Page 30 of Boyfriend Material
There was a long silence, with us both hovering awkwardly on the edge of each other’s personal space.
“Are we really bad at this?” I asked. “We’ve been fake dating for three days and we’ve already fake broken up once.”
“Yes, but we fake resolved our difficulties and fake got back together, and I’m hoping it’s made us fake stronger.”
I laughed. Which was crazy because this was Oliver Blackwood, the stuffiest man in the universe. “You know, I was genuinely looking forward to brunch.”
“Well…” He gave me an uncertain smile. “You’re here now. And everything’s still in the fridge.”
“It’s nearly six. That’s not brunch, it’s…brinner?”
“Does it matter?”
“Wow. You rebel, you.”
“Oh yes, that’s me. Sticking two fingers up at society and its normative concept of mealtimes.”
“So.” I tried to sound casual, but I was about to touch on something very serious indeed. “This…brunch…brinner…punk-rock rejection of the egg-based status quo… Will there be French toast?”
Oliver flicked up a brow. “There could be. If you’re very good.”
“I can be good. What sort of good did you have in mind?”
“I wasn’t… I mean, um… I mean, that is… Maybe you can set the table?”
I hid a smile behind my hand, because I didn’t want him to think I was mocking him, even if I kind of was. But I guess this was exactly what I’d signed up for: a man who probably owned napkin rings. After all, theMailwas unlikely to run with “Rock Star Love Child In Wrong Fork Shame.”
What I hadn’t expected, though, was how nice, how safe, how right it would feel.
Chapter 12
I did, in fact, set the table—though, thankfully, there were no napkin rings. We ate in Oliver’s kitchen, at a tiny circular table about three feet away from the hob, with our knees touching underneath it, because apparently we were doomed to an eternity with our legs tangled up together. I’d secretly enjoyed watching him cook for me—heating oil, chopping garnish, and breaking eggs with the same care and precision he brought to everything else. Also there was no denying he was easy on the eyes when he wasn’t judging me. Which I was starting to suspect he did way less often than I’d imagined.
“So, how many of me were you expecting?” I asked, surveying the bounty of eggs and waffles and blueberries and multiple varieties of toast, French included.
He blushed. “I got a little carried away. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to cook for.”
“I suppose, since we’re meant to be dating, we should know this sort of stuff about each other. How long’s a while?”
“Six months, give or take.”
“That’s not a while. That’s practically a now.”
“It’s longer than I prefer to go without a partner.”
I stared at him over my eggs Benedict. “What, are you some kind of relationship junkie?”
“Well, when were you last with somebody?”
“Definewith.”
“The fact you’re even asking says quite a lot.”
“Fine.” I scowled. “Nearly five years.”
He gave a thin smile. “Perhaps it would be best if we refrained from passing comment on each other’s choices.”
“This is an amazing brinner,” I said, by way of a preemptive peace offering. Then launched straight into “So why did you break up?”
