Page 51 of From London, With Love

“Are you alright?” I asked after watching him walk between his desk and the filing cabinet about four times. He grumbled something incoherent, let out a huff, and sat down.?

It wasn’t until the following morning, noting his typical cheery demeanour had returned, that I asked what was up yesterday.

“I missed my run yesterday morning, so I have pent-up energy,” was his response. The man reminded me of a border collie, and I’d held back a chuckle at the thought.

I almost asked him why he missed it before remembering my boss was known as the Oxford Street Playboy within the media. I assumed a date, or perhaps several, was to blame. Plus, it wasn’t really any of my business; it’s not like we’re friends.

The front doors open, and I know it’s Carter without looking. Don’t ask me how, but I can sense his presence. Call it intuition if you must. When I look up, my mouth forms a smallo, not because I’m right, but because of what he’s holding.

Carter has an iced latte in his hand. For someone who’s strictly an Americano man, this is strange.

“Morning, Lara.” His deep voice stuns me as I make my way to him. “Thought you might need this, morning attitude and all.”

He bought me a coffee??

“Oh, thank you,” I say in my smallest voice as I take the coffee from Carter’s outstretched hand. As I take a sip, the sugary syrup hits my tongue. Shocked, I glance up at him watching me closely.

“Caramel?” I ask, sounding positively perplexed.

“That’s how you like it, isn’t it? You and your sugar obsession.”

All I can do is nod.

Not only did the man buy me a coffee, he rememberedexactlyhow I like it. It’s a small, simple gesture, but I don’t think any man has bothered to do something like that for me before. Certainly not my ex. He was too busy fucking other people to pay attention to my coffee preference.

But Carter’s also thrown two small jabs my way, so I don’t let the coffee thing get to my headtoomuch.?

Carter leads the way to the front door, opening it for me asI approach. His gentlemanly actions are at odds with the sarcasm he typically reserves for me.?

I’m caught up in reminding myself,again, about little things when an unexpected touch warms my lower back. It’s light as a feather and gone by the time I’ve taken two steps through the doorway.

Risking a quick glance behind me, I watch as Carter’s hand returns to his side. He averts his gaze, instead looking toward a sleek black Audi SQ8.

Don’t be fooled by this knowledge. I’m the furthest thing from a car girl. I’ve just loved Audi’s for as long as I can remember, and the one Carter is pointing to is sort of my dream car. I’d hate to sound corny—that’s a lie, I couldn’t care less—but it’s definitely featured on a few vision boards.

This almost causes enough commotion in my head to drown out the memory of warmth against my back, but not quite.

I watch as Carter rounds the vehicle and stops on the passenger door side. As I approach, my heart flips in my chest at the sight before me. There’s Carter, all tall, dark, handsome and suited, once again holding open a door for me.For me.What in the Uno reverse is this?

Looking up at him, I’m graced with a warm smile. The kind of smile that has the corners of his eyes wrinkling and his deep greens glittering beneath the rare sliver of British sunlight.

“Thank you.”

I’ve almost completely lost the ability to form sentences, and it’s ridiculous. Have men set the standards so low that I’m feeling all giddy over my boss opening doors for me?

Placing a hand on the top of the doorframe and attempting to not make a complete fool of myself, I throw my bag on the floor in front of the passenger seat. I place one leg inside, but the heel on my other foot catches in a pebble, and my lifeflashes before my eyes. In an instant, Carter is behind me. Electricity crackles through my veins at the connection between his strong hands and my waist.?

“Watch your step next time, Miss Matthews.”

The only people who’ve ever called me Miss Matthews were typically under the age of ten. Coming from young mouths, it made me feel older than my 27 years. But coming from Carter’s, it has me feeling a completely different way.

If it weren’t for Carter’s hands still around my waist, my supporting leg would’ve buckled beneath those words. God, he’s smooth. I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he were actually trying to flirt with me.

Let’s stop that train of thought right there. He’s not flirting with me. Nor do I want him to.

Liar.?

The word comes from somewhere deep in the back of my mind, from my inner validation and attention seeker. She can be such a hussy sometimes.

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