A/N: If you aren't watching Ted Lasso on Apple TV you should be! It's fabulous. This fic is inspired by finally figuring out a recipe that made me love fried green tomatoes, after being a southerner all my life who never understood the attraction. And who doesn't love a man who takes care of the people he loves by feeding them?
Chapter 1
It was a Monday morning in June that Ted Lasso, recently returned from a trip to Kansas to visit Henry, burst, with characteristic exuberance, into Rebecca Welton's office. He carried the usual small pink paper box in his hand and set it promptly on her desk.
"Boss, you're a sight for sore eyes, if you don't mind me saying so," he told her, his grin stretching across his face.
"Ted!" She exclaimed, her pleasure at seeing him a little more hidden but no less real. "And you've brought my biscuits." She had the box open and one in her mouth before she finished speaking. Dear god, she had missed these while he was abroad.
He didn't miss the possessive, and his cheeks colored at her groan as she savored the buttery shortbread, leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. He cleared his throat. "Well, boss, you're in for another treat if I can tempt you with it."
She raised a perfect eyebrow. "Oh?"
"See, there's a dish I didn't realize how much I'd missed until I was back in Wichita. And luckily for us, it's just coming into season here. Have you ever tried fried green tomatoes?" His eyes lit up as he named the food.
"I enjoy a grilled tomato at breakfast on occasion," she responded. "Can't say I've ever had one fried. Or green, for that matter."
He became, if possible, even more enthusiastic. "It's an American classic. There's even a movie! Which you must see if you haven't already. You'd get a kick out of Idgie. And Evelyn. And heck, Ninny, too. Lotta complex female characters in Southern fiction, I gotta say. Anyway, fried green tomatoes. My nana fixed them all summer when I was a kid, and I swear, if Proust had ever had one, a madeleine wouldn't mean squat, if you know what I mean."
Rebecca smiled, catching the Proust reference if not, quite, the rest. She took a breath, ready to admit that she had not, in fact, seen the film, when Ted continued his monologue.
"And thank goodness I bought a big ol' bag of cornmeal before I flew out on Thursday. I checked Tesco and Sainsbury's yesterday and Samantha at Tesco told me polenta is the same thing but I was not convinced, looks different to me. Martha White has my back."
"Ted—" Rebecca interjected.
He paused, looking at her expectantly.
"I'll be glad to try a fried green tomato. Perhaps you could bring it instead of biscuits one day this week? Tomatoes with Ted, as it were."
He shook his head regretfully. "Ah, no, that won't do. You've gotta eat a fried green tomato as soon as it comes out of the skillet. How about this? I'll take a quick trip to the farmers' market on Saturday and I'll cook up a big batch of them afterwards. I was there in Twickenham this weekend and persuaded Pauly to pick me some tomatoes before they're ripe for next week. I couldn't believe not a single green tomato at his stall." He narrowed his eyes, still perplexed. "Back in Kansas they sell at least as many green ones as ripe ones. But if you're busy, of course, I understand."
Before she could overthink it, Rebecca nodded decisively. "My flat is near the farmers' market. I could… walk with you?" Doubt crept into her last sentence.
It needn't have. He responded, delighted, "You've got yourself a date, boss." As her eyebrows rose, he corrected himself. "Not a date date, of course, I would never be so presumptuous…"
At that moment, Rebecca's phone buzzed, and she hid a sigh of relief at the disruption. "I have to take this, Ted," she said, not unkindly.
He hopped out of the chair. "Of course. I need to get to prac—training, anyway. Two months till our first match, plenty to do. You enjoy your day." He strode out of the office, quietly high-fiving the coat rack as he passed it, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before.
Rebecca held in her smile until he was out the door. When she picked up her phone and greeted the caller, Keeley knew as soon as she heard her friend's voice that Ted must have made it safely back to Richmond.
Chapter 2
Saturday dawned bright and cooler than Ted would expect June to be, so he pulled on jeans, a tee-shirt, and a soft, grey AFC Richmond sweater—jumper, he corrected himself, determined to embrace the local vernacular—and called an Uber. He had agreed to meet Rebecca at her flat and go to the market together.
Rebecca, for her part, was also up early and pondering wardrobe choices. After discarding more possibilities than she would ever admit to anyone, she finally settled on a long black sundress, sleeveless with a plunging neckline. It would warm up fast, she expected, and she didn't want to be saddled with any extra layers to carry. She tucked her phone, keys, and wallet into her pockets just as the doorbell rang. Her heart began to beat a little faster as she descended the stairs, wondering how this first time really alone with Ted since his trip would go.
Ted waited patiently outside, carrying a canvas bag with a greyhound on, presumably for upcoming purchases. His eyes crinkled when he saw her, and as she opened the door, he said cheerfully, "You're wearing the heck out of that dress, boss." He deliberately limited his gaze to her eyes.
Rebecca ducked her head, unlikely ever to grow accustomed to receiving compliments so freely offered as Ted gave them constantly. "Well, shall we?" Was all she said, as she stepped outside, locking the door behind her.
"We shall," Ted responded with a grin, and began to chatter about the market as they strolled towards it. "I just love this place. Reminds me of weekends with," he paused, then continued, "Michelle and Henry, before the, ah. Well, before. We used to go every Saturday morning in the summer to stock up on fruits and veggies and Amish bread. And as we were leaving Henry always asked for ice cream, and we couldn't let the little guy eat alone, could we?" Ted looked off in the distance, bittersweet memories clouding a perfectly sunny day.
Rebecca allowed her arm to bump his companionably and he relaxed beside her. "This will be my first time," she admitted.
Ted stopped in his tracks. "Your first time at the market?" He asked, his voice rising at each syllable, unable to believe anyone could live within walking distance and never go.
"Going marketing was never of interest to Rupert, and I just… never made the time." She gestured vaguely and began walking again.
Ted moved again to catch up with her, offering his arm as he said, "We're making time today."
She hesitated, then looped her arm loosely around his, smiling down at the sidewalk as the heat from his body spread to her chilly arm, exposed as she was to the cool breeze in her sundress. She shivered at the sensation, and he stopped again, pulling her a little closer.
"Are you warm enough?" Ted asked, solicitous as ever.
"I'm perfectly fine. It will warm up fast," she said. "As soon as the sun gets brighter." She kept her arm entwined with his.
"You're welcome to my sw—jumper if you want it," he suggested, reaching with his free hand for the bottom of it.
"Not necessary. We're almost to the market, and I want to get some sun on my shoulders." Rebecca tugged gently on his arm, and they moved towards the first stall.
Ted pursed his lips, keeping his thoughts about her shoulders strictly to himself. He let her lead him forward.
It wasn't fancy, Twickenham Farmers' Market, just tents set up in the parking lot behind Marks & Spencer, but the nostalgia was strong for Ted, and the wares were exceptional and varied from week to week. Case in point—
"Alex!" Ted cried. "I haven't seen you or Dan all summer. Well," he amended, "I've been out of town, but you weren't here last week."
Alex, a young woman with a long dark blonde braid and rosy cheeks, came from behind her stall's table and reached to embrace Ted. He had to drop Rebecca's arm to return the hug.
Rebecca didn't like to analyze why that set her teeth on edge, so she chalked her displeasure up to the loss of Ted's warmth as she stood to the side, feeling oddly bereft.
"We had a problem with two of the girls last weekend, and I couldn't leave them. Of course, Dan is good with them, but I'm the resident cow whisperer. They're both fine now, though, and back to giving us lovely milk again," Alex finished.
"Glad to hear it," Ted said and turned to Rebecca, raising his eyebrows slightly at the cold expression on her face. "Rebecca, I want you to meet Alex. She and her husband Dan have a dairy farm down in Dorset… it is down, right? I still haven't gotten all my geography situated. They they make the best butter you'll ever taste." He turned to the young woman. "Alex, this is my—…"
Alex stuck out her hand, cutting him off with a smile. "Rebecca Welton, I'm so pleased to meet you. I've loved football since I was a small girl and I've been following your career since you took over the Richmond club. I have high hopes for the new season."
Rebecca relaxed and shook Alex's offered hand. She said in a low tone, "So do we. Let's hope we can make it happen his year. Coach Lasso has it well in hand; I have every confidence in him."
Alex nodded, then turned to Ted, whose ears had reddened at Rebecca's praise, and whose gaze had wandered to the Dorset Dairy Company offerings. He whistled, changing the subject from football and praise he was uncomfortable receiving to dairy products. "Would you look at that? Rebecca, this must be our lucky day. Alex, is that fresh buttermilk?" Wonder colored his question, as if he'd spotted a unicorn for sale.
"Last bottle left, coach, and if you want it, it's yours," Alex said.
Ted's hurried grab for the glass bottle was only a little undignified. "This stuff is worth its weight in gold," he explained to Rebecca. "You can hardly find it anywhere in Wichita. My nana used to buy it from a farmer she knew from her school days. We are gonna dine like… well, maybe not kings, but Kansas cowboys, how about that?"
"I'll take your word for it, Ted," Rebecca smiled, only a little puzzled at his zeal for what looked like very thick (spoiled?) milk.
Alex rang up the purchase, and after Ted paid, careful as he counted out the coins, he automatically extended his arm for Rebecca. After Rebecca had said a fairly friendly goodbye, and Ted an effusive one, sending his regards to Dan and the dairy cows, Alex watched curiously as they walked away, arm in arm. Just how close were the owner and gaffer of AFC Richmond? She smiled thoughtfully, then shrugged and turned to her next customer.
Chapter 3
"Now, we just have to get our tomatoes and then we are home free," Ted said eagerly, talking and walking faster.
How was this man everlastingly excited about every aspect of his day? Rebecca had often wondered but had yet to come up with a satisfying answer. She had also wondered, once or twice, what it might be like have that kind of passion focused on her, but each time, she shoved that thought far away. Today, though. Today… She shook her head, and just said, "Lead the way, Coach Lasso."
Ted in his enthusiasm increased the distance between them such that they could no longer loop arms. Instead, he slipped Rebecca's hand into his, pulling her along for a moment until she lengthened her stride. It felt… natural to her, as if she always spent her Saturday mornings walking hand-in-hand with Ted Lasso through the farmers' market near her flat, shopping for buttermilk and tomatoes and stopping to chat with nearly every vendor and half the patrons. It was a different crowd here, too, than the ones at matches or the pub: she'd heard only one shouted "Hullo, wanker!" aimed in Ted's direction, and it was more affection than critique. No, Ted had somehow made friends with most of the people who frequented the market, and Rebecca wondered again how that was possible. As they walked, she wrapped her fingers more firmly around his and decided to think later about how comfortable this felt, and at the same time how her fingers tingled at the contact with his calloused ones.
Ted, for his part, had taken her hand without thinking, and then nearly dropped it in embarrassment until she had tightened her grip on him. There was something gentlemanly and regular about offering the crook of his arm. He might do the same for any lady he knew, from his nana to Keeley to everyone in between. Hell, he didn't even have to be cis-normative about it; he would offer his arm to a friend of any gender. But somehow holding hands, even with a greater distance between their bodies, was a horse of a different color. When he glanced at Rebecca to see her reaction, he smiled bashfully, and she looked away, her lips quirking just enough for a discerning person to notice.
Ted noticed.
"Here we are!" Ted exclaimed as they approached the tomato stall. "These tomatoes come from the Isle of Wight—have you been there?" No pause to allow her to answer, and she smirked at the lengthened vowel in both words of the island's name under the influence of his Kansas drawl. "I reckon they're the first tomatoes I've ever had that were grown on an island. They're just as good as the ones in Wichita, I'll say that, and sometimes there's even more variety here."
He finally paused for a breath, just in time to greet the vendor. "Paul! How you doing, man? I want to introduce you to my… to Rebecca Welton, who owns the club."
Rebecca extended her hand to the big bear of a man, about her father's age but closer in appearance to Father Christmas.
Paul glanced at her approvingly and shook her hand with both of his, directing his comment to Ted. "About time you brought your lady friend to meet me, coach."
Rebecca found that she didn't mind the assumption as much as she might once have done. Ted blushed, his ears turning bright red. "Now Pauly, she's not…"
Paul looked pointedly at their joined hands, then took pity on the stammering man in front of him. He said with an air of conspiracy, "I've got your tomatoes in the back. Just give me a moment to fetch them. You know we're not supposed to save items for individual customers, but you're an exception. Besides, who but you would want a bunch of green tomatoes?" He laughed and stepped away.
Rebecca, seeing Ted's ears were still red, put her free hand briefly on his forearm and squeezed. Ted turned to her and said, "Listen, boss, I never—"
"I know," she shook her head, interrupting him to avoid a long apology for something he hadn't done. "Anyway, what else would he think?" She raised their hands but didn't let go. She refused to think about why she kept her grip firm on him, what about today in particular made her persist in holding this man's hand when it was clearly drawing attention.
Ted cocked his head in acknowledgement, and at that moment Paul approached with a small box of unripe tomatoes. "As we agreed, I have a selection from the different types we raise: red tiger, kumato, and golden classic," he said, pointing to each variety.
Ted finally let go of Rebecca so he could rub his hands together gleefully and settle up with Paul. "These look mighty fine, Paul. I appreciate you."
Rebecca took the box while Ted paid, contemplating the tomatoes with a slight lift of her eyebrows. They looked… green? Ted thanked Paul profusely and inquired after his husband, who had recently broken his hip but was on the mend. Then he turned back to Rebecca. Taking the box from her, he slid it into his bag alongside the buttermilk. He shouldered the bag and offered Rebecca his free arm. She reached down and took his hand instead, and they headed out of the market parking area.
"Your place or mine, boss? We've got some cooking to do!" Ted said in a way that could only be described as joyful.
Rebecca turned toward her flat, squeezing his hand. "Mine is closer." Curiosity had overtaken her, and not just about those green tomatoes.
Chapter 4
"Now, the buttermilk is the real secret here," Ted declared, making himself surprisingly at home in her airy, spotless kitchen. "I usually just use regular old buttermilk, but this stuff… this stuff is gonna blow your socks off." He glanced down at her bare feet. "Well, so to speak," he added. Both barefoot, they stood just about the same height.
"Can your tomatoes possibly live up to these promises, Ted?" Her voice was full of mirth as she mixed a pitcher of mimosas for them to share while he cooked. "I have secrets of my own," she continued, as she pulled vodka from the freezer to add to the orange juice and champagne.
"I like the way you think," he said with a grin. "Where do you keep the bowls?"
She indicated the correct cupboard with her eyes, and he reached for two large ones, filling the first with buttermilk and the second with corn meal.
"There are many variations of this recipe, as you might imagine. I do it mostly the way my nana did, as you also might imagine. She didn't like eggs in her fried green tomatoes, so I don't use them. And, well, I did make one modification at my doctor's insistence: I use olive oil instead of bacon grease these days."
Rebecca gave an exaggeratedly relieved sigh. "Thank goodness for that," she said with a laugh.
"Do you have any aprons? This is gonna get messy fast, boss." While she went to get an apron for him, he quickly cut three tomatoes, one of each variety, into very thin slices. "This is a great knife," he mentioned, as he rinsed it and his hands. "Some people like these sliced thicker, but I prefer thin slices. They get nice and crispy that way."
Rebecca handed him the apron, and he took it, shaking his head. He asked, "Where's yours?" He slipped his around his neck and tied it in the back.
"Oh, am I meant to help?" She responded. "I was quite enjoying watching." And she was, reveling in the domesticity of Ted in her kitchen, admiring her knives, standing over her cooker, preparing what he considered a delicacy for them. It didn't hurt that he had shed his jumper and wore only his jeans and white tee-shirt, and now a frilly apron.
"It's a two-man job," he said, so she went back for another apron. As she slid it over her head, facing away from Ted, he took the two strings from her, wrapped them around her waist twice and tied them in the back. She closed her eyes at the sudden contact. He brushed both hands against her hips and she swallowed and reached for her mimosa, downing half the drink.
Ted did the same with his, saying "Whew, you weren't kidding about the secret ingredient. Good stuff." He took another sip, then stepped away from her and back to the tomatoes. As Ted set his glass down on the counter, Rebecca was certain she detected a tremble in his hands. Not as unruffled as he was pretending to be, was Mr. Lasso.
Unbidden and unwelcome, Rebecca remembered a long ago round of morning mimosas, with a companion who suggested that she had no business drinking her breakfast.
Ted caught the expression on her face, and concerned, asked, "What's wrong?"
Rebecca bit her lip. "Oh, nothing, just a ghost of a mimosa past."
Ted raised his eyebrows, prompting her to continue.
Customary Rupert-related bitterness and hurt crept into her voice. "Once I made mimosas for Rupert and myself, and he accused me of being a lush and suggested the alcohol and sugar would go to my hips. It's a wonder I still enjoy them at all."
Ted pretended miscomprehension, glancing deliberately in the direction of her hips. "Pretty sure I'd enjoy them just fine," he said, his usual anger at Rupert for the harm he had done this woman lacing his tone.
Rebecca's eyes widened, and she felt her face getting warm. "Ted!" Was all she said, her surprise evident. Yes, they'd gone from enemies to friends to whatever the hell had been happening lately, but neither of them had said anything quite that bold to the other.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca, that was inappropriate. But," he ground out, "that that son-of-a-bitch made you think that your hips or any other part of you is less than one hundred percent breathtaking…" Ted flexed his fingers slowly. "He didn't deserve you," he finished, his teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists.
She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and banished memories of Rupert as she exhaled. She spoke quietly, not quite looking Ted in the eye. "I wouldn't say it was… inappropriate." She put her hand on his arm, and he relaxed into her touch.
Ted swallowed audibly and had to change the subject. If his gusto for tomatoes at this moment was just the slightest bit forced, Rebecca couldn't hold it against him. "You ready to get this show on the road? What we do is dunk the slices in the buttermilk, then swish them around real good in the corn meal, then into the skillet on the, ah, cooker. Now that's one of y'all's linguistic variations that I just love. 'Cooker,' very expressive. The skillet," he added, rolling his wrist to let the warming olive oil spread out evenly, "looks just about ready. Then we'll add salt as they cook and voilà," he brought is fingers to his lips in an exaggerated chef's kiss. "Best damn thing since sliced bread."
The moment had passed, and he was fully genuine in his pleasure at preparing food with her. Ted's fervor was contagious and by this point, Rebecca's stomach was growling audibly. He chuckled in delight to hear it, and she said decisively, "Right then, I'll do the dunking on this assembly line."
A few minutes later, they had filled the skillet, Rebecca dropping the buttermilk-coated tomato slices into the corn meal, Ted being sure they were covered and carefully transferring them to the cooker. He sprinkled salt on top, and they both rinsed their dough-covered hands as the tomatoes began to sizzle on very low heat. Rebecca finished her drink and raised her glass questioningly towards Ted, who stood over the tomatoes with a spatula, watching but not turning them. "Hit me," he nodded, reaching her his own empty glass.
Rebecca refilled both glasses to the brim, then carried them back to the counter near the cooker. She handed Ted his, and he let his fingers linger on hers for a beat longer than strictly necessary to collect his mimosa. She shivered at the contact.
"Did you get a chill?" He asked, his eyes on hers, setting his mimosa down after taking a swig.
"Not in the least." She did not break eye contact this time. "You have a dash of batter on your—" She moved closer and gently scraped the buttermilk and corn meal off his cheek with her fingernail.
He swallowed, and his "thanks" was an octave lower than he usually spoke.
Which of them leaned in first would always be a matter of some debate between the two of them (and Keeley developed her own opinions after discussing the matter with Rebecca later that day). But suddenly they found themselves embracing, in the kitchen, with the crackling of green tomatoes the only sound.
The kiss began tentatively, but immediately became heated, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Rebecca's around Ted's shoulders and his around her back. He pulled her tight against him, their hips aligning. Rebecca felt his lips curve up against hers. "What did I say about your hips?" He rumbled, then kissed her again. A jolt of electricity ran down her spine.
Rebecca felt Ted's tongue against her lips and opened her mouth readily to him. He slid his tongue inside, exploring her mouth, and she might have whimpered.
Breathless, they parted for air, and Ted gasped. "Our tomatoes!" Reluctantly, he released Rebecca and moved to the cooker, rapidly turning over each slice so the other side could have its turn to brown.
He grinned at Rebecca, who was clutching the counter, steadying herself. He said, "Would you look at that? They're perfect."
"I missed you," she said, ignoring the perfection of the tomatoes, her voice just a little ragged.
Ted put the spatula down. "Oh honey, I missed you more than I can even tell you. Somehow over these past months this place has become home to me. You've—" He cut himself off before he could say out loud that wherever Rebecca was in the world might feel a lot like home, but he couldn't say the thought hadn't crossed his mind, either.
Their eyes bright with emotion, they reached for one another again, this time for comfort more than for passion. He felt solid against her, and she didn't let herself think too hard about consequences and potential problems and oh god, what the Sun would have to say about it.
The sizzling on the cooker got a little louder, and Ted pulled away again, this time to serve up the food. Rebecca moved to get plates, and Ted scooped tomatoes onto each one. They carried their mimosas (and the half-full pitcher) to the table along with their plates of golden brown fried green tomatoes.
Rebecca sat first, and when Ted joined her, he scooted his chair very close, his leg touching hers from ankle to hip, careful to sit to her left so his arm wouldn't knock into hers as they ate.
"Okay, moment-of-truth time. What do you think?" He cleared his throat and added, "About the tomatoes."
Rebecca looked at him, knowing that no matter how these things might taste, she couldn't disappoint him with her reaction. Hesitantly, she blew on her first forkful and took a bite.
Luckily, the simple flavors exploded in her mouth, and her reaction was entirely sincere. "Oh fuck me, Ted, why did I ever doubt you?"
He shook his head, pleased as punch at her pronouncement. "Fried green tomatoes'll do it every time." And he dug in.
They finished a second skillet full and all the mimosas, and then worked side by side to clean up the abominable mess of a kitchen, which for maybe the first time in Rebecca's life she was glad she hadn't paid someone else to do. The buzz from the vodka and champagne and searing kisses from Ted likely explained that, and while they talked about many things, they did not discuss why they were suddenly people who apparently snogged in her kitchen. But the intimacy of reaching around each other, brushing against each other's bodies to gather the dishes, to wash and dry and put them away—was almost as sensual as the kisses themselves. And Rebecca couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed a mustachioed man, but she could honestly recommend the added friction to all takers.
After the kitchen was clean, one particularly scorching kiss ended with their aprons and Ted's tee-shirt draped over the back of a kitchen chair and the straps of Rebecca's dress hanging below her lacy black bra, her midriff bare.
Ted pulled back. "Do you think we should, ah, talk about this?" He asked, pointing back and forth between them.
Rebecca, still catching her breath, groaned. "No?"
"I should probably be heading out, then, because—" He reached for his shirt.
She reached out to stop him. "Wait, Ted, no. I didn't mean—"
He put his palm over her hand on his forearm. "It's just that I don't know what you're thinking here, Rebecca. I've tried one-night stands. Well," he corrected himself, "one one-night stand. Didn't take. I care too much about you to—"
"No, this isn't—this isn't that." She knew very well about his one one-night stand and had no interest in hearing his confession about it. And she certainly had no desire to revisit how she had spent that same night in Liverpool. "Must we define it today, though?" She ran a hand through her hair, trying to bring some semblance of order to disorder, the motion making her dress slip further down until it caught on her hips.
"No ma'am, we do not have to do that. If there's a fighting chance that we're on the same page, I'm right here with you." His eyes drifted down to her breasts, and he dropped a kiss on her nipple through the fabric.
"I think there is a, ah, fighting chance. Do that again," she demanded, breathing embarrassingly hard.
"Happy to, boss," he murmured, taking his time and trailing kisses across the exposed skin of both breasts. The sensation of his lips and his moustache on her skin was nearly more than she could take and remain standing.
At that moment, Rebecca's phone buzzed. "Keeley," she said, reaching for her phone and sending the call to voice mail. She'd probably pay for that later, but right now… right now she had more important things requiring her full attention.
Ted, though, took the interruption as a sign. "Maybe we should slow down a little, how about?"
"Or we could not." Rebecca suggested, allowing one hand to drift to the front of his jeans, the other rubbing the warm skin of his shoulder.
He gently took both of her hands in his. "I want it to mean something when it happens," he said quietly.
"You don't think it would?" She asked, just as serious.
"I think it would," he admitted. "I think it would've last winter. But we owe it to ourselves, and to everyone who counts on us, to be sure before we rush into something we can't take back."
Rebecca looked surprised. "Last winter?"
Ted's ears were red again. He said, simply, "Yes."
"I'm not taking anything back. But if you insist, I do have a proposal. You mentioned something about Idgie? I bought the movie if you want to watch it with me," she offered.
Eyes full of affection for her, he said in wonder, "You bought us Fried Green Tomatoes?"
Ted slipped his tee-shirt back on and reverently pulled up the straps on her sundress. When she shivered as he trailed his fingers down her bare arms, he handed her his jumper and said, "I've been trying to give this to you all day, you know."
She let him help her smooth it on over her dress, then took him by the hand and they walked together into the living room.
As the credits rolled, Rebecca wiped away a tear for the Whistle Stop Café and Ted sleepily shifted his head in her lap, tucking his arm firmly around her hips. He let his eyes drift closed, finally giving in to the effects of a belly full of delicious fried things and mimosas, and the utter relief and comfort of being here, like this, with Rebecca.
She dropped a hand to caress his unruly hair and decided not to put off checking her voicemail any longer, as her message indicator had been beckoning through the entire movie.
Beep. "Rebecca, why the fuck are there photos of you holding hands with Ted in King Street very early this morning and I only found out about it on Instagram?"
Beep. "Shit, are you with him now? Call me and tell me absolutely everything as soon as you get this message." And a deeper voice, in the background, "Fucking hell, Keeley."
