“So I either make you feel like a child or an old lady? How very flattering.”

“It’s not you.” I un-took his arm. “It’s the situation.”

“Then we’ll have to be one of those couples who never touch each other when anybody’s looking.”

“But,” I whined, “I don’t want to be one of those couples. I don’t even want to pretend to be one of those couples.”

“In which case, I suggest you work out some way you can bear to touch me.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t think of anything clever so I said the first thing that came into my head. “Why don’t we have sex?”

His mouth twisted quizzically. “I don’t think that would be appropriate at a fundraiser.”

Well. In for a penny, in for pound. “No. I mean, like now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jesus, Oliver.” I rolled my eyes. “Who responds to a come-on with I beg your pardon?”

“That wasn’t a come-on. That was… I don’t even know what that was.”

“I just thought,” I said with a shrug I told myself wasn’t at all self-conscious, “if we had sex, we might be less awkward about touching each other.”

“Ah yes. Because sex is renowned for making things less complicated.”

“Okay. Bad idea. You asked me how we could be more comfortable touching in public, and I came up with a suggestion. Excuse me for thinking outside the box.”

He turned away from me, looking like he was about to start pacing, except my floor wasn’t pace-friendly at the best of times. So he just fidgeted for a while. “I realise that you did not meet me when I was at the pinnacle of my self-esteem, but it still takes more to get me into bed than ‘Why don’t we have sex. I mean, like now.’”

“We had dinner first.”

“Dinner at which you freely admit you were a dick to me and to your friends.”

Yeah, probably not the time to be making jokes. But I was trying hard not to dwell on the fact that I’d been shot down by Oliver Blackwood again. “Tell you what. Let’s stop talking about how much you don’t want to have sex with me.”

“I’m sorry.” His expression softened slightly, not that it made me feel any better. “I know it’s unfashionable, but I don’t think sex is something you should do just because it’s convenient.”

“Why? Is everyone supposed to wait until they’ve got this deep, meaningful connection and can gaze into each other’s eyes while they make tender love by an open fire?”

He visibly unsoftened. “You really do think I’m a god-awful prude, don’t you?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.” Oh God. How could I make this sound less…messed up and needy. “I’m just not used to a hookup being a big deal, so it feels kind of personal that you keep refusing to shag me.”

“What do you mean, keep?”

“Bridget’s birthday. Couple of years ago. We nearly got together, but instead, you pissed off and left me.”

He gazed at me with obvious incredulity. “Sorry, are you insulted that I didn’t date-rape you?”

“You what?” I gave him a shocked look back.

“I remember that evening, and you were completely out of it. I don’t think you knew who I was, much less what you were doing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I snapped. “I’ve had a lot of drunk sex. I’d have been fine.”

“Oh, Lucien, how can I explain this?” For some reason, he sounded sad. “I don’t want fine. Fine isn’t enough. It’s not about the open fire or whatever other clichés you can conjure up, but yes, I want a connection. I want you to care as much as I care. I want you to need it and want it and mean it. I want it to matter.”

He had to stop talking. Or I was going to…I don’t know…cry or something. He had no idea what he was asking for. I had no idea how to give it to him. “I’m sure that’s all…lovely.” My mouth was so dry it was making my words click. “But with me, what you get is fine. And that’s all there is.”

There was a really, really, really long silence.

“Then it’s probably for the best that none of this is real.”

“Um. Yeah. For the best.”

There was a really, really, really, really long silence. Then Oliver put his arm round me, tucking me against his side. And, God knows the hell why, I let myself be tucked. “Will this do?”

“D-do for what?”

“Touching. In public.” He cleared his throat. “Not all the time, obviously. It would make going through doors difficult.”

Right now, I could live without doors. I turned my head, for the smallest of moments, breathing him in. And almost thought, imagined probably, his lips brushed my temple.

“I guess it’ll do,” I said. Because what else could I say? That the moments when it nearly worked made all the times it didn’t feel just a little worse.

All the same, it took every scrap of pride I possessed not to follow him when he stepped away.

“So.” I shoved my hands into my pockets in case they went reaching after him. “What now? Obviously you won’t want to stay in my shitty apartment.”

“I will admit, I have some concerns about the state of your bedroom. But if I’m caught leaving, it may look as if we’ve broken up.”

“Do you ever half-arse anything?”

He thought about it. “I gave up about two-thirds of the way through Wolf Hall.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, really. It’s quite long and involved, and I think I got distracted. Isn’t that precisely what half-arsing entails?”

Out of nowhere, I was laughing. “I can’t believe I’m pretending to date someone who just used the phrase ‘precisely what half-arsing entails.’”

“Would you believe me if I said I did it deliberately for your amusement?”

“Nope.” I did not want him to hold me again. I did not want him to hold me again. I did not want him to hold me again. “That’s just how you talk.”

“It may be, but you do appear to derive a unique enjoyment from it.”

“Okay. That one was deliberate.”

He offered me a slow smile—not the effortless one he used so freely in public, but something real and warm and almost reluctant, making his eyes shine from the inside like a lamp left in a window on a dark night. “All right. I’m prepared for the worst. Show me your bedroom.”