Page 127 of Boyfriend Material
“No, no,” I insisted. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The Earl of Spitalhamstead was ninety if he was a day, barmy in a way that only the aristocracy were allowed to be, and had a habit of getting into what Alex described as “scrapes.” The last time we’d let him wander around unattended at the Beetle Drive, he’d taken a wrong turn into the hotel bar, ordered an obscene amount of champagne “just to be polite,” and wound up flying to Vienna with someone he’d completely failed to recognise was a prostitute. Apparently they had a lovely time, but it did rather put a dent in our fundraising.
Ten somewhat hairy seconds later, I was mostly dressed and shepherding a peer of the realm somewhere vaguely in the direction of where he needed to be while he told me a long story about an elephant, a racing monoplane, and the time he slept with Marilyn Monroe.
We found Alex looking very carefully inside a potted plant.
“What,” I began, very much aware that I was about to ask a question to which I might not want to hear the answer, “are you doing?”
Alex looked at me like I’d said something deeply foolish. “Looking for the earl. Obviously.”
“And you thought you’d find him inside a potted plant?”
“Well, I think you’ve just made yourself look dashed silly, because that’sexactlywhere I found him.” He pointed at the Earl of Spitalhamstead, who hadn’t moved from my side for the length of the conversation. “See?”
“Hullo, Twaddle,” said the earl cheerfully. “How’s things?”
“Bally awkward, actually. Meant to be looking after this Earl chappie. Completely lost him.”
“What rotten luck. Seems you’ll have to make do with me instead.”
For a moment, this seemed to trouble Alex. “Well, I was doing this little job for Luc. But…well”—he turned to me helplessly—“Hilary’s a jolly old family friend so I’d really probably better take care of him if that’s all right with you?”
I patted his shoulder. “You know, I think that might be for the best.”
“Huzzah. Victory for common sense.” Alex took the earl’s arm gently. “Come on, old bean. I’ve got oodles of chaps—and chappesses for that matter; no need to be sexist, itisthe twentieth century—simply dying to have a chinwag with you.”
“Marvellous,” returned the earl. “One so seldom gets to talk about dung beetles to an appreciative audience. You know, they shot me down in the Lords again. Shortsighted bastards…”
I slumped against a pillar as they vanished into the function room—from within which I could already hear the melodious sounds of a male voice choir warming up with the Welsh national anthem. Chances were, this would be the last opportunity I got to droop and catch my breath for the rest of the evening, so I was damn well making the most of it. I did, however, adjust my posture into something approaching respectability because I was fairly close to the lobby, the guests were already beginning to arrive, and “shagged out before you’d even begun” wasn’t a confidence-inspiring look in a fundraiser. Which was unfortunate because “shagged out before I’d even begun” was pretty much how I was feeling.
Basically, though, it was fine. Everything had come together. It always kind of did. And, if I was being honest, it was nice seeing the whole team weirdly united in their support for our technically important but thoroughly unglamorous cause. To say nothing of the annual treat that was Rhys Jones Bowen in a suit. And by “treat” I meant “subtle headfuck” because he always managed to look like an undercover Marxist.
Although, speaking of treats of suits, I couldn’t quite resist checking out the tuxedo-wrapped piece of manhunkery who’d just come in and was asking the receptionist for directions to the CRAPP fundraiser. And then immediately felt guilty because I had a possibly-actually-real boyfriend now. And then the confused opposite of guilty when I realised the tuxedo-wrapped piece of manhunkerywasmy possibly-actually-real boyfriend.
I lifted my hand in an “I am definitely not overwhelmed by how hot you are” wave. And Oliver came striding over in a flash of black and white and gorgeous.
“You are ridiculously good-looking,” I said, attacking him with my eyes, “you know that?”
He smiled at me—all jawlines and cheekbones. “Normally I’d say the same to you, but at the moment you look like you got dressed in a toilet stall.”
“Yeah, there’s a fairly obvious reason for that.”
“Come here.”
I came there and Oliver made a number of swift, certain adjustments to my clothing that I found weirdly sexy despite being entirely SFW. He even redid my bow tie. And from the front and everything. You had to admire a man with coordination like that.
“There.” He leaned in and kissed me chastely. Apparently, somehow we’d gone from people who needed to practice any sort of physical contact to the ever-challenging appropriate workplace smooch. “Ridiculously good-looking.”
I was probably gazing at him pathetically. “Well. Not ridiculous. Maybe slightly absurd. In the right light.”
“On the contrary, Lucien. You’re always captivating.”
“Okay. You’re sailing perilously close to the wind here. Because if you keep this up, I’ll need to shag you in the nearest closet, and I’m technically supposed to be doing my job here.”
“And”—another of his killing-me-to-pieces smiles—“I’m supposed to be helping you with it.”
“Got to be honest, I’m fifty-fifty on the job thing right now.”
