Page 16 of Boyfriend Material
“I wouldn’t, given I chose the restaurant, and I believe Bridget said you work with dung beetles.”
“I workfordung beetles.” Okay, that didn’t sound much better. “I mean, I work for their preservation.”
Another of his eyebrow twitches. “I wasn’t aware they needed preserving.”
“Yeah, neither are most people. That’s the problem. Science isn’t exactly my strong point but the short version is, they’re good for the soil and if they go extinct, we’ll all starve to death.”
“Then you’re doing good work, but I know for a fact that even the big-name charities pay far less than the private sector.” His eyes—which were a hard, gunmetal grey—held mine so long and so steadily that I actually started sweating. “This is on me. I insist.”
It felt weirdly patriarchal but I wasn’t sure I was allowed to complain about that, on account of us both being men. “Umm…”
“If it will make you feel better, you could allow me to order for you. This is one of my favourite restaurants and”—he shifted position and accidentally kicked me under the table—“my apologies… I enjoy introducing people to it.”
“Are you going to expect me to trim your cigar later?”
“Is that a euphemism?”
“Only inGigi.” I sighed. “But fine. I guess you can order for me. If you really want to.”
For about 0.2 seconds, he looked perilously close to happy. “I can?”
“Yes. And”—God, why was I always so ungracious?—“sorry. Thank you.”
“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“Nope. I’ll eat anything. Um. Foodwise. That is.”
“And…” He hesitated. Then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Are we drinking?”
My heart did the half-dead fish flop it always did when conversation strayed even tangentially close to any of the things that had been said about me over the years. “I know you’ve got no reason to believe this, but I’m not an alcoholic. Or a sexoholic. Or a drug addict.”
There was a lengthy silence. I stared at the crisp, white tablecloth, wanting to die.
“Well,” Oliver said at last. “I’ve one reason to believe it.”
In an ideal world, I would have behaved with terrible dignity. In the world I actually lived in, I gave him a sullen glance. “Which is?”
“You told me otherwise. So are we drinking?”
My stomach had gone into a wild free-fall. I hardly knew why. “Can we not, if you don’t mind? While I don’t have medical problems with alcohol, I do tend to make a bit of a tit of myself when plastered.”
“I’m aware.”
And to think I’d almost liked him. Although technically I didn’t have to like him, I just had to make him think I liked him for long enough that he’d date me for long enough that I wouldn’t get fired. It was fine. I could do this. I could be charming. I was naturally charming. I was a quarter Irish and a quarter French. You couldn’t get more charming than that.
The waiter returned and, while I sat in sulky silence, Oliver placed our order. The whole experience was slightly strange, since I still hadn’t figured out how demeaning I should be finding it. I definitely wouldn’t have wanted it to happen regularly. But there was also some pathetic, lonely part of me that enjoyed being so publicly possessed. Especially by a man like Oliver Blackwood. It felt perilously close to being worth something.
“I can’t help but notice,” I began, when the waiter departed, “that if this fish sarnie is all that and a bag of chips, you aren’t having one.”
“Yes. Well.” Surprisingly, Oliver went a teeny bit pink around the ears. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Then how do you know about the magic eel?”
“I’ve eaten meat before, and I like it. It’s just I’ve reached the point that I can’t justify it ethically.”
“But you’re cheerfully going to sit there and watch me chow down on bits of dead animal like some kind of creepy carni-voyeur?”
He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I just wanted you to enjoy the food, and I’d never impose my principles on people who don’t necessarily share them.”
