“Well.” Rhys had a wild eureka light in his eyes. “I’ve got a You Tube channel. You’ve got a You Tube channel. We could do a You Tube together.”

“Like what?” asked JoJo, who seemed to be giving this proposal far more time than it probably objectively deserved.

“I don’t know. What do you You Tube about?”

JoJo gestured at his face. “Makeup.”

“Oh, right. I suppose not everybody is as lucky as me.” Rhys indicated his own face. “Would you believe I wake up like this?”

Once again, JoJo demonstrated that he was far more polite than I am by not commenting.

“I believe it,” I put in.

“Tell you what,” Rhys continued undaunted, “how about we see if we can work on some dung-beetle-themed makeup tips.”

“That”—JoJo gave Rhys a surprisingly warm smile—“sounds like an interesting challenge.”

To my amazement, JoJo Ryan took Rhys’s details and promised to be in touch to talk about the collaboration. Of course promising to do something and actually doing it were two very different things—just look at my dad and his marriage vows or, for that matter, any other promise he had ever made—but I had a perhaps naive sense that JoJo might make good on the offer.

I left work that day not confused exactly but a bit shaken, with something JoJo had said buzzing around my head like the tune to an eighties disco classic whose name I couldn’t remember.

It’s worth rolling the dice.

Which wasn’t Oprah. But it was something.

Chapter 16

HERE’S THE THING. I LOVED Oliver, I really did. But there was no getting away from the fact we had irreconcilable Saturday differences. In my world, a Saturday was for sleeping until noon, having sex until two—or, y’know, half twelve depending on how close to thirty I was feeling—and then hanging out with friends or visiting my mum, or if I was in a super-domestic mood, curling up on the sofa with a movie. Oliver’s ideal Saturday involved “lying in” until nine at the latest, then going for a run or to the gym, following it up with a nutritious breakfast before doing something disgustingly productive. And some days, I could lure him with my wiles into a more Luc-friendly set of activities. Like cuddling and/or blow jobs.

Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. And when I staggered downstairs a little after one, I found Oliver on his knees on the kitchen floor—and not in a fun way. His protein shaker was drying on the rack and his hair was still damp and tousled from his post-run shower, both of which were signs of an Oliver highly committed to productivity. Plus, he was wearing his virtuous grey sweatpants and the no-longer-suitable-for-work-but-I-am-too-ethical-to-throw-clothes-away shirt that he reserved for cleaning. The marigolds were also a giveaway.

I groaned.

“Good afternoon, Lucien,” he said cheerfully.