Love from London Read Online Free Page A

I’m not rolling in money. Obviously, explaining the difference between a latte and a misto isn’t going to win me intellect points, but it’s something.
    “No problem,” I say and reach for the paring knife. “Do you have a shape preference?” I mean for the spuds, but Monti considers what I’ve asked her like it’s a got a double meaning.
    “I know I’m supposed to say circle, aren’t I?” Brief pause where she waits for me to say something, which I don’t. “But I am actually not a fan of the circle — it’s endless, boring. Instant Karma’s gonna get me, right? Well, I guess I’d have to say trapezoid. Aren’t they just so beautiful? Much more so than octagons, for instance.”
    She is so weird — it’s like this is normal conversation, how’s the weather, what’s your favorite shape, that sort of thing, but I can’t help but go along with the quirkiness of the whole day (my whole term? Who knows). Monti suddenly puts her hand to her mouth and makes a little gasping noise, “Oops.”
    I wait for her to say something grown-up like silly me, why on earth was I talking about shapes, but instead she says, “I almost forgot.” She gets up from the table, goes to one of the drawers (insert various clanking noises) and brings back two cookie cutters — one in the shape of a star, one a heart.
    “Are we making cookies?” I ask. “My dad taught me how to make ginger snaps.” Inane, inane, inane.
    “Oh — no — I just thought these would be fun for the potatoes.” Which is how I come to sit, looking out at the now slate-dark sky, making starch stars and hearts. Granted, Martha Stewart would approve, and the effect will be cool I’m sure, but it’s a funny thing to be doing. Monti tells me to immerse all the shapes in the bowl of ice water she’s given me (so that the potatoes don’t start turning brown) and they float and sink there while I clean up and wash my blue poka-dotted tea mug. Then, just as I’m thinking of making use of the bath (bubbles, book, and boy thoughts) I spot Asher near the fountain at the center of the driveway.
    I casually (read: bolted like a bat out of hell — nod to Meatloaf) saunter (saunter=sprint) outside but by the time I get to where Asher was, he’s far enough ahead of me that I can follow him without him noticing but close enough that I don’t get lost. I spy-walk and finally catch up with him when it’s nearly pitch black outside. Hooray for the lanterns aglow on the paths — slightly creepy and slightly romantic.
    Asher doesn’t turn around but says loudly (for my benefit), “I’m just turning to the left now, so make sure to keep up.”
    I do. Then, when we get to a little gazebo, Asher goes up the stone step so he’s standing under the dome. There’s enough light from the far-off lanterns so that slim ripples glint from the lake’s surface. The gazebo is tiny — an open-air circle (not a trapezoid) surrounded almost entirely by water, attached to the land only by a long stone pathway and a step. One minute I’m staring at the lake, getting cold, the next Asher and I are deeply connected at the mouth, pressed up tightly together. Maybe five minutes go by, maybe ten — again, not going to estimate, especially since Monti and Angus Piece probably forbid time-telling or anything “so banal” on the premises of their house.
    But suffice to say the kiss — oh my God, the perfect kiss — lasts a long time and when we finally do pull apart, Asher tucks his hand under my chin, and brings it down the base of my throat, his cool fingers sending sparks through my whole body.
    Then a bellowing, enormous GONG echoes out into the night.
    “That’d be their dinner bell,” Asher says in a near-whisper. It’s like even he doesn’t want to break our moment.
    “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that means dinner’s coming?”
    “Wrong,” Asher kisses me again. “Cocktails.”
    Ahem!
    Even though I don’t want to, I say a hasty