After Felix - Lily Morton Page 0,25

washout,” I say. “Did you need me for anything? Because I’m going to bugger off back to the office.”

“And we’re okay?” he asks.

I take a few moments to consider my response. “I don’t think we’re anything,” I say finally. “So, I’m not sure why you’re concerned.” The words feel like ash in my mouth, wrong and dry. I draw in a deep and hopefully unobtrusive breath. “Sure you don’t want to finish it?” I make myself say lightly, even though it’s the very last thing I want.

His expression becomes stricken. “No,” he says quickly. “No, I don’t want that.” I exhale in relief, wanting to sag against the wall. “I’m sorry it came across that way,” he says. “I guess I was in a funny mood anyway, and Patrick always has a detrimental effect on me.” I grimace sympathetically, but he’s still talking. “I got an invite today,” he says, staring far too hard into the shop window next to him.

“Oh,” I say cautiously. “To make a speech?” He seems to get those sorts of offers three or four times a day.

“No.” He shuffles uncomfortably. “I’m going to be the best man at a wedding.”

“Well, that’s nice.” I hesitate. I’m really at sea. Why is he telling me this? Then realisation dawns. “Oh,” I say before I can stop my fucking mouth. “Did you want me to go with you?”

He jerks his head up, his expression utterly discomposed and startled.

My stomach sinks. Obviously not.

“Never mind,” I say quickly, forcing a careless laugh. “Wrong end of the stick.”

Once again, I go to turn away, and, once again, he grabs my hand. “Wait,” he says, and then more words tumble out. “Maybe you could come. It would be nice to have you with me, and the wedding is in Cornwall, which is lovely.”

I stare at him. That all sounded far too much like a question for it to be flattering. “I’ve never been to Cornwall before,” I say without thinking.

“Really?”

“Never had any cash. I don’t think I’ve even been out of London apart from a trip to Norfolk to visit a relative of my dad’s.”

Something crosses his face. Something strong and fierce. “Then you come with me,” he says in a voice full of emotion. “Come with me to the wedding.”

I eye him dubiously, and when he gazes back at me without flinching, I essay a small smile. “That might be nice,” I say.

His sudden laughter chases the unfamiliar emotions from his face. “Then it’s a date.”

“I think we’ve skipped rather quickly over a date and ended up on a dirty weekend,” I say demurely, glad he can’t hear the hammering of my heart. “Goodness, I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’m not that type of boy.”

“Are you sure? That’s disappointing.” He gestures toward the end of the road. “How about we go to lunch, and I’ll tell you the details?”

I nod slowly, considering his mood change. Actually, all of his moods today have been uncharacteristic. Normally he’s very even-tempered.

With a thrill, I wonder whether he wants to ask me to change our relationship. Zeb is right. Things have changed between us. Maybe Max wants to date and he’s nervous about asking me.

“So, whose wedding are we going to?” I ask as we turn and start to walk along the road.

He stares ahead. “My best friend Ivo.”

I look at him. That name seems to ring a bell in my head. I wonder where I’ve heard it before but then dismiss the thought and hasten after him.

The lunch is easy and full of our usual laughter. Still, even though Max is fully present, laughing and joking and talking a mile a minute, I get the impression that those odd feelings from earlier are still there, like a whirlpool under the water waiting to suck us under.

He leaves me at the door of the agency with a promise to pick me up later and a kiss that’s warm on my lips and tastes of the strawberries he had for dessert.

I watch him walk down the road. A few people take notice of his tall, wide-shouldered frame as he goes past. And then he’s lost in a patch of shadow that feels somehow ominous.

I jump as Zeb says from behind me, “So, you and Max?”

I spin around to find him leaning against the wall by the door. “Shit, you frightened me.” His gaze remains fixed on me, and I say hesitantly, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind about what?” His expression turns