Boyfriend Material(18)

Chapter 8


I was still in a daze of self-loathing as we trooped onto Dean Street, where we hovered in mutual uncertainty. All the lovely things I’d eaten had turned to rocks in my stomach. I’d fucked this up. I’d fucked this up so badly. All I’d had to do was smile, be nice to him, convince him for a handful of hours I was a semiworthwhile human being. But no. I’d curled up like a hedgehog on a motorway in front of the only man in London willing to go out with me. And now I was going to get fired.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Well. Thank you for…for that.”

He was wearing the full-length overcoat that every posh person in London owned. Except it suited him. Gave him this air of effortless quality. While I was standing there in slutty jeans.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I should—”

No. Help. No. If he walked away now, that was it. I’d never see him again. And I’d never have another job again. And my life would be over.

I needed a plan. I didn’t have a plan.

So I lost my fucking mind and threw myself at him, fastening my mouth on his with all the grace and charm of a barnacle on a whale’s flipper. It lasted seconds before he pushed me away, a knee-buckling blur of heat and softness, that, for the sweetest of moments, tasted of lemon posset.

“What the hell was—Christ.” In his zeal to get away, Oliver collided with one of the potted plants outside the restaurant, just about managing to grab it before it came crashing down. Which basically meant he’d spent more time voluntarily touching a ficus than he had me.

“It was a kiss,” I said, with a nonchalance I was far from feeling. “Why? Haven’t you had one before? People sometimes exchange them on dates.”

He turned on me with such ferocity that I actually took a step back. “Is this a game to you? What has Bridget told you?”

“What? N-no.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

We were sort of dancing down the street at this point, me skipping backwards over the pavement as he stalked after me, shoes clicking and coat flying. There was clearly something very, very wrong with me because it was kind of hot.

His eyes gleamed. “Now.”

I tripped over the kerb as it flattened unexpectedly at a side street. But Oliver caught my wrist before I could fall, yanking me against his body and holding me there. Making me, I guess, equivalent to a plant in his estimation. God, his coat was cosy.

“Please stop playing with me, Luc.” Now he just sounded tired. Maybe even a little sad. “What’s this really about?”

Fuck. The jig was beyond up. “I…I’ve been in the papers again recently. So I need a respectable boyfriend or I’ll lose my job. Bridge suggested you.”

And, of course, Tom had been right all along. It sounded terrible. I ducked my head, barely able to look Oliver in the face.

“I’m sorry,” I went on, inadequately. “I’ll pay you back for dinner.”

He ignored that. “Bridget thought I’d be good for you?”

“Well”—I flapped a hand at him—“look at you. You’re…you’re perfect.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” I had no right to touch anything so nice, but I hid my face against his coat. And he let me. “You’ve always acted like you thought you were better than me.”

I was close enough that I heard him swallow. “Is…is that what you believe?”

“Well, it’s true. You are. Happy now?”

“Not remotely.”

The pause that followed whistled in my ears like I was falling.

“Explain to me again,” said Oliver finally, “why you need a boyfriend?”

It was the least I owed him. “Mainly for this big fundraiser we’ve got coming up at the end of April. Our donors all think I’m a bad gay.”

He frowned. “What’s a good gay?”

“Someone like you.”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I finally managed to peel myself off his coat. “It’s not your prob—”

“I’ll do it.”

My jaw dropped open so hard it clicked. “You what?”

“As it happens, I also have an event coming up that may go more smoothly with someone on my arm. I’ll be your public boyfriend, if you’ll be mine.”

He was insane. He had to be insane. “It’s not the same.”

“You mean”—one of his cool, grey glances—“I’m to help you with your significant occasion, but you won’t help me with mine?”

“No. God no. It’s just you’re a fancy lawyer—”

“I’m a criminal barrister. Most people think we’re the scum of the earth.”

“—and I’m the disgraced son of a disgraced rock star. I…I can’t hold my drink. I’m unnecessarily mean. I make terrible decisions. You can’t possibly want me to accompany you to anything.”

His chin came up. “Nevertheless, those are my terms.”

“You know you’ll end up in the tabloids if you spend too long with me.”

“I don’t care what people say about me.”