Page 91 of Flare

“It’s beautiful.”

“Panthea, 1881 again. It was a very good year for Oscar’s poetry. That romantic notion of being one with the earth, living eternally through the universe.”

“It could be about us. You and I, made one with touch.” He pulled me tight and I dared not move, his breath hot on my neck, a soft hum sending shivers down my spine, while his fingers looped endless circles through the dense hair on my chest. He felt so peaceful, so fucking contented, like Valentino stretched in the sun with a full belly, and I wanted to frame the moment in my heart forever. It was a Rhys I didn’t much know and one I wanted to see a whole lot more of.

Something in the landscape between us had just changed. Something profound. Paths straightened. Choices made. He’d let me in.

He and I had suddenly become an us.

And it was all I needed. The final piece.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

Beck

It was Wednesday,which meant I had a two-hour lunch break between lectures. And considering I’d been summoned to a last-minute department meeting at five that would likely run until seven, I wasn’t spending any of that free time holed up in my office.

The weather was beautiful—frosty and clear—a picture perfect mid-winter stunner. I grabbed my coat and hoofed it down to Flare to haul Rhys out for a walk down to the harbour for lunch. He was hesitant when I texted my idea, still beavering away on his new jacket design, but he finally caved.

Besides, the coat was almost done and it looked fucking amazing. Since modern Regency was the inspiration for his entire collection, he’d needed to stick with that but amped up the historical feel. Not that I was any reliable judge, but Kip was practically frothing at the mouth, so I knew it had to be good.

As Rhys ordered our coffees, I feasted my hungry eyes over his outfit and smiled. Every day was a surprise and today was no different. Painted-on ink leather trousers that hugged his groin like my hand itched to do. A blousy magenta shirt in some slinky material that made me want to rub my face all over it and which was cut low enough to give the occasional glimpse of a dark brown nipple, perky in the cool winter air. Then there were the black leather boots with ten-centimetre heels that brought his tempting lips a lot closer to mine than was safe for the lunchtime worker crowd, a long heavily pleated black wool coat that swung and billowed when he walked, and silver ear cuffs that made me want to nibble his lobes.

Was I slightly preoccupied by the man? Yes. Yes, I was. Preoccupied and a whole, whole lot more. But none of that was safe to talk about, not yet. Rhys had been noticeably quiet since the panic attack and not receptive to a lot of questions about it. I figured he was waiting to talk with Callum and didn’t push, even though the distance he’d created stung a little.

When the coffees were ready, we grabbed a couple of ready-made sandwiches and two salted caramel donuts and headed for a quiet bench in the always crowded Viaduct Basin, home of the America’s Cup. Crammed with a million tourist traps, it somehow managed to retain its cool Auckland vibe with as many locals as tourists frequenting its cafes and restaurants.

“I can’t believe he just sprang that meeting,” I grumbled as we walked. “Like none of us have fucking lives. I’m sure it was a deliberate jab at me, knowing how pissed I’d be.”

“Jack can stay with me.” Rhys sidestepped a woman carrying a crate of four coffees and not looking where she was going. “I’ll feed him dinner and you can pick him up after.”

“Thanks, and I’m leaving at seven, regardless. That place doesn’t own me.” I took a bite of my chicken and bacon panini and wiped the juice from my lips. “How’s the smear campaign coming?”

“Shhh.” Rhys elbowed me hard. “Keep your voice down. And it’snota smear campaign. It’s a targeted exposé of unethical wrongdoing.”

I snorted. “Right, so, how’s thetargeted exposécoming?”

He shook his head. “Jerk. And it’s getting there.”

We found a bench out of the worst of the lunchtime traffic and settled ourselves down. With legs stretched in front and thighs and elbows touching, we passed judgement on the row of multi-million-dollar motorboats and tall-masted sailing ships berthed on the sparkling deep blue water of the Hauraki Gulf. The sun poured enough warmth from a cloudless sky to keep the worst of the chill at bay, and with barely a breeze to lick at the water, it was kind of fucking perfect.

“On Monday, Kip dropped the photos to whoever he’d chosen,” Rhys explained. “And according to him, the posts are gaining momentum, but we need a big name to pick it up.” He grabbed my wrist and lifted my hand to snag a bite of my panini. “Mmm, that’s good.” He wiped the grease from his chin. “A couple of minor Fashion Week designers have apparently liked the posts, so I guess word is spreading. The big designers would be pretty cautious about publicly supporting anything, though.”

He went to steal another bite of my panini and I held it aloft. “Hey. You opted for the shredded pork.”

He pouted. “But yours tastes better.”

I groaned and held it out. “Come on then, swap.”

He gave a broad smile and immediately switched, and we sat quietly chatting while we finished our lunch, my heart content at the simple pleasure of it all.

“I love it here.” Rhys wiped a smudge of caramel from my chin and took another bite of his donut.

I laughed and nudged him with my elbow. “Come here.” I held up my serviette.

He grinned. “Did I miss a bit?”

“Yes.” And before he could pull back, I leaned in and kissed him, making a point to lick the offending caramel from the corner of his mouth before smacking my lips together. “Mmm. Yum. Your lips, not the caramel.”

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