Page 81 of From London, With Love

“Mind your business, Emilia.” I leave my sister in the kitchen with my parents' wine glasses. With Teddy’s glass in one hand and mine in the other, I return to the dining room to find his chair empty. My parents both give me a warm smile. “Emmy has your glasses, she’ll be out in a moment. I’ll take this to Teddy.”

The library on the ground floor of my parent’s home is where I spent a lot of my time during my childhood. Often I was reading, but Teddy and I also frequented the grand room because it served as an excellent space to play. Teddy alsofound it to be a haven when things felt likea lot, which is how I knew I’d find him here.

“I’d really like to kick your arse right now for whatever you told Emmy, but I don’t like my odds.”

My brother turns in place where he’s sitting in one of the deep blue occasional chairs in the centre of the room. As he does so, I’m reminded of the sheer size of him. We might be the same height, but I’ve got nothing on his width. Shoutout to the British Army for being the reason I could never take Teddy on.

He gives me a once over, holding in a chuckle. “You’d be on your arse before you even got close enough to kick mine.”

I make my way over to my brother, repressing my own laugh as I smooth a hand along my jaw and take a seat in the chair opposite him, passing him his glass in the process. “What have you been telling her?”

“Only the truth.” Teddy leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He rests his chin on his thumbs, steepling his pointer fingers against his mouth. It’s no wonder the rookies he trains are often terrified of him; I’ve known him my whole life, and he still intimidates me when he assesses me like this. Thick brown brows are drawn down over his narrowed eyes, and I resist the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.?

“Sounds like it’s your warped version of the truth. Why does she think I’d have someone to bring home to meet our parents?” Hopefully the casual persona I’m trying to portray looks less forced than it feels.?

“Probably because she lives with the woman in question.”

“It’s casual with Lara, you know that. I’m sure Emmy does too, since, as you pointed out, they live together.”

“But you don’t want it to be casual.”

“When have I ever said that?”

“You don’t need to say it. I know you, Carter. I know the way you normally look at women, and it’s gotnothingon theway you look when you’re merelytalkingabout Lara. I can only imagine the puppy dog look you have when you look at her.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Even so, I’m right, and we both know it.”

There’s no way I’m admitting it right now because I’ll never hear the end of it, but heisright. The way I feel about Lara has snuck up on me like a lion to its prey, slow and unnoticed at first, but there’s no going back once it strikes. I’m at her mercy. But I don’t think I was evernotat her mercy.

We sit in comfortable silence for a while. My eyes skim over all the titles on the shelves, reminiscing on days long ago snuggled up on the adjacent lounge with Granny. It’s because of her influence that I have a deep love for the classics. For years I sat in her arms, normally wrapped in a blanket or curled up by the warmth of the fireplace, as she read me the likes of Austen, Hardy, Orwell, and Bronte.

Their stories stuck with me, and over the years, they helped me through heartbreak and loss, including the tragic loss of Granny.?

Teddy remains quiet but begins to tap his index finger against his lip and absentmindedly shakes his right leg up and down in quick succession. I wonder what’s going through his mind. Just as I’m about to ask him, he gets in first.

“Ask her on a date.”

“Excuse me?”

Teddy sits back, crossing one ankle over the other. His right arm rests on the chair's arm, his left closing into a fist and bearing the weight of his chin. “Ask. Her. On. A. Date.” Each word is irritatingly punctuated by a tap on the arm of the chair, the thick cords of muscle flexing in his forearm as he does so.

“I can’t do that, she’s my assistant.”

“Piss poor excuse; you’re sleeping with her. Try again.”

“She’ll be returning to Australia in a few months.”

“So your options are a) do nothing different, continue sleeping with her for a few months and wave her goodbye with nothing but regret when she leaves, or b) grow the fuck up, ask her out and enjoy whatever comes until you have to wave her goodbye, but with no regrets.”

The temptation to pick option B is strong. But what about the image I’m portraying for the sake of my family? If we were to go on a date, the media would label her yet another woman through the revolving door of that is the Oxford Street Playboy, and I won’t allow that. Lara deserves better. The least favourable option seems the easiest way to go.

“Option A, thanks.”

“It was a statement not a question, arsehole. You really don't think she's worth it?”

“Of course she’s worth it, but I can’t.”

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