Husband Material (London Calling #2)(10)

That’s what he thought. He wasn’t me.

“In any case,” he went on, “you have time. You can think about it.

And if you want to go, of course I’ll be with you. And if you don’t, I’ll…

still be with you. And we’ll do something much more interesting than watching your ex-boyfriend and somebody you’ve met once throw a massive, expensive party in celebration of a relationship that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

I blinked. “Wow. That’s a cynical take on marriage even for me, and my dad was a junkie arsehole who walked out on my mum before I could talk.”

“I’m not opposed to marriage in general.” Oliver gave a tight little smile. “I’m just not the sort of person who can get invested in the trappings if I’m not invested in the couple.”

I didn’t think I was either, really. I’d only agreed to help organise Bridge’s wedding because she was my best friend and I was pretty sure she’d do all the important planning herself. Of course, part of it was that for most of my life it hadn’t looked like marriage was a thing I’d ever be able to do. And in some ways it was nice to think if I was growing up today, I’d be able to be one of those kids spending his days planning his fantasy wedding to the man of his dreams. But in other ways, it felt kind of like I’d missed out. “I get it. And just to be clear, I’m not invested in Miles at all. Like not at all. Not even a little tiny bit.”

“Good.”

There was a firmness in that good that felt more definite than his I’ll-support-you-no-matter-what demeanour implied. “Oliver,” I said, because I wanted this on record, “you are actually just a smidgeon jealous, aren’t you?”

“No.”

The response was far too quick to be convincing. I grinned triumphantly. “You are. Oh my God, you are. That’s amazing because it means you like me so much you don’t want anyone else to have me. Or possibly super insulting because it suggests I’m so damaged I’ll go back to a guy who sold me out and is marrying someone else.”

“Well, obviously I like you, Lucien,” muttered Oliver. “In general.

Not necessarily right now. And I know it’s irrational. While I have a long history of people leaving me, it’s always been for quite banal reasons, not because they decided to run off with their ex at his own wedding.”

Once upon a time, this would have been a teasing opportunity and I’d have said something like I promise when I leave you, it’ll be over something trivial. But Oliver had been dumped a lot, and even though he’d know it was a joke, it would be a joke that hurt. “I promise I’m not going to leave you. Not over Miles. Not over you going vegan. Not even over that time you got really upset at me for leaving my socks in the living room.”

That perked him right up. His eyes got a steely glint. “There is a place,” he said, “for socks.”

And it probably said something weird about my brain or our relationship that Oliver chiding me about my socks was a little bit of a turn-on. “I’m sorry.” I made a futile attempt to sound contrite. “I’m just a filthy sock harlot.”

“Lucien, are you attempting to turn my irritation at your failure to pick up after yourself into some kind of sex game?”

I shot him a hopeful look. “Is it working?”

“Well, you have made a terrible mess of the kitchen.”

“I know. I deserve to be punished.”

“You’ve already been punished,” Oliver pointed out. “You had to eat that dreadful pie.”

“That is very much not the type of punishment I had in mind.”

Standing, Oliver neatly cleared the bowls from the table. “I don’t think framing sex with me as a punishment is quite the compliment you think it is.”

“Well, I don’t think ‘Come and do me because you like me so much’ has quite the right flirtatious edge.”

“But Lucien”—Oliver’s voice had gone very low and very soft—“I do like you. I like you very, very much.”

Okay, maybe that was working. Except even after two years of relationshipping and self-care and emotional development, it still scared me how vulnerable sex could make me feel. Which meant it was way easier to say Spank me, Daddy, which we both knew I didn’t mean, than Hold me, I love you, which I definitely did. And I was just trying to find a way to articulate this—see above, re: emotional development—when Oliver came back, unbowled, and took me firmly by the wrist.

“What are you—” I started as I found myself manoeuvred onto the table.

“I’m showing you how much I like you.”

Argh. Help. My feelings. I made a valiant attempt not to melt everywhere. “I’ll feel bad if we damage this table.”

“Really?” he asked. “I won’t care in the slightest.”

And then he kissed me and I stopped caring too. Because whatever else was going on—in spite of Miles and JoJo Ryan, and Bridge’s wedding, and the mess of my past and the mess I was probably going to make of my future—Oliver was mine, and I was his, and I was kind of completely, embarrassingly, disgustingly in love with him. Especially when he knew exactly how to touch me, rough and tender and careful and endlessly…Oliver. When he knew how to make me forget my uncertainties and my self-consciousness so that I wasn’t afraid to cling to him like I needed to cling and let him cling to me the way he needed to cling back. And tell him how wonderful he was, how happy he made me. All the other things I was just beginning to find words for.