LEO:I want to see you, Olive. When you’re ready
ME:I’m ready
That afternoon I receive a message on the manuscript. The subject reads:
FROM:SLOANE BOOKS
RE:COPY EDITS.
The publisher has accepted our final draft. The book is finished.
I check my watch. He will be here soon.
I DON’T WANTto fuss over what I cook. I make focaccia. I make stew with beans and Italian sausage. I make dark chocolate mousse. Everything is easy to execute and allows me time to dress.
I am aching to see him after two weeks apart. Almost as long as we’d ever been together, in fact.
I am jittery and giddy at every sound that could be a knock on my door. I take time with drying my hair, shaving my legs, and painting my toenails. I pull on a simple black dress. I stay barefoot as I finish the dinner.
And then, when eight rolls around, the doorbell rings.
Seeing Leo again takes my breath away. He bites his lip, grinning as he stands in the doorway looking me up and down.
“Well, hey,” he says.
He’s casual. Sneakers, jeans, shirt open a little at the neck.
“Are you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, this time a little nervously. I watch him ball his hands together before I put him out of his misery.
“Come in, stranger,” I say, holding out a hand. “It’s getting cold out.”
Leo takes my hand and I close the door. We stand for a minute staring at each other, with misty round eyes, before Leo tugs me roughly in for a hug. It’s so fucking nice to be in his arms, I collapse into his body.
“It’s weird seeing you in London,” he says, finally pulling back. “Though I’ve been picturing it every day. You at Spitalfields. Wondering if you would like a Brick Lane bagel. Wanting to show you this amazing market in South London.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs at his admission, and I smile back at him, wondering how it is possible to feel such love for someone I’ve only known for half a summer.
“I missed trying to make you smile,” he quips, rubbing his fingers across my knuckles.
He studies my room. Eyes on the old sofa, the small television tucked away among my bookshelves. “You have a lot of cookbooks,” he says, grinning, as he finally pulls away and shrugs off his jacket. I hang it over a chair.
“Everyone buys me cooking gadgets and cookbooks. It’s all I ever get,” I say, smiling. “Well, that and red lipstick.”
Leo smiles. “I’m looking forward to meetingeveryone,” he says. “Ginny and Kate seem like a right laugh. Do they still call me—”
“Hot Chef?” I ask, folding my arms. “No. You’re just Leo now. You’re no longer being objectified.”
“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “That was quick.”
Leo looks at me and tips his head to the side. “What did you cook?”
“Come on,” I say, leading him to my kitchen table, a small four-seater with mismatched chairs.
He sits across from me, and we eat. Leo is pleasantly surprised by how good of a cook I am.
I tell him about my mother, my time in Yorkshire. And he tells me about what’s been happening at Nicky’s and a trip to see the football he’s planned with his friends.
“I don’t know any of your world in London,” I say, with some trepidation.
