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He shrugged. “Anyone would have done the same, after that phone call.”
“No, they wouldn’t. They didn’t. Only you. And I’ll never know what I would have done if you hadn’t come when you did. But I know it wouldn’t have been good. It’s… it’s unlikely I’d be standing here today.”
For a few seconds he stared at me, as if trying to peer into my soul. Tucked into the front of my wallet was the only reminder I’d kept of those last psychotic days before Florian found me on the bathroom floor. I’d sold the apartment, its contents, everything except the pictures of Florian and a handful of bits and pieces belonging to my mother. And a crinkled and worn plastic sachet of salt, harvested by hand by the precious man watching me as if he couldn’t decide whether to punch me or kiss me.
He did neither.
“Okay. You can help with all this.” He swept an arm across the desk. “God knows we need it. Help me recruit some employees and a good accountant. I… I… can’t… that’s all I’ve got at the moment.”
I had to ask. The question tormenting my every waking minute. Because I recalled an attractive lovesick policeman hovering around the fringes of his group at L’Escale. I recalled the crowds gathered daily at the salt flats, their numbers swelling on the hot days when he raked shirtless. I recalled how beautiful he looked naked. My heart thudded.
“Have… have you met someone else?”
For a fraction of a second, an expression I couldn’t interpret stole across his face. And then it was gone, and the determined jut of his jaw returned. “No. I have not.”
CHAPTER 32
FLORIAN
Oh, fucking merde, the man was good at this. I could see how he’d made his millions. Charles scanned the accountant’s list of balanced debits and credits as though he was checking off his shopping list. And the pile of government forms, whose baleful gaze had followed me around the room every time I squeezed past, he completed in the blink of an eye.
I’d learned all of his facial expressions too. The serious lip-chewing one, as he pored over some indecipherable bullshit, just before he pushed his glasses up his nose and pronounced it fascinating. The small hesitancy as he double-checked his homework before patiently explaining a piece of genius, as though I’d be able to spot if he’d made an error. On the rare occasions I shoved something I’d managed to complete unaided under his nose, he had a tender way of saying well done, which made my dick half hard. As though I’d suddenly developed a praise kink. The almost shy way he peeked up at me when he was on the phone to a buyer, followed by the undisguised twitch of his lips as he informed whoever was on the other end that he’d check with the boss. It was a wonder office workers achieved anything.
And did I mention his accent? Because the joys of that hadn’t diminished with the passing of time. Mon dieu, non. And magnified tenfold in the confines of that small office, which must have had some weird acoustic shit going on. Every word that came out of his mouth was ninety per cent hot seduction and ten percent another slice of hot seduction. He asked me to pass him a ratty old file and all I heard was take me to bed.
I needed to get back out on the rake. Back into the fresh air and breathing in some common sense. Because that concept called self-preservation? I needed to locate it. Or at least not appear to be quite so easy.
Thankfully, we soon appointed an office manager. And just my luck, the best applicant happened to be a man as queer as a three-euro coin. Not that I would ever point that out to Charles, seeing as they would be spending a couple of mornings a week together. Suffice to say, I now had another thing to worry about, because when Charles bent over the filing cabinet to retrieve yet another sheaf of dullness gathering dust in a forgotten drawer, I wasn’t the only member of the ‘management team’ feigning an interest in the bottom line.
“Are you back to fucking him yet? He’s been hanging around for over a fortnight.”
I was going off Nico’s friendly little coffee break chats. The sight of his lean frame sprawled carelessly across my splintery bench had ceased to have its usual titillating effect on me (again) around two weeks ago, a handy barometer for telling me everything I didn’t already know.
“Or are you playing hard to get? That must be a novel game for you.”
I huffed down next to him and grimaced as I rolled my complaining shoulders back. Too much time spent looking at those bloody books and not enough out here.
“No. I’m not playing games,” I answered. Not with my fragile Charles, I could never do that. “I’m just… I don’t know, scared to dive back in.”
“I get that.”
That was the thing with Nico; he had a hard edge and took the piss like a brother, but when it came to needing a sounding board, I couldn’t fault him.
“What if he falls ill again? He says he’s better, and yes, he certainly looks better, but what if it’s only a temporary thing?”
Nico shrugged. “I don’t know. Does he still love you?”
“Yes.” If Nico had seen the art for himself, he wouldn’t have needed to ask.
He scratched his jaw. “Then I suppose it boils down to whether he’s worth the risk. And whether he sees a long-term thing out of being on the island. Or whether this is a stop gap until he’s sure his health is sorted and can work out what to do next with his life. Maybe you need to just ask him outright.”
I’d been thinking along the same lines myself. We drank our coffee, listening to the black-legged gulls chattering over near the oyster shack.
“Is it the same with men?” He stared down at his mug.
“What, the fucking part? Do I really need to explain it to you?”
“Non, connard. The… I don’t know… relationship part. The finding someone you like, going out on dates, going steady, the settling down thing. The arguing, like Jerome and Léa, the having to want the same thing, the compromise. You know. I mean, are you ready for all that?”
