Page 30 of Husband Material
“You know I love you too, right?”
“You rang your dad for me. If I hadn’t worked it out before, I’d have worked it out then.”
I was too over-weddinged to put up even a token show of resistance. “Bridge. Thank you so much.”
She prodded me lightly in the shoulder. “Go home. And I’ll see you tomorrow. Which is, in case you’ve forgotten, the most important day of my life.”
So I went home—or rather, I went to Oliver’s, which was whathomemeant these days. Although I didn’t like to dwell on that because I was scared that if I looked too closely, it would disappear. In any case, I was going to be crap company this evening because I was exhausted, seeing seating plans every time I blinked and still slightly raw from having spoken to my dad who, surprise, surprise, hadn’t called me back, despite the fact the wedding was tomorrow. I suppose I was at least consistent when it came to boyfriending. Much like I’d been consistent at sports in school. Which is to say, terrible in every respect.
I got to Clerkenwell about seven, hopped out the cab, and let myself in with the actual key I actually had. I hadn’t been in a key-exchanging relationship since Miles, and that hadn’t counted because we’d rented the flat together so he hadn’t so much given me a key as received a key at the same time I had. Anyway, I’d texted ahead so I’d expected Oliver to be expecting me. What I hadn’t expected was for him to be standing in the hall in full black tie holding a blue-velvet jewellery box.
Oh, shit.I’d forgotten something important. It definitelywasn’t our anniversary because while we hadn’t worked out when it officially was on account of the whole pretending-to-date-before-officially-dating thing, we’d agreed it was before the Beetle Drive, which had already happened. And it wasn’t Oliver’s birthday because, while I had forgotten when that was exactly, I knew it wasn’t in May.
“What’s going on?” I asked in the wary voice of a man who felt he should have known but didn’t.
Oliver had gone a little pink. “Well, I felt bad that I wasn’t more supportive when Bridget needed your help. And I thought since we missedPretty Woman: The Musical, I could, instead, bringPretty Womanto you.”
My gaze flicked from the jewellery box to black-tie Oliver and back again. “You’d better not be taking me to the opera. You know I hate opera.”
“I’m not taking you to the opera,” Oliver said. “I couldn’t get tickets and my private jet is being detailed.”
Thank God for that. I’d do many things for Oliver, but I drew the line at watching people sing their feelings in languages I didn’t understand. Relaxing slightly, I gave him a quizzical look. “Do I need to be in a red dress?”
“You can if you want to be, but I’m not sure it’s quite your style. Although”—he offered the jewellery box—“there is something missing.”
“I’m not sure anything else is going to fit in these…” I peered down at myself. “Jeans?”
“You do wear very tight jeans,” agreed Oliver. He flipped open the box to reveal a necklace of Love Hearts—the weird chalky sweets with little messages on them—threaded on elastic. “You mustn’t get too excited,” he went on, “because they’re on loan.”
I gaped at him. “From whom?”
“Well, I can’t say, ‘Don’t get too excited, I bought these for one pound thirty from a sweet shop.’”
“You could say, ‘Don’t get too excited, these are disgusting.’ Which would be true. My rule is never buy a sweet that’s more famous for how it looks than how it tastes.”
Oliver’s brows dipped scowlishly. “Just take the fucking necklace, Lucien.”
I reached out, then hesitated. “You’re going to snap the box on my fingers, aren’t you?”
There was the slightest of pauses. Then Oliver smiled. “For verisimilitude.”
So I reached out, and he snapped, and I tried to look as adorable as Julia Roberts, but I think I mostly looked like someone who’d had a jewellery box closed on his fingers.
“Oh, come on,” said Oliver, “that did not hurt. I was very careful.”
“It’s not the pain. It’s the shock.”
“You knew it was coming. You literally told me you knew it was coming.”
I glared in a not-really sort of way. “Then you try it.”
We swapped roles and I tried to offer him the necklace like I was a multimillionaire with daddy issues instead of a completely normal bloke with daddy issues. He reached and I snapped.
“Ow,” protested Oliver, shaking his hand.
“Sorry. That happened much faster than I thought it would.”
“You have to control it on the way down”—Oliver massaged the red line that was forming across his fingertips—“or gravity takes over.”
