Page 129 of Flare

Everyone did the same. “To Flare.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

Beck

I tooka deep breath and tried to quell the nerves bubbling in my chest as I thought of Rhys standing backstage with his career in his hands. I fired him a quick text.I love you.

He answered a minute later.I love you too, Boo.

I grinned. He knew damn well how much I hated that cutesy fucking name, but the fact he’d teased me with it boded well for his state of mind and I relaxed. That he’d made it to the show without losing his damn mind was a bloody miracle considering the week he’d had, the week we’dallhad. Still, I sighed and shoved all that from my mind. Nothing was going to spoil this night, and I was going to bask in my boyfriend’s glory, no matter what.

“Wow, this is cool.” Jack’s gaze swept the room filled with the glitterati of New Zealand fashion and a veritable who’s who of the beautiful people. There were even a few designers from Europe’s big fashion houses that I only recognised because Rhys had schooled me up beforehand.

Our passes didn’t get us front row seats, not with Rhys’s newbie status, but they weren’t bad either—two rows back and close to the end of the runway. I caught sight of Hunter amid the throng of photographers and shot him a wave. He grinned and gave us a thumbs up. I’d tried to convince Rhys to give the passes to his mother or sisters, but they insisted they’d rather watch the video after, and in some ways I didn’t blame them.

The venue was uncomfortably hot and close, lit to ensure every crease, every pleat, every waft of lace was highlighted to perfection. Rhys explained that some of the designers had long shows with plenty of theatrics included and even short artsy films built into their allotted time. But the young guns were kept on a tight leash, and Rhys’s show was pretty straightforward.

“It is very cool,” I agreed, soaking up the atmosphere. An animated buzz electrified the room as conversations and laughter ebbed and flowed amongst the guests, many of whom clearly knew each other. The rustle of organza and chiffon sat alongside the warm scent of leather, soft billows of silk, sharp pleats, layered ruffles, and the unmistakable and heady perfume of money.

Most of the guests were dressed in the type of clothes I’d only seen on the covers of magazines I never read, or reality television I never watched.

Which was exactly why I’d cornered Rhys as we’d been clearing the muck and debris from Flare’s floors and asked if he would dress me for tonight. Once he’d gotten over the shock, his eyes lit up with pure joy and I vowed then and there to give him free rein on my wardrobe. I wasn’t embarrassed about my style, but I trusted Rhys to get the right mix of fashion and comfort that I was totally incapable of doing for myself.

And what he’d picked for me today was fucking perfect. It wasn’t his label but that was coming, he’d said. There was no way any man of his wasn’t wearing his label if he had to start an entirely new line to make sure of it. Either way, he’d got it right for the show.

Dark, almost black-green trousers hugged my arse but were made from some woo-woo freaky stretch material which felt like I was wearing nothing at all. The horrified realisation that they also defined my package in an oh-my-fucking-god way was quickly dismissed by the sizzling heat in Rhys’s gaze when he’d seen me wearing them for the first time. I was lucky I made it out of the house without needing to change.

Then there were the pointy-toed black leather outrages on my feet. Two random men had already enquired about the label, and I thanked fuck Rhys made me rehearse all the designer names before we left the house, even while I’d laughed at the very idea that anyone would be interested in what I wore.

The Stefan Hamilton original silver belt buckle could’ve doubled as an anchor for the Titanic but also conveniently hid the slight softening around my waist—a bonus surely unintended by the designer, but it worked for me. And to finish my outfit off—a sleek, black, feather-light merino sweater that hugged me like Rhys’s mother and which defined every muscle on my torso that I didn’t even know I had.

I clocked an hour longer than my usual five-minute dress time, but it was worth it with Rhys primping and adjusting and changing his mind. Having my gorgeous boyfriend hovering around my body, tweaking this and taking in that, sprinkling cheeky kisses and a lot of unnecessary groping in for good measure? Hell yeah, sign me up.

Kip appeared from nowhere as we queued to get our seats, happy to inform me that several people had already asked who I was, a fact which set my cheeks blazing, even more obvious since I’d shortened my beard yet again, almost down to the stubble. Rhys threatened to chop off my balls if I touched it again, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t kidding.

Jack had put up his hand to be dressed by Rhys as well and was wearing all black, with zips and buckles and a skirt thingy over low-crotched somethings, and a net shirt that showed altogether too much skin under a soft-as-butter leather jacket. He looked fucking twenty and was drawing more than his share of attention from the younger crowd, including a few of the models, that made me want to lock him in his bedroom. Serena’s eyes had bugged so far out of their sockets when we Skyped that I suspected they were still in orbit.

“Here we go,” Jack whispered as the lights in the event centre suddenly dimmed and the atmosphere hushed.

Someone I’m sure I should’ve recognised appeared with a microphone to enthusiastic applause and began to introduce Rhys and his collection. His was the last show of the evening and I could only imagine what was going through his head behind that stage. He’d been impossible all morning, getting everyone up at five, tired and grumpy as shit. In the end, Jack and I had left him to it and gone for a walk while he took a long shower and calmed himself down.

“Rhys must be shitting himself,” Jack whispered again. “I feel nervous for him.”

The man sitting beside Jack glanced sideways and smiled. “Do you know him?” he whispered in an accent I couldn’t pick.

“He’s my uncle’s boyfriend.” Jack tipped his head to me, and the man immediately looked across.

After subjecting me to a very obvious and embarrassing once-over, he smiled. “Lucky man.”

A bit taken aback, I mumbled the only thing that came to mind. “I am.”

The man smiled again. “I meant your boyfriend.”

Aaaaaand what the fuck did you say to that?I was spared from coming up with some idiotic reply by the room pitching into darkness and a blast of music straight out ofPride and Prejudice. Regency. I grinned.

Jack elbowed me excitedly. “He’s gonna kill it.”

I smiled and nudged him back. “Of course he is.”

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