Thomas squeezed my hand tighter, turned his body the other way, and led me outside through the back exit. I managed to hand the flowers to Mel on our way so she could add them to the pile of other bouquets I received.
“Tell me what happened,” Thomas demanded, a cigarette in-between his lips. “You don’t want me to jump to conclusions. You’re shaken up, and I want to know why. What did Chase do? Did he upset you? Did he…”
“He tried to kiss me,” I cut in, staring at the wet ground. Rain stopped, leaving small puddles behind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
Thomas cupped my face, his features pinched, lips a thin line. Anger was clear in his stance, but he didn’t run back inside like I expected.
“Don’tapologise unless you let him kiss you.”
“No, of course not! I pushed him away, but I feel awful because he thought I wanted it as if I led him on.”
I cringed, ashamed and annoyed at my own naivety.
“I didn’t. I swear. At least not knowingly. Amelia and Nick were with us most of the time. They’ll tell you.”
Thomas clenched his jaw tighter, putting his index finger under my chin because my eyes kept darting to the ground.
“You think I’m worried you led him on? Not for a second.” He paused to kiss me, his lips soft and delicate—a striking contrast to the rock-hard muscles in his shoulders. “I trust you. I know you did nothing to encourage him. Of all people, Chase is the last guy I consider a threat.”
He moved away, taking a packet of cigarettes out of my pocket, to light one for me.
“He’s playing games, baby. Charles warned me, but I didn’t take any notice. Looks like I shouldn’t have deemed him harmless just because he looks and acts that way.” He handed me the cigarette, then brushed loose strands of my hair away from my face. “Wait here.”
I rose on my toes, stealing another kiss to distract him from whatever was about to happen.
“Please don’t make a scene. The vernissage is going so well, I’d hate it if the newspaper wrote about the CEO of a record label who punched his raising star rather than the paintings.”
“I won’t hit him, not that I don’t want to.”
He walked through the emergency exit, leaving me alone. This was definitely not the way I imagined my first vernissage to go. I pinched the ash from the cigarette and threw it into a bin, glancing around the back alley.
Three out of four streetlamps were dark. I was grateful for the motion detector light that hung above the green exit door, casting a bright glow that lit up the small back yard, the adjacent pavement and halfway across the narrow street.
An old, demolished car with punctured tyres and half of its windows missing stood by the curb on double yellow lines. The air reeked of trash and urine. Male voices reached my ears a moment later. Two silhouettes emerged from the darkness. They looked about my age, beers in hand with impaired motor coordination.
The taller of the two elbowed his friend who pulled his hoodie down to reveal a tattooed face. I pressed my back further into the wall when they approached, stopping five feet away.
“Excuse me, love,” the tall one began, his voice slurred, but chest pushed forward, and legs far apart as if it helped him keep his balance. “Could I, by any chance, borrow a cigarette of you?”
I exhaled slowly, reaching for the packet. “Sure.”
The door to my right opened. Thomas walked out of the building, his pace casual, though tension was evident in his posture.
Chase trailed close behind, considerably less confident, hands in his pockets, the long, wavy hair he let down sometime in the last half an hour surrounded his face.
The two drunk guys glanced between Thomas and me, unsure what to do next. Before I offered them a cigarette, Thomas outstretched his hand to stop me from going anywhere near them.
“Keep it,” he said, throwing his cigarettes for the tall guy to catch.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed theatrically.
The packet hit his chest and fell to the ground, landing inches away from a large puddle. He bent down one arm outstretched behind him as a counterbalance.
“Thank you, sir. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
The tattooed guy bobbed his head in a half-bow, half-nod, holding his hands close to his chest as if to signal they had no bad intentions, making me chuckle.
Drunk Brits—always so polite.