Page 67 of After Felix
“Where are we going?” I ask, stopping dead and refusing to let him usher me any further. A businessman tuts and, giving me a filthy glance, he manoeuvres around me.
Max glares after him but then turns back to me. “Well, we’re catching the Eurostar over to France, and then the rest of the destination is a bit of a secret.”
My insides thrill at the thought of going abroad. I still haven’t travelled much. I always meant to do it after our breakup, as a gesture almost of defiance, but real life intruded and, also, the desire to keep a roof over my head.
Carl and I planned to go to Spain, but then theAunt Sallyhad needed a new engine and that had put the mockers on that. It had also finished Carl and me, as he’d refused to accept why I couldn’t just let my fucking boat sink. I’d explained that I wasn’t Captain Bligh, but he’d taken that as an example of my woeful flippancy and dumped me.
I become aware that I’m smiling and hasten to wipe the grin off my face. Max’s mouth quirks and his eyes shine delightedly, so I know I’ve been unsuccessful. I follow him into the sleek interior of the train, and roll my eyes when I find that we’re in business class.
“Why does this not surprise me?” I ask as we take a seat. The car’s hush is rapidly being filled with the sound of fingers tapping on laptops as the business people around us settle down.
I look around interestedly. I wonder whether I could do business on a train, and I briefly imagine myself hopping on with my briefcase and my phone and then hopping off in Paris or Amsterdam or Milan. Then I think of missing out on the breakfast meetings with Zeb where we sit on his roof terrace in the sunshine, inhaling the scent of the flowers that Jesse tends and eating sandwiches from the bakery next door. I’d definitely miss the gossip that Zeb persists in trying to call workplace information, and those bacon and sausage sandwiches are epic. I smile. These people can keep their world. I like my own little one.
Max grins. “I’m six foot four. I need legroom.” He passes me the menu. “And so will you when you eat the lunch. It’s gorgeous.” He nudges me. “And they serve wine. In aglass.”
“How very lush. It’s like the Titanic without the water and Leonardo di Caprio on a wardrobe door. You certainly know how to treat a boy.”
His brow furrows, but clears before I can analyse it.
“Going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask, nudging him.
“Nope,” he says cheerfully.
He keeps to this decision as we cross the Channel on the incredibly smooth journey. We eat the lunch provided, and then he buries himself in his laptop, tapping away furiously at his work in progress while I answer his emails and deal with some of the things I left undone at work. I sneak a glance at him. His face is almost fierce with focus.
Slightly baffling because I’d been sure this was a booty call in some form or another. It’s almost pro forma for Max to attempt one of those every day. I’m a little disappointed at the lack of a come-on, but I’d never admit that to another living soul.
I’m still baffled when we don’t stay on the train at Calais. Instead, we hop off at the train station. Doors slam and the train pulls away,leaving us alone on the platform for the moment. It’s a bright, windy day, and I stand next to him, clutching my jacket and rucksack as he looks around for something that only he knows.
“Are you looking for Paris?” I enquire. “Because if you are, I’ve got bad news for you. We should have stayed on the train.”
He shoots me a wink as he ushers me out of the station and then grins as a car toots from the kerb. I look over and see a taxi waiting.
“It’s going to be a lot more expensive getting to Paris in a taxi than the already-paid-for train journey, Max. But then, you do seem to be a bit of a wanton spendthrift at the moment.”
“We’re not going to Paris,” he says gleefully. “Well, we’ll pass through it, but we won’tstop.”
“I do so wish that I knew what was happening right now,” I say wistfully. “It would be rather nice. “
“Surprises are much nicer than knowing everything,” he says, opening the door to the car and ushering me in with a courtly flourish.
He gives instructions to the driver in very fast and fluent French, and I listen raptly, but hopefully unobtrusively. Max is never hotter than when he’s speaking another language. He’s confident and engaged and so fucking sexy. I clear my throat and stare diligently out of the passenger window at a brick wall until my cock pipes down.
Max gets into the taxi and grins at me.
“So we’re in another country, and I’ve got into a strange car with you, and I don’t even have a change of underwear,” I observe. “This is like one of those PSHE lessons we had to sit through at school. How I wish I’d paid attention now rather than staring at Jake Philips in the front row.”
“I’m absolutely positive that I’m far more attractive than Jake Philips,” he says loftily.
“Well, he did have braces and spots, so you’re an inch ahead at least.”
“We never had PSHE lessons,” he observes thoughtfully.
“Did you even haveschools? Weren’t you scampering up and down chimneys at that age?” I say tartly.
“I was a very tall child, so I’m afraid that avenue of work was ruled out for me.”
“What did you do, then? Did you live in an attic and steal things with the other street urchins?”
