Page 17

“—handmade in your granny’s hometown. Yeah, I KNOW.” Rafferty laughed. “I love ya and all, but hardboiled sweets are, and always will be, the devil’s work.”

Licking mayo off his thumb, Oliver grinned. “Sounds like someone might be feeling better.”

“I always feel better chatting with you. Shit taste in sweets aside”—Rafferty snickered— “you’re my guy.”

“And it’ll take a lot more than a few thousand miles and several time zones to change that.”

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” said Rafferty.

“Well, it’s true,” said Oliver. “Also true—you’ve had a lucky escape. Anyone who feels threatened by a rom-com poster is probably a terrible partner. Romance is essential. Don’t settle for anything less—ever.”

“Stop! You’re making me miss you even more.”

Oliver could practically hear Rafferty’s pout through the phone. The familiar ache of loneliness swelled in his own chest. “I miss you, too.” He lifted the toasted bread from his club sandwich and pulled out a rasher of crispy bacon. “Having no friends here is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Still no after-work socializing?”

“My colleagues don’t go out en masse.” Oliver devoured the bacon in three bites.

“Then ask them out.” Rafferty yawned through his words. “Or go see your dad and get that ball rolling.”

A dull heaviness settled in Oliver’s stomach. In a strange way, the problems at work were a welcome distraction from the main reason for his arrival in Toronto.

“Made any progress with that?” asked Rafferty.

“Made any with your exhibit?” Oliver volleyed back.

Rafferty let out a lengthy sigh. “Ahh touché, mon ami.” His ongoing efforts to curate his dream street fashion display at London’s Victoria & Albert Museum was a sore point, and a subject he routinely swerved when pressed.

Silence descended on the other end of the phone. “So I guess you’ve finally fallen asleep, huh?” Oliver joked, trying to infuse some levity into their awkward exchange. “Well, at least I’m good for someth⁠—”

“How did today go?” Rafferty stepped on Oliver’s words with his other preferred query. “Do anything at lunch? What’d you see? Who’d you meet?”

With multiple meetings, a research deadline, and curriculum edits, Oliver’s lunch was a slice of reheated pizza wolfed down at his desk. Shame a description of soggy crust, congealed cheese, and sickly-sweet tomato sauce wasn’t the answer his friend was looking for.

Oliver’s attention drifted to the television. A woman with a shiny brown bob was interviewing British supermodel Naomi Campbell. Where was a station I.D. when he needed one?

A recent memory would have to suffice. “I, uh, went to the park. Didn’t see much. Just pigeons, benches.”

“But you love your pigeons, don’tcha? At least you got outside. I barely snatched fifteen minutes, and most of that was spent grabbing a takeaway from Wimpy,” said Rafferty. “Was work better today?”

Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face. “Define better.”

“Shit. Really?”

Oliver filled Rafferty in on the sweary students and the CEO’s ill-timed tour.

His best friend sucked in a breath. “Fuck…”

Oliver nodded. “Definitely a new low here in Toronto.”

“But that’s not on you, Ollie. You can’t control how those little shits behave.”

“True, but if the museum program held their attention, they wouldn’t have acted out.” Oliver whisked his hair off his forehead. “It figures. I had just been in a meeting with the CEO two hours earlier. He knows I’m responsible for the curriculum, so any lack of engagement is on me. He’ll definitely report back to Amalia if this fiasco scared away his donors.”

“When’s boss-lady back from Oslo?” asked Rafferty.

“In two weeks.” He released a heavy breath. “Any job openings at the V&A?”