Love from London Read Online Free

body image issues, I might take that the wrong way.”
    “Well how refreshing that you don’t — or at least aren’t admitting them to me. Nothing less appealing than a girl complaining about her thighs.” The last word hangs in the air between us and I swear. I catch Asher staring at my thighs, which I don’t mind at all.
    “If you’re sure I won’t fall through,” I say and gingerly stretch my legs out. When I’m fully sitting in the cup, I can’t see out — I’m cocooned away.
    “You look cozy,” he says. The wind whips his hair around as he reaches into the cup, I’m sure, heart-poundingly positive that he’s going to touch the side of my face in some romantic gesture, but all he does is pluck a twig from my hair. My heart sinks just a little bit when he stops touching me and flicks the twig to the ground. Maybe he notices my face registering some look of disappointment, or maybe he’s just acting on impulse but Asher hoists himself up on the side of the tea cup and climbs into it with me.
    “There’s room for two I assume?” he asks.
    “Well, you shouldn’t really assume anything,” I say and then add, “Except that I’m continually making that mistake, so probably you shouldn’t listen to me.” If I could pull back with one of those crane cameras they use in movies, I would be able to survey this unusual scene. Me on the grounds of some castle in a country I’ve never been to before, sitting inside a giant green tree-tea cup with quite possibly the best-looking boy I’ve ever seen in real life, and very definitely the most thrill-inducing. I like to call this MCA (massive crush alert), or Booty Signal (like a bat signal only, um, hotter).
    There’s an electrical current I can feel running its race through my entire body, coursing through my veins until I just can’t sit still in the cup any longer and I get up on my knees, lean forward and am totally about to make a huge and, uncharacteristic leap and kiss him, but instead I fall over, landing on top of his shoulder as my hair gets tangled in the branches.
    Lest I ever forget how klutzy I am. Lest I ever attempt to be more dramatic and romantic and cooler than thou. I’m just not.
    “Here, let me — um, untangle you.” Asher helps free my red hair from the greenery and then watches as I climb out. I pray he doesn’t know I was about to plant one on him, that he just thinks I was getting up to leave our enchanted forest scenario.
    “I should go back to the house,” I say. Asher nods.
    “See you around,” he says and I watch him walk away towards the lake where I assume he has his own handyman cottage or perhaps a cave decked out in leopard skin (faux, of course) or something suitably animalistic. No — wait — actually he’s much more the leatherbound book type, I think — (think=assume).
    I walk off, too, back towards the cloak room entrance, and turn around a couple of times to see if Asher happens to be checking me out. But he’s not. Or at least, I don’t catch him in the act.
    Inside, Monti is padding around in a chartreuse kimono with her butt-length blonde hair twisted up in a complicated ropy knot at the nape of her neck.
    “Would you mind peeling the potatoes?” she asks me while fixing my tea. All the mugs are either chipped or mismatched, adding to the rustic charm of the kitchen. A huge AGA stove (the kind that’s always on), lavender of course, is in the center of the room, adding literal and figurative warmth to the space. Monti lifts up one of the left-side burner covers and slides the oversized tin kettle onto the black ring.
    “Green or Lapsang?” she asks and opens a cabinet to reveal and enormous selection of teas.
    “Lapsang, I guess,” I say. “I’m not a huge tea afficionado — I’m more familiar with coffees.” I don’t know why I feel the need to tell her this, but I’m battling with loving the new life I’m seeing here and wanting to prove somehow that I do have knowledge, even if