Page 45 of From London, With Love

“Mum, did you hear the part about him being my boss? As in, he’s the person I workfor,not just with.”

“Oh Lara, you say that as if no one’s ever fallen in love in the workplace.”

“Love?!” I half shriek, half yell, repeatedly tugging off and sliding on the gold rings permanently adorning my middle finger. “I’m not looking for anything serious over here Mum, and certainly notlove.”

“Why shut yourself off from something without even trying? I thought I raised you better than that.” Her tone is teasing, but the words still stand to reason.

“I’m only here for a short while; what’s the point? I’d rather not go through the ordeal of it ending.” I take a sip from my mug as I wait for her to respond.

“How could you possibly know it’ll end if you’re not even willing to let it start? Plus, you and I both know you only bought a one-way ticket, meaningtechnically, you don’t have plans to leave at present.”

Well, she’s got me there.

Despite everything she went through with my father, Mum has always been a romantic at heart. Not even a cheating husband could dampen her spirit permanently, and that’s something I’ve always admired in her. I wish I could say the same for myself.

I’ve been cynical since the day I found out that nothing lasts forever; the day I learned my father might as well have ripped my mother’s heart right from her chest. I imagine it would’ve hurt less than what he did.

It took years of asking until my mumfinally told me the truth behind the breakdown of their marriage. The official story, at least whilst I was growing up, was sometimes things weren’t meant to be, and sadly their marriage was one of those things.

As I got older and had a better knowledge and understanding of the crueller parts of the world, I quickly realised there had to be something bigger at play.

When Mum sat me down and told me the heartbreaking truth, my first question was why. Why would he do that? Why didn’t she tell me the truth before now? Why was he now happily remarried? Just plainwhy?

She’d looked at me then, and I saw years of sadness, hurt and anger within the small wrinkles around her eyes and in the way her brows sat lower above her lids. But there was something else too; acceptance. It was slight, and you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it, but it was evident nonetheless.

Her words have stuck with me since that moment. “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

Growing up, those around me had always considered me a Daddy’s Girl. I’ve heard stories of how I’d follow him around the house, not worried about his attention but wanting to be in his presence. These stories made me smile in earlier years; I’d thought it was so sweet. Once I’d heard the full story of the divorce, I found them less sweet—my dad didn’t have time for me. He had his daughter as his permanent shadow despite not being able to give me the time of day.

Over the recent years, my relationship with my father has become strained. We speak occasionally, but the conversation lacks substance. He gives me updates on his family without asking about me, so I find myself giving him the bare minimum in return—whether or not he realises this, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I often find myself looking in the mirror, seeing only thelittle girl who longed for more, wondering why we weren’t enough, whyIwasn’t enough.

On my 21st birthday, Mum had gifted me two of my most treasured possessions: her princess-cut emerald engagement ring and matching gold wedding band. In the almost seven years since, I could count on one hand the number of days I haven’t worn those rings. While some may find it odd I wear rings representing a marriage that ended the way it did, they provide me with a level of comfort I can’t quite explain. They also serve as a physical reminder to not let myself get attached.

The conversation turns to updates on other family and friends and general chit-chat. After we’ve said our farewells, I’m once again alone in my bedroom, left to ruminate on our earlier topic of conversation.

Sure, it would be lovely to have someone to come home to, someone to kiss me good morning and night, someone to hold me when I need it, and someone to laugh with . . .

But in saying that, my beautiful friends and roommates can offer me three of those four things. I wouldn’t put it past Mia to offer them all, now that I think about it. Bless her; the girl just wants everyone she loves to be happy.

The point is, right now there’s nothing any man can offer me that I can’t already get through friends or from myself. What theycanoffer me though is orgasms. With any luck, they’ll be better than the ones I deliver myself.

A face drifts into my mind, and I almost drop the ceramic mug I’m taking a sip from. Those pretty green irises of his flash a wink at me, tongue darting out to trace a plump lip.?

I blink once, hard, and he’s gone. My cheeks warm as I unclench my thighs, which I’d inadvertently squeezed together at the mental image I conjured of the Oxford Street Playboy.?

Instant gratification—that’s all this desire is for. I need to get this man out of my system, but do I really want to riskgetting involved with someone with this level of media presence? I have no interest in that sort of attention, but my interest in the man himself might outweigh that.

The next day, as I stroll into the firm’s lobby, I’m trying my best not to look as exhausted as I feel. Once I make it through today, I’ll have officially been here for one week. It’s a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things, yet my brain is that full it might explode. It probably doesn’t help that I’m still dumbfounded about Carter.

He’s been a perfect gentleman; no trace of the Carter from the bookshop. Weirdly, I find this a little disappointing. I thought he’d be a man of his word.

I’d love to walk right up to his desk and ask what happened to this not being over, but I think that may cross some HR boundaries.

“Lara!”

Startled, I look around and find the barista holding out my iced latte. The look on his face says that wasn’t the first time he’d called my name.?

With a mumbled, “Sorry, thank you,” I grab my coffee, duck my head, and make my way to the lifts.

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