Page 23 of Flare

I absolutely did not squirm.

He frowned and studied the plate. “You know, I’m not usually a fan of Louise cake, but this isn’t too bad.”

I snorted. “I’ll make sure and let my mother know.” I finished the last bite of my own and ignored his choking gasp.

“Fuck.” He dropped his fork on the plate. “I just can’t get it right with you, can I?”

I chuckled. “There does seem to be that, doesn’t there? So, tell me, Mr Just Functional, do you never dress up?”

“If I’m going somewhere that requires it, yes.”

“Why?”

He thought about that. “To fit in. I mean, jeans and a T-shirt aren’t going to cut it at a work Christmas party, are they? I wouldn’t want to look ridiculous.”

I shrugged. “So, you care about fitting in and not standing out?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“And clothes can do that for you. But they can also help you stand out, if that’s what you want. Most people who buymyclothes wantthat. Clothes are often the first thing we notice about someone, and rightly or wrongly, we make judgements based on that. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t worry about how to dress for a job interview. What you wear makes a statement. None of it is right or wrong or better or worse. It justis. You might not care about fashion, Beck, but that doesn’t mean I thinklessof you. That’s why it bugs me when people think less of me or my work just because Idocare. And why shouldn’t I make a living from what I love to do?”

He sat back and said nothing for a minute, maybe choosing his words carefully. “I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t make a living from it, Rhys, a good one. I’m just saying thatsomepeople can feel intimidated by the designs and the sizing and the whole ‘perfect’ thing.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “I know I do.”

And he was right. “Yeah, I get that, maybe like some people find poetry intimidating and pretentious.” I let that sink in. “But why can’t clothes be both beautifulandpractical? It’s just a spectrum, right? Like sexuality. You have coveralls at one end and Gucci at the other. Or paint by numbers opposite Michelangelo. But in between, you have a whole range of choices. And no one’s making you pay a couple of grand for a shirt you don’t want.”

“But that’s not always the case, is it?” Beck pointed out. “People—somepeople who live and die on your Gucci hill can’t wait to tell you just how badly you fucked up—like your entire worth is dependent on how you look. Fashion police, right?”

“Or as I like to call them, arseholes.”

He laughed, but there’d been a sting to Beck’s tone that had nothing to do with hypotheticals.

“And it goes both ways. People who couldn’t care less about fashion are often quick to heap scorn on a job I love and an industry I’m passionate about, as if it has no worth at all.” I let the words sit in silence between us.

He stared for a minute and my fingers itched to smooth the crease between his brows. Then those wide shoulders relaxed and he slid down in his chair. “And I did exactly that, didn’t I? I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I might not get the whole fashion thing, but Icanrecognise talent when I see it. Your sketches are amazing, Rhys, and I should’ve perhaps led with that.”

The admission threw me, and I floundered for a few seconds, the soft blush high on his cheeks looking oddly comical on such a big man. He reached across, his fingertip hot on my chin as he gently closed my mouth.

“Just returning the favour.” He smiled, and it was warm and open and kind of fucking wonderful.

“Apology accepted.” I smiled, uncomfortably aware that we were almost flirting. “Although I doubt it’s the last either of us will have to say on the matter.”

“Uncle Beck?” Jack called up the stairs. “I’m ready.”

“Another time then.” Beck held my gaze. And yes, definitely in flirting territory.

“Uncle Beck?”

Beck still didn’t move. “Would you reconsider that coffee date?”

Yes. No. Fuck.My gaze darted to the stairs at the sound of footfalls. “Can I think about it?”

His smile slipped. “Sure.” He got to his feet, but I grabbed his wrist.

“I’m not messing you around. I like you, Beck. It’s just... complicated.”

He grinned. “Isn’t it always? Take your time.” He enfolded my hand in both of his, those bright eyes reflecting the same puzzled look I knew I wore. Whatever this was, he felt it too, and the hot caress of his skin on mine sparked the same sizzle I’d spent three days trying to ignore.

I was so absolutely fucked.

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