“It’s your call.”

“Would you think less of me?” I coughed. “Well, even less of me.”

“I don’t think badly of you, Lucien.”

“Apart from being the sort of self-involved arsehole who’d stand up his date for fun.”

At this, he went a little pink. “I’m sorry. I was upset and said some unfair things. Though in my defence, I’m not sure how you expected me to factor in the possibility that your behaviour was a result of your having received a cryptic message from your reclusive rock icon mother and having then learned that your estranged father, whose recent return to the limelight you profoundly resent, has a life-threatening illness.”

“Pro tip: Apologise or make excuses. Don’t do both.”

“You’re right.” Oliver leaned toward me a little, his breath whispering across my cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

It would have taken only the slightest of movements to kiss him. And I very nearly did because this whole conversation was taking me down a rabbit hole of feelings and memories and urgh—stuff I had trouble sharing with my actual friends. But he’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t up for that, so instead, I had to say, “I’m sorry I hurt you too.”

There was a long silence, with us both hovering awkwardly on the edge of each other’s personal space.

“Are we really bad at this?” I asked. “We’ve been fake dating for three days and we’ve already fake broken up once.”

“Yes, but we fake resolved our difficulties and fake got back together, and I’m hoping it’s made us fake stronger.”

I laughed. Which was crazy because this was Oliver Blackwood, the stuffiest man in the universe. “You know, I was genuinely looking forward to brunch.”

“Well…” He gave me an uncertain smile. “You’re here now. And everything’s still in the fridge.”

“It’s nearly six. That’s not brunch, it’s…brinner?”

“Does it matter?”

“Wow. You rebel, you.”

“Oh yes, that’s me. Sticking two fingers up at society and its normative concept of mealtimes.”

“So.” I tried to sound casual, but I was about to touch on something very serious indeed. “This…brunch…brinner…punk-rock rejection of the egg-based status quo… Will there be French toast?”

Oliver flicked up a brow. “There could be. If you’re very good.”

“I can be good. What sort of good did you have in mind?”

“I wasn’t… I mean, um… I mean, that is… Maybe you can set the table?”

I hid a smile behind my hand, because I didn’t want him to think I was mocking him, even if I kind of was. But I guess this was exactly what I’d signed up for: a man who probably owned napkin rings. After all, the Mail was unlikely to run with “Rock Star Love Child In Wrong Fork Shame.”

What I hadn’t expected, though, was how nice, how safe, how right it would feel.

Chapter 12

I did, in fact, set the table—though, thankfully, there were no napkin rings. We ate in Oliver’s kitchen, at a tiny circular table about three feet away from the hob, with our knees touching underneath it, because apparently we were doomed to an eternity with our legs tangled up together. I’d secretly enjoyed watching him cook for me—heating oil, chopping garnish, and breaking eggs with the same care and precision he brought to everything else. Also there was no denying he was easy on the eyes when he wasn’t judging me. Which I was starting to suspect he did way less often than I’d imagined.

“So, how many of me were you expecting?” I asked, surveying the bounty of eggs and waffles and blueberries and multiple varieties of toast, French included.

He blushed. “I got a little carried away. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to cook for.”

“I suppose, since we’re meant to be dating, we should know this sort of stuff about each other. How long’s a while?”

“Six months, give or take.”

“That’s not a while. That’s practically a now.”

“It’s longer than I prefer to go without a partner.”

I stared at him over my eggs Benedict. “What, are you some kind of relationship junkie?”

“Well, when were you last with somebody?”

“Define with.”

“The fact you’re even asking says quite a lot.”

“Fine.” I scowled. “Nearly five years.”

He gave a thin smile. “Perhaps it would be best if we refrained from passing comment on each other’s choices.”

“This is an amazing brinner,” I said, by way of a preemptive peace offering. Then launched straight into “So why did you break up?”

“I’m…not entirely sure. He said he just wasn’t happy anymore.”

“Ouch.”

He shrugged. “There comes a point when enough people have said, It’s not you, it’s me that you begin to suspect it may, in fact, be you.”

“Why? What’s wrong with you? Do you hog the duvet? Are you secretly racist? Do you think Roger Moore was a better Bond than Connery?”

“No. Good God no. Although I do think Moore is somewhat underrated.” Handling the serving spoon with irritating deftness, Oliver poured a perfect spiral of cream onto his poppy-seed waffle. “I honestly believed it was working. But then I always do.”

I snapped my fingers. “Ah. You must be terrible in bed.”

“Clearly.” He gave me a wry look. “Another mystery solved.”

“Dammit. I was hoping you’d get defensive and I’d at least find out something dirty about you.”

“Why Lucien, for someone who’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested, you seem quite fascinated with my sex life.”

Heat rushed to my face. “I’m…not.”

“If you say so.”

“No, really. It’s…” Urgh, this was a mess. Partly because I was maybe a bit more curious than I wanted to admit. Oliver was so self-possessed that it was hard not to wonder what he was like when he let go. If he let go. What it would be like to inspire that kind of recklessness in him. “I’m just sort of aware that anything you wanted to know about me you could Google.”

“Would it be the truth, though?”