Page 39 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Austen-esque

Ivy

I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing from a notification, a low, juddery hum that rattles against a book and makes it sound far more urgent than it is.

But it’s not the buzzing that jolts me upright—it’s the sharp, strange little pop in my chest. Like a balloon that’s been slowly deflating all night and finally gave up.

I sit in bed, blinking into the murky light, wrapped in the kind of stale emotional hangover that settles in your limbs like cement. And all I can think is:

Last night. The date. Oh, God.

It comes back in waves—the awkward start, the endless weather chat, the way we’d both slowly shrunk into ourselves like the world’s least sexy time-lapse video.

I rub my eyes and reach for my phone.

Christa. There’s no one else I’d rather confess this trainwreck to.

She picks up after two rings. Her voice is sleepy but warm. “Ivy? You’re up early. What’s happened?”

I groan, flopping back into the pillows. “Disaster. ”

She’s instantly more alert. “Oh no. The date with Theo?”

“Well...” I sigh. “Yeah. Sort of. It just... it was awful, Christa. Like, impressively awful. Guinness World Record awkward.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of sheets shifting. “Okay, go on. What happened?”

“He picked me up. I looked great—I’ll stand by that. Hair pinned, makeup decent, boobs making a strong effort. The leather trousers were... a mistake, obviously, but I was feeling brave.”

Christa lets out a soft groan. “Oh God. Did they do the thing?”

“All the things. Rode up, cut off circulation, might need exorcising.”

“Brave,” she says again, with clear judgement.

“We got to the restaurant—and it was gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but so not us. You know when something feels too polished? Too... not pizza?”

“Michelin star vibes?”

“Exactly. Like we were auditioning to be people we’re not. And the minute we sat down, he changed. Like, full-on PowerPoint Theo. We talked about autumn. For twenty minutes.”

“Oh, Ivy.”

“And composting. Composting.” I groan, dragging the pillow over my face. “It was like the version of us that’s fun and messy and real just… didn’t turn up.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “Did anything happen at the end?”

“We stood outside my flat like two teens at the world’s driest school disco and basically agreed—without actually agreeing—that maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Wait—what? You both just... let it go?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t fight. We didn’t even get emotional.

It was just… tired. Like we were both hoping the spark would appear if we behaved well enough for long enough.

” I sigh again. “I kept thinking: maybe it’s me.

Maybe I made it weird. Maybe I’ve read this whole thing wrong and he’s just.. . not that into me.”

Christa scoffs. “You didn’t make it weird. You wore trousers that attacked you and tried to be open to something new. That’s not weird—that’s optimistic.”

I pause. “What if I only like him when Lucy’s around?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, we had plenty of fun with Lucy not there. And we kissed in Dorset and that was nice. But last night I couldn’t stop wondering if he thought that. Like maybe he thinks I’m just using him to get... them. A ready-made family. I’m so confused.”

Christa is silent again, and when she speaks, her voice is gentler. “Oh, Babes! You don’t really think you are using him? I always thought you had made your peace with—”

“I have. I really have,” I say immediately. “I’ve accepted that I can’t have children. I truly have! I’ve got Pee-Pee’s bills to prove it. But… I do love Lucy. And it’s terrifying, because I didn’t mean to. She’s not mine. She never will be. But I love her.” I breathe in.

“What about Theo.” My heart starts beating faster when I think on how he makes me laugh, how he helps me without making me feel silly or helpless. How I feel like me when I am around him.

“I think I may be falling in love with him as well.”

“And he might love you back,” she says quietly. “Just maybe not in that restaurant, or in those trousers, or on that particular day.”

I laugh, then sniff. “I don’t know what went wrong. It’s like we tried to be something else and forgot how to be us.”

“Probably because you were both trying so hard,” she says. “You’re not auditioning for a romcom. You already had the magic—and then you went and put it in a place with amuse-bouches and stuffy twats.”

I sit up a little. “You think there’s still a chance?”

“I think,” she says carefully, “that what you had was rare. And if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants it… the real thing…. then you owe it to yourself to be honest.”

I don’t respond. Not right away. Because part of me wants to crawl back into bed and forget the whole thing. But another part is still wondering if maybe what we had isn’t gone. Just... buried under one very weird night and a lot of unspoken things.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, quietly.

“I root for you both.” She pauses, then adds, “Also, the next time you try to reinvent yourself, can we maybe ease into it with a skirt?”

I laugh. “Deal.”

As I hang up, I settle back into my pillows, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. It’s clear that I’m not done with this—whatever this is between me and Theo. I’m not ready to call it over.

Ten minutes later, when hiding under my duvet is no longer an option, I pull on my hoodie and head downstairs, the weight of the morning still hanging over me.

I need a distraction, so I decide to get some coffee.

But not from Theo's café. I can’t bring myself to go there—not yet.

I might just cheat on him with a cheeky Starbucks.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, something catches my eye.

The letterbox in the door has an envelope lying on the floor beneath it.

As I pick it up, I recognise the handwriting.

I freeze, my heart thudding in my chest. It’s from Theo.

I stand still for a moment, just staring at the envelope.

It feels like the world has shifted in some strange way, like it’s suddenly become a little smaller, and a lot heavier.

Why is he sending me something? He could have just texted me… or called me… or I don’t know. My stomach twists, but I know I can’t just leave it there. I can feel the flutter in my chest as I tear it open. It feels like an eternity before I pull out the single sheet of paper inside.

I unfold it, running my fingers over the edges, holding my breath.

Dear Ivy,

Yes, I’m writing a letter. I realise that makes me sound like I’ve wandered out of a period drama by Jane Austen, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to text you after yesterday. Texts don’t carry the weight I need them to. And I owe you more than a blinking cursor and a half-thought-out emoji.

I messed up.

Not in a catastrophic, scandal-worthy way, but in that quiet, clumsy, soul-sinking way where you realise you’ve taken something good and made it... weird. I wanted the dinner to be special, and instead I made it awkward. That’s on me. Entirely .

I tried to turn something simple and real into a performance.

I overthought it. I picked a restaurant that didn’t suit us.

I wore way too much cologne. And worst of all, I turned into a version of myself I barely recognised.

Uptight. Tongue-tied. Talking about Viennese coffee like I was doing a dissertation.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You showed up. You were stunning, thoughtful, generous as ever, and I made you feel like a stranger. I don’t know how I managed that, but I felt the shift as much as you did. We lost the thread. The spark. The us.

And that was my fault.

For three months, I’ve had the enormous privilege of knowing you. And I liked you from the start. Then I started to care about you. And then, somewhere between glue sticks and flour explosions, I realised I was in love with you.

Friday night, I let all that go quiet because I got scared.

I thought I had to show you something more.

That maybe being a single dad, a bit chaotic, not wildly glamorous or interesting, wasn’t enough.

So, I overcompensated. I tried to be someone else.

Someone who wouldn’t let you down. But in doing that, I let you down.

I didn’t need to impress you. I just needed to be present. And myself. The man who laughs at your drama and loves how you light up when Lucy says something completely bonkers. The man who feels calmer when you’re in the room. Who misses you when you're not.

So here’s me, owning it. All of it.

And here’s what I’m asking, if you can bear to read this without throwing it dramatically into your recycling bin: let me try again.

Not to impress you. Just to be with you.

To show up honestly, and ask if maybe, despite the very beige weather conversation and talk about composting (I AM SORRY! !), you’d consider a second date.

Nothing fancy. No reservations, no ma?tre d’, no culinary foam. Just me and you and whatever food doesn’t require a glossary.

Say yes, and I’ll be at your door Friday at seven. I promise not to mention coffee. Unless you bring it up first.

Yours, completely

Theo

I drop onto the stairs like my legs have given out beneath me.

Not dramatically. Not deliberately . Just one of those soft, stunned collapses where your whole body says, Right, we’re doing feelings now. Sit down.

The letter’s still in my hand, shaking slightly.

My throat’s tight. My eyes sting. And then, just like that, a stupid, ridiculous little sniffle escapes me.

It’s not even a sad cry. It’s that quiet, overwhelming kind of joy that sneaks up on you when you’ve been bracing for disappointment and get hit with something tender instead.

He loves me.

Not in some hypothetical, she’s nice to have around kind of way. Not because I’m good with Lucy or handy with biscuits. But because I’m me .

Flawed. Fumbling. Flour-covered and far too emotionally invested in small clay gnomes .

I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie and pull out my phone with shaky fingers. Christa picks up on the second ring.

“I’m guessing this is either a life emergency or you need chocolate,” she says. “Which is it?”

“He wrote me a letter,” I say, my voice high and wobbly and absolutely not normal.

There’s a pause. “A what?”

“A letter. An actual, handwritten, sincere, heart-melting, Theo letter .”

I hear bedsheets rustling. “Wait. Is this a ‘declaration of feelings’ letter or a ‘please return my soup ladle’ kind of letter?”

“The first one,” I whisper. “He took all the blame. Like, all of it. He said he tried too hard and turned into a stranger and that I didn’t do anything wrong. He said I’ve always been enough.”

“Oh my God,” Christa breathes. “You’re crying, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” I sniff. “It’s just a normal physiological reaction to someone writing something devastatingly perfect and saying they love me.”

“Oh babe. Now I’m tearing up.”

I laugh and cry at the same time. “He even promised not to talk about coffee unless I bring it up first.”

“Well, that’s commitment,” she snorts.

“I think I’m in love with him,” I say, finally admitting it out loud. “Like. Actually.”

Christa makes a noise somewhere between a squeal and a celebratory sigh. “I knew it. I knew it . So, what are you going to do? ”

I look down at the letter again. His handwriting’s a little crooked. He crossed out a word in the middle and rewrote it above like a nervous schoolboy. It’s so him, it aches.

“I’m going to say yes.”