“I’m a good listener.”
“Sometimes a bit too good of a listener. You could really say more.”
“You scare the words out of me.”
“That can’t be true.”
He looks me over, his dark eyes more contemplative than usual. “You make me question everything I might say. You’re very intimidating.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping behind Carter to allow a woman to pass by us.
“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” Carter says, though my attention is fully focused on the man’s ass in front of me. It has to be the pants. They do something magical that turns his normal butt into something I can’t look away from.
“And yet you did anyway.”
He slows his pace, forcing me to catch up with him before good-naturedly bumping his shoulder into mine. Or, technically, bumping his elbow into my shoulder due to our height difference.
“Apparently, I can’t help myself,” he says.
We walk a few steps before he asks, “So, are you going to tell me why you hate one of the most popular cities in the world?”
My stomach clenches at the thought of telling Carter about how badly I messed things up last time I was here. “It’s not a story I tell many people.”
He turns his head to look at me as we walk, his hands still buried deep in the pockets of his black coat. “Now I’m even more intrigued.”
I should’ve known Carter wouldn’t give up that easily. Twirling my ring around my finger, I consider if I should tell him about my fuckup with Lukas or not.
Fortunately, as I’m about to begin speaking, I see the sign for the restaurant up on our right. “Look,” I say, nodding my head toward the building. “We’re here.”
The look on his face says he’s not going to drop it, but I ignore him, leading the way to the small restaurant overlooking the Thames.
Once we’re seated and I set down my menu, Carter says, “So you’re really not going to tell me, huh?”
I drum my fingers on the top of the table, knowing he’s not going to let this go. I don’t know why I ever mentioned anything about hating London. Of course he was going to chase down that story; I would do the exact same thing.
On one hand, telling him about it feels far more vulnerable than I want to be on our fun night out, but he did share his story about his mom with me yesterday. It feels like a dick move to refuse to tell him about this. Even though, of all people, it feels like Carter would understand and not hold my lack of sharing against me.
“Only my family knows about it.”
“I can keep a secret,” Carter says.
And for some reason, I believe him.
“Well,” I start, focusing my attention on the photograph of the London Eye on the wall across from me. “Five-ish years ago, I was dating this guy Lukas.”
Carter snorts.
“What?”
“Sounds like a twat.”
I roll my eyes, a chuckle escaping me at his use of the British word. “All you know about him is that his name is Lukas.” I hadn’t even told him it was Lukas with ak, which makes it more twat-y in my humble opinion.
“Fine. He’s not a twat.”
“Oh, no. He is. Just wait.”
Carter folds his hands beneath his chin, exaggerating his focus on my story.
