Page 12 of Love ad Lib
Libby shrieked. ‘Oh god, I couldn’t call him that—he was far too nice.’
India raised her eyebrows. ‘Hownice exactly?’
She turned her back on her housemate and started mixing the dough for the naan bread. ‘He was sweet and kind, that’s all.’
‘Cute?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess…’
‘Name?’
‘Henry.’
‘God, this is such hard work. Henry what?’
‘Foxbrooke,’ she replied, kneading the dough.
There were a few moments of silence.
‘Oh. My. God.FoxyFoxbrooke?’
Libby whipped around.
India was staring at her phone. ‘He’s fit as fuck, Libby-Lou! Please tell me you got his number?’
‘What? No! Oh, please don’t google him! I should never have told you his name. I’ve broken data protection, his privacy, everything!’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s only me. I won’t tell anyone.’ India smirked at her. ‘Did you touch him? What does he smell like? Sex? Money? Trees?’
Libby couldn’t prevent a giggle escaping. ‘Trees?’
‘All the best men smell like they’ve used their enormous chopper to fell a forest, rolled around in pine needles, then built a fire hot enough to melt your underwear.’
‘India! He was too well put together for any of that. He’s a City gent.’
Her friend had a devilish grin on her face. ‘Oh, go on, Lib, just imagine Henry Foxbrooke shirtless, with an axe.’
Libby did, and an unexpected wave of heat pulsed through her. She turned back to the bowl, punching the dough and the feelings away. ‘Lucas is coming around for tea tonight.’
Silence.
India cleared her throat. ‘What time? I’ve got to go out for a bit anyway, so I’ll leave you to it.’
‘About six?’
‘Cool. I’ll be back around seven so I’ll see you when he’s gone.’
‘Oh no, he’s staying for the whole evening.’
‘Hmm, okay.’
Libby bit her bottom lip. Why weren’t her friends more welcoming to Lucas? Why couldn’t they see what she did?
India came up behind her and ruffled her hair. ‘Save some for me, Libby-Lou, no-one loves your curries more than India.’
By four o’clock themeal was prepped and the flat was tidy. By five p.m. Libby was freshly showered in a dress that Lucas had once called ‘cutesy’. By five-thirty, scented candles were lit in the kitchen and living room in defiance of the summer sun streaming in from outside.
At five fifty-five the bell rang.
