I’d said that way too loudly and way too emphatically.

“And you don’t feel,” asked Oliver calmly, “that’s a rather telling statement to be making a week before you’re getting married?”

“It’s not about the marriage. It’s about the”—I waved my hands about—“the everything else. I just want to be with you like we used to before everything was about place settings and table confetti and never knowing which one of us is being the arsehole.”

“What worries me is that it might be neither of us.”

I glared at him across the table. “Only you could find that worrying.”

“On the contrary”—he was still doing that slightly detached rational thing he did when things were a bit too intense for him—“if one of us is being an arsehole, then everything is simple. That person just needs to stop being an arsehole, and we’ll be fine. But if neither of is being an arsehole, then that implies that we might have—and forgive the strong language—fundamental incompatibilities.”

In any other context, I’d have found the fact he called the phrase fundamental incompatibilities strong language kind of endearing.

This—our special, emotionally resonate date I’d been late for and hungover at—was not any other context.

So I was fucking terrified.

Chapter 39

"WHAT KIND OF FUNDAMENTAL INCOMPATIBILITIES?" I definitely did not screech. “Because it feels like you’re blowing the balloon arch up out of all proportion. Which is, I suppose, at least appropriate for a balloon-based structure.”

“It is not,” said Oliver tightly, “the fucking balloon—” He broke off abruptly as the waiter set down our pea-and-broad-bean rotolos. “Thank you very much.” Then unbroke equally abruptly. “Arch.”

“I know, I know. It’s what…” I made the air-quotiest air quotes that ever air-quoted. “‘The balloon arch represents.’ Which doesn’t have to be anything, Oliver. It’s fucking balloons.”

Oliver took a deep breath. I had a sinking feeling this was going to be logical and wordy. Which was sad because I usually found Oliver being logical and wordy very hot. “I realise you would prefer this to be simple, Lucien. But it isn’t. Over the past year, you’ve said some things to me that have required me to do a certain amount of self-reflection, and I need to know the conclusions I’ve reached are acceptable to you, especially if we’re going to spend our lives together.”

I briefly put my throbbing head in my hands. “Is this relationship drama or a deposition?”

“I’m not totally convinced you know what a deposition is.”

Fair.

“But,” he went on, “I’m trying to make this as clear as I can. Because I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings or for either of us to make any mistakes.”