I cringed. “Some of it. And not only the good stuff.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my line of work, it’s that ‘some of the truth’ is the most misleading thing you can hear. Anything I want to know about you, I’ll ask.”

“What about,” I said in a small voice, “when you’re mad at me? When you’re looking for reasons to think the worst of me.”

“And you believe I’ll need the papers to help me with that?”

I shot him an outraged glare, but for some reason I ended up smiling instead. Something about the way he was looking at me took the sting from his words. “Is that what passes for reassurance in your world?”

“I don’t know. Is it working?”

“Weirdly, maybe a little bit?” I distracted myself with the French toast—which was rich and sweet and dripping with maple syrup. “You’ll end up looking, though. Everyone always does.”

“Do you really think I have nothing better to do with my time than web-stalk the e-list children of c-list celebrities?”

“Again, with the…mean comforting. What the hell is that about?”

“I, well, I wasn’t sure you’d accept any other kind.” He looked slightly abashed, chasing a blueberry round and round his plate.

Honestly, he might have been right. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Try me.”

“I’m not going to make you any promises because that just gives all this nonsense more power over you. But—”

“It’s easy for you to call it nonsense. You don’t live with it.”

He gave an exasperated little huff. “See. I said you wouldn’t want my reassurance.”

“You haven’t given me any reassurance. You’ve told me you aren’t going to make any promises and dicked on my pain.”

“It wasn’t my intent to dick.”

We eyed each other warily over the battlefield of our breakfast foods. In many ways, our second date was going as badly as our first. Hell, in many ways it was going worse, since I’d arrived six hours late and been dumped before I got there. But it felt different. Somehow even being annoyed with him brought with it this strange warmth.

“Anyway,” Oliver went on, “you didn’t let me finish.”

“And I’m usually so considerate in that regard.”

Up went that brow of his. “Good to know.”

And, for some reason, I blushed.

He gave a little cough. “As I was saying, I recognise that the penumbra of public commentary is significant to you and has affected your life. But it is nonsense to me, and always will be, compared to you.”

“Okay…” I made an odd hoarse noise. “You were right. Go back to being snarky.”

“I really don’t think I’ll look, Lucien. I have no wish to hurt you.”

“I get I have bad taste in men, but I’ve managed to mostly avoid dating guys who actively want to screw me over. It’s not about wanting or not wanting to hurt me. But”—I tried to sound jaded and resigned, rather than horribly, horribly exposed—“you know how it is. People get curious. Or they get frustrated. Or they do that thing where they think they’re going to read it, then impress me with how totally okay with it they are, but they just get freaked out and I just feel fucked up.”

“Then if you can’t trust in my good intentions, at least trust that I’m as much of a pompous arse as you think I am and would, therefore, never touch a tabloid.”

“I don’t think you’re a pompous arse.”

“According to Bridget, it was the first thing you said about me.”

Actually, it was the second. The first was, “If I’d known your only other gay friend was that hot, I’d have agreed to meet him months ago.” Of course, that had been before the “homosexual who’s standing next to me” incident. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. “Oh yeah. Looking back, I was probably a bit harsh on you.”

“Really?” he asked in a tone of hope tinged with suspicion.

“Well, I wouldn’t say you were a full-on pompous arse. Maybe more of a supercilious butt cheek.”

To my surprise, he laughed—a deep, full-throated laugh that made the hairs on my arms stand up in unexpected pleasure. “I can live with that. Now”—he propped his elbows on the table, moving in a little closer—“what else should fake boyfriends know about each other?”

“You’re the one with all the relationship experience. You tell me.”

“That’s the thing about relationships. If you’ve not had many, you’ve got limited basis for comparison. If you’ve had a lot, you’re clearly doing something wrong.”

“You’re the one who insisted we had to get to know each other.” I smirked at him. “You know, for verisimilitude.”

“Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

I gave it a moment’s thought. “No.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “Birthdays?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll forget it. I can’t be fucked with birthdays, including my own.”

“Well, I would remember.”

“God,” I groaned. “I bet you’d get me an incredibly thoughtful gift as well. And make me feel awful.”

His lips twitched. “I would make a point of it.”

“Anyway, it’s July. So we’ll have fake decided we’re not compatible and fake broken up long before it becomes an issue.”

“Oh.” For a split second, he looked almost disappointed. “Your turn.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to take turns.”

“I generally find most situations are improved by reciprocation.”

“Versatile, are you?” I widened my eyes innocently.

“Behave yourself, Lucien.”

Well, that wasn’t sexy. Nope. Definitely not. Not at all. A sweet little shiver whooshed the length of my spine.

“Um.” My mind had gone blank. “Hobbies and stuff? What do you do when you’re not working?”

“Usually I am working. The law is a demanding profession.”

“For the record, saying things like ‘The law is a demanding profession’ is what made me think you were pompous.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said in the tone of someone who wasn’t sorry at all. “But I didn’t know how else to convey that I have a fulfilling but challenging job that takes up a lot of my time.”