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.”

I laughed, shocking even myself with how bitter it sounded. “You think that. And then they start saying things.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Really?” God. Dizzily, I found myself reaching for his coat again.

“Yes. But if we’re to do this, we have to do it properly.”

I blinked at him. Properly sounded ominous. I was not good at properly. “You should know I perform very badly in standardised tests.”

“I just need you to make an effort to be convincing. I don’t care about your past, or internet gossip, but”—and here that stern mouth pressed into a hard line—“I would rather not have to explain to my family that my boyfriend is only pretending.”

“Wait. Your family?”

“Yes, it’s my parents’ ruby wedding anniversary in June. I don’t want to go alone.”

“Is it,” I couldn’t help asking, “in Provence?”

“Milton Keynes.”

“And you seriously want to take me? To meet your folks?”

“Why not?”

I barked out another laugh. “How long have you got?”

“If you don’t want to do it, Luc, you can tell me.”

He was never going to call me Lucien again, was he? He was going to respect my wishes like some kind of arsehole. “No, no.” I hastily flung up my hands. “I’ll do it. I just think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

“That’s for me to decide.” He paused, a flush crawling over the sculpted arch of his cheekbones. “Obviously, maintaining the fiction will require a certain degree of physical contact between us. But please don’t kiss me again. Not on the mouth, anyway.”

“Why? Are you Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?”

His blush deepened. “No. I simply prefer to reserve that intimacy for people I actually like.”

“Oh.” Sometimes, you can half believe you’ve been hurt so much you’ve basically been vaccinated. Rendered immune. And then someone says something like that to you. I forced my mouth into a grin. “Well, as you’ve seen, that’s not a problem for me.”

My only consolation was that Oliver didn’t look very happy either. “Apparently not.”

“But don’t worry. Despite recent evidence, I can keep my lips off you.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Silence sloshed heavily between us.

“So,” I asked, “what now?”

“Brunch at mine? This Sunday?”

Twice in a week? He’d be sick of me before we even made it to the Beetle Drive. And I’d either be sick of him or I wouldn’t. And “wouldn’t” was too scary to handle right now.