“Do you mean sterling public servants from the Crown Prosecution Service?”

“Dammit, Oliver.” His name tasted bright and sharp on my tongue. Sugar and cinnamon. “You’re kind of sucking the fun out of the criminal justice system.”

Very deliberately, he picked up another blueberry and launched it at me. It pinged off my eyebrow.

“What was that for?” I asked with what I hoped came across as feigned petulance.

His mouth was curling into a smile as slow and warm as maple syrup. “You deserved it.”

Chapter 13

Oliver washed up, and I mostly got in the way, which was how I handled domestic tasks.

“Um,” I said, hooking my thumbs in my pockets in a futile attempt to look casual. “Thanks for the food. And for not dumping me and stuff. I suppose I should…”

Oliver also hooked his thumbs in his pockets. Then immediately took them out again, as if he had no idea why he’d done it. “You don’t have to. I mean if you aren’t… There are some things we should probably discuss. About logistics.”

This was more the Oliver I’d been expecting. I guess I’d got a temporary upgrade on account of my dad having cancer. “Logistics, huh? You’ll turn a boy’s head with talk like that.”

“I’m not trying to turn your head, Lucien. I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t blow up in both of our faces.”

I made an insouciant gesture that involved knocking over the tiny vase of flowers that Oliver had just replaced on the table. “Shit. Sorry. But, how complicated is this? We carry on with our lives and tell anyone who asks that we’re dating.”

“That’s rather my point, though. Do we tell anyone who asks? What about Bridget?”

“Yeah”—I tried to fix the flowers and failed utterly—“she kind of already knows the truth.”

“And were you going to mention this at any point? Or were you just going to let me make a fool of myself in front of her as I naively committed to the pretence we were both supposed to be maintaining.”

“Bridge is the exception. We can’t keep secrets from Bridge. She’s my straight best friend. There’s a code.”

Oliver leaned past me and made two small adjustments to the flowers, transforming them from shabby and accusing to radiant and lovely. “But to everyone else we’re really dating?”

“Absolutely. I mean, there’s a guy at work who’s sort of in on it.”

“A guy at the work for whose benefit this whole deception is being practiced?”

“Well, it was his idea, so it was unavoidable. Besides”—I nearly got insouciant again, but then thought better of it—“he’s got the brains of a raspberry pavlova. He’s probably already forgotten.”

He sighed. “Fine. So to everyone except Bridget and this gentleman you work with, we’re really dating?”

“I can’t lie to my mum obviously.”

Another sigh. “So to everyone except Bridget, a gentleman you work with, and your mother, we’re really dating?”

“Well, my other friends might not buy it. You know, because I’ve told them all I hate you. And after years of my love life being a car crash in a dumpster fire it’s pretty fucking convenient I’ve ended up in a stable, long-term relationship just when I needed to do exactly that to not be fired.”

“And”—Oliver’s eyebrows got all mean and pointy—“they’re more likely to conclude that we concocted an elaborate fictional relationship than that you changed your mind about me?”

“It doesn’t have to be elaborate. You’re the one who’s making it elaborate.”

“While you’re putting no thought into it whatsoever.”

“Yep, that’s how I roll.”

He folded his arms ominously. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are two of us in this fake relationship. And it won’t be a very successful fake relationship without real work.”

“Jesus, Oliver.” In my frustration, the flowers got it again. “I might as well actually be dating you.”

At this point, he edged me out of the kitchen and started reconstructing his centrepiece in a way I found, frankly, passive-aggressive. “As we’ve agreed, that is an outcome neither of us want.”

“You’re right. That would be awful.” Except for the French toast. And his cuddly Sunday afternoon jumper. And the rare moments when he’d forget he thought I was a dick.

“Still, now we’re committed, we should do this properly.” He jammed a tulip into place slightly too hard, splitting the stem. “And that means not telling everybody that the whole affair is a pathetic hoax invented by two lonely men. And also getting used to spending time together like we would if we genuinely got on.”

I was starting to fear for the rest of the flowers so I sidled back up to the table and pried them from his fingers. “I’m sorry I let the cat very slightly out the bag. I won’t do it again.”

He was silent for a long moment so I started sticking things back into the vase. They didn’t look good, but at least nothing snapped.

“And,” I added grudgingly, “we can do all the logistics and stuff that you think we need. Just let me know when you want to…logist with me and I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure we can negotiate matters as they arise. And you’re still welcome to stay. If you’d like. If you have no other engagements.”

Engagements? Oh, Oliver. “There was this tea dance I was meant to go to in 1953, but I can probably skip it.”

“I should warn you”—he gave me a cool look, apparently unimpressed by my dazzling wit—“I shall be quite busy with work.”

“Can I help?” Honestly, I’m not a big fan of helping in general. But it seemed only polite to offer. And anything was better than going back to my empty, barely habitable flat and thinking about how the father I hated-slash-was-indifferent-to might be dead soon.

“Not remotely. It’s confidential, you have no legal training, and I saw the mess you made of the washing up.”

“Right. So I’ll sort of…sit then? In the name of learning to put up with each other.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” He seemed to give up on the flowers. “And please make yourself at home. You can read, or watch television, or… Actually, I’m sorry, this was an awful invitation.”

I shrugged. “It’s probably what I’d be doing anyway. Just in a nicer house with more of my clothes on.”