“That’s not what I—”
“You don’t want me to go, do you?” I narrow my eyes.
His brow lifts. “The exhibition is on Hogarth. It doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
“You seem awfully keen to decide for me what is and isn’t my thing. I happen to enjoyHarry Potter.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Hogwarts?”
“Hogarth.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “One of the most important English painters of the 18th century. He’s not a wizard.”
“Fine. That sounds very interesting too.”
“You’ve spent the last three nights in my house watching that show,” he says, nodding towardMAFS, the picture of disapproval, “and shouting ‘Oh my god, they’ve only known each other for three days, why are they already getting divorced?’ Forgive me if I didn’t immediately assume you had a deep, burning passion for 18th-century sketches.”
I huff, folding my arms tighter, annoyed that there might be an element of truth to that. “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t also enjoy culture.”
Edward’s lips twitch, which Ido notappreciate.
“I love going to the Notting Hill market and looking at the brick-a-bracks and cute paintings. That’s art even if it’s not your snobby art.” I cock a brow. “You just don’twantme to go, do you? Maybe you don’t want people to know you’re dating someone who watches reality TV and occasionally gets their art museums confused.”
“That’s not the issue,” he says, which isexactlywhat someone says when itisthe issue. “But we haven’t exactly defined what this is yet. If I turn up with you on my arm, people will talk. And my entire bloody social circle thrives on gossip—every move scrutinized, every decision picked apart. Neither of us needs that kind of spectacle right now.”
I swallow, throat tight.
People will talk and they’d have a lot to talk about.
That’s what he means, but he’s not saying it outright.
And the worst part? He’s not wrong.
People in his world would talk—Edward Cavendish, shacked up with his brother’s ex-fling. The Bidet Meme girl. It’s like dating the saucy intern.
But this?The Tate?That’s not some high-stakes work event where I might embarrass him in front of colleagues. It’s an art exhibition. A public space.
I can understand why he wouldn’t want me meeting all his work friends just yet, but he doesn’t even want to beseenwith me in public?
That feels personal.
“I thought we agreed to keep this under wraps for a while, for the sake of Sophia’s wedding?” he asks.
I purse my lips. “It’s not like she’s going to randomly spring up at the Tate, is she?”
He sighs. “You are more than welcome to come to the Tate with me.”
“Fine,” I declare, summoning great dignity. “I shall accompany you to thisHogswashexhibition.”
“Hogarth.”
“Whatever.”
Silence settles, thick and prickly. We sip our drinks, avoiding eye contact. On his ginormous TV, my show drones on—Jez is sobbing again.
Edward flips open his laptop beside me, typing with the most obnoxious keystrokes I’ve ever heard in my life.
Well. That was officially our first fight.
