio lights.