Page 40 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Three Tubs of Ice Cream

Theo

I ’m hunched over the kitchen table, half-drunk coffee at my side, trying to help Lucy with her writing. She’s focused like a little artist with a grand vision—only her “masterpieces” look like scribbled attempts at something very abstract. But to her, they’re perfect, and that’s all that matters.

“You’re doing great, Ladybug,” I say, guiding her tiny hand to get the wobbly letter A a bit smoother.

“Look, Daddy! So pretty!” she says, holding it up proudly. It’s more like a triangle with a line in the middle, but I’m not about to crush her spirit. “I’m a master!”

“Perfect. Soon you won’t need me to help you anymore,” I grin, ruffling her hair. “Now try a D. Remember, it’s like a big curve, then a straight line down.”

Lucy’s so intent on her work that she doesn’t notice me sneak a glance at my phone sitting beside me. The screen lights up, and I see a text from Ivy .

My heart skips a beat before I even read it. I grab my phone, fingers shaking just slightly as I unlock it.

The message is short. Simple.

Ivy

Turns out I’m free Friday at 7.

No trousers with a vendetta this time.

Love to have dinner with my dorky Theo.

(Preferably in jeans.)

x

I feel a strange mix of relief and something else, something deeper—hope, maybe. My dorky Theo. I clutch the phone tightly. She is willing to give us another chance. I want to scream it from the hills—well, in the streets of Shoreditch more like.

Lucy looks up, noticing the sudden change in my expression. “What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asks, her little face scrunched with concern.

I force a smile, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “Nothing, Lu. Just... something good.”

Her face lights up, clearly not needing any further explanation. “Is it ice cream?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “No ice cream just yet, but I’ll tell you what. Let’s finish up these letters, and then maybe we’ll see about that later, yeah? ”

Lucy’s grin spreads across her face as she gets back to her work, and I take a moment to breathe before texting my brothers.

“Lu, how about a sleepover at Uncle Jasper or Uncle Geoff on Friday?” I ask.

“Uncle Geoff. He dresses up as a princess with me,” she giggles.

“Sounds like a plan,” I laugh. Now I just need to come up with a plan on what Ivy and I can do, that is us.

Shifting the shopping bag from my right to my left, where I’m already juggling a second tote and what feels like a small corner shop's backroom, I jab the intercom.

“Coming,” Ivy says.

“No, wait—let me up,” I blurt, already regretting not explaining this in advance .

A beat of silence crackles back.

“Why?” Suspicion. Deserved.

“Just let me up, Ivy.” I try to laugh, keep it light.

Another pause, then the door buzzes open. I exhale through the nerves I didn’t realise I’d been holding in.

By the time I get to the top of the stairs, I’m slightly out of breath and deeply regretting the extra tub of ice cream. Ivy’s standing in the doorway, arms folded, one brow raised, expression somewhere between curious and mildly unimpressed.

Then I see her properly, and everything slows.

Not in a dramatic film-score kind of way. Just quietly. Naturally. Like someone’s turned the volume down on the world and left me standing here, watching her.

She’s wearing a black skirt that flutters slightly around her knees and a soft blue top that dips just enough to be dangerous. Her hair’s down. There’s the faintest shimmer on her cheeks.

And my brain, usually decent at basic human functions, forgets what to do with that.

“Wow.”

It slips out low and honest, and I instantly wish I’d saved it, bottled it somehow, just so she’d know I meant it in the absolute best way.

Her cheeks flush. “Wow?”

“Yeah.” I shift the bags awkwardly to one arm. “A good wow. Like... a really good wow.”

She squints slightly, not buying it yet. “You’re not just saying that because your brain’s oxygen-starved from carrying forty-seven pounds of groceries up the stairs?”

I grin. “Forty-five, tops. But no. I’d say wow even if I was completely empty-handed.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re such a dork.”

“An honest one,” I say, and then because I’m an idiot, I add, “Also, you smell amazing.”

Oh God. Abort.

To my relief, she lets it slide with only the faintest eyebrow raise. “So.. What’s with the bags?”

“Dinner.”

“You brought dinner?”

I walk past her into the flat before she can argue, dropping the bags on the kitchen counter like I do this all the time. “Lasagna. Homemade. Three-hour sauce. The works.”

There’s a pause. I can feel her looking at me. I keep my back to her while I pretend to be busy emptying the bags.

“You made lasagna?” she asks, voice just a little too even.

I turn around slowly, holding up an oven safe dish like a sacred artefact. “I did. I’m not saying it’ll change your life, but... well. Actually, I am saying that.”

She walks over, hands on her hips. “Do I get a menu, or is it just lasagna and promises?”

“Lasagna, salad, bread, and ice cream,” I say smugly. “And not just any ice cream.”

I reach into the bag and dramatically reveal three tubs like they’re a royal flush. “Coffee and walnut, salted caramel, and classic vanilla. Choose wisely.”

She stares at me for a beat, then grabs the salted caramel and clutches it to her chest. “You absolute hero.”

“Glad to be of service,” I say, and try not to look too pleased when she starts digging out two spoons from a drawer.

“Hang on,” she says around a mouthful of ice cream. “Where’s Lucy?”

“Sleepover at Geoff’s.”

Her eyes widen. “Does Geoff know he’s hosting a royal guest?”

“She brought three tiaras and a wand. She called him ‘Your Glittery Majesty’ as I was leaving.”

Ivy snorts into her spoon. “Oh no. Did he cry?”

“He texted me a crown emoji and a threat.”

She shakes her head, still laughing, and something shifts in the air—softens. There’s no pressure. No looming silence. Just the two of us, standing in her kitchen, trying to remember how to be... us.

I hand her a tomato and a knife. “You’re on salad duty.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That feels dangerously close to a power move.”

“My kitchen, my rules.”

“We’re in my kitchen.”

I ignore that small detail. “I’m still the head chef. Don’t challenge me.”

She slices the tomatoes carefully, but there’s a smile at the corners of her mouth. I can feel it blooming in the room, that slow, quiet return to something that almost slipped away.

And maybe this time, we’ll get it right.