Page 82 of From London, With Love

“You can and you will.” Teddy stands, taking two short strides to close the distance between us, his crisp white trainers now toe-to-toe with my Oxfords. He holds a hand out at me expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Give me your phone, Carter.”?

Teddy reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls his own phone out. A picture of Winnie mid-giggle comes into view as Teddy waggles his phone in front of me. “If you’re going to be a child about this, I’ll text her myself.”

“Fuck! Fine.” I rip my phone from my trousers pocket, keeping a strong hold on it in case my brother tries to manhandle it from my grasp.

The arsehole sits down with an unnecessarily exaggerated casualty, making me want to slap the smirk right off his face. Phone returning to his pocket, Teddy crosses one leg over the other, wrapping clasped hands around his knee, and waits. If Iweren’t so pissed at him, I’d laugh at the dramatic display. Perhaps Emmy is more like him than I realised.

I glance over at my brother, quickly averting my gaze back to my phone when he sees. “So, uh, if you were to text her, what would you say?”

“Well,” Teddy begins, rubbing his palms together, “I’d offer to cook her dinner.”

“But you hate cooking?”

“You don’t,” he says simply.

The urge to slap him is replaced by the urge to pull him into a hug. He gets on my last nerve sometimes, but I’d be lost without him.

Although I refuse to admit it, at least for now, the way I feel about Lara isn’t something I’ve felt before. It’s unchartered territory, and I’m fucking terrified I’ll screw it up.

Chapter 34

Lara /Carter

Lara

Avibration on the coffee tables rudely steals my attention away from the television, where John Krasinski and Colin Egglesfield are playing their little hearts out in a game of beach badminton. I fumble with my phone as the text notification lights up the screen.

Carter

If you don’t have prior arrangements, you should come over tomorrow night. I’ll cook you dinner.

A sharp laugh erupts from my throat. Harper is closing the front door on the retreating pizza delivery driver, the unexpected sound causing her to startle; the pizza box in her hand almost falling to the floor.

“What was that demonic sound for?” Harper takes a seat on the lounge next to me, placing our dinner on the table in front of us.

“You’ll never guess who’s asked to cook me dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh, I think I have an idea.” Harper holds out her hand. “Let’s see.”

I place my phone into her outstretched palm. Harper scans over the message, not an ounce of surprise registering on her face as she hands it to me.

“I’m offended you thought I wouldn’t guess this, Lars, as if it could possibly be anyone else. What’s so funny about this though?”

“What’s funny? What’s funny is his joke because he certainly can’t be serious.”

“Because he’s your boss?”

“No. Well yes, but that wasn’t what I meant. We don’t do dinner, Harps. We might do other things, but we don’t do dinner.”

Harper raises her eyebrows at me before turning away and bursting into laughter. “It’s a good thing Mia isn’t here right now; can’t imagine she’d want the details on that one.”

“Speaking of, aren’t they both at their family dinner right now? That doesn’t seem the best time to be asking to have dinner with me.”

Harper pins me with a stern look. “You think he’d be discussing his text messages with his sister? I don’t think so. And stop trying to change the subject. We’re talking about your dinner with him.”

---