Chapter Fourteen #2
He angled the screen so Georgia could see too: an aging kitchen with a very wonky freestanding oven, an overgrown garden, and an avocado bathroom suite surrounded by a pale pink carpet.
“Wow.” Georgia laughed. “I would not have made it further than the online listing, let alone have bought it!”
Matt shrugged. “Cheap, and a good project.”
He scrolled further through his pictures.
The next photo showed the living room mid-reno, floorboards bare, and walls freshly plastered.
Wires hung from the ceiling, spaced evenly for spotlights.
Then came images of Matt painting, white t-shirt streaked with navy gloss, one arm awkwardly outstretched as he tackled the ceiling.
“You took selfies while painting?”
“Mum wanted updates,” he said, flicking through the pictures.
Somehow, Georgia suspected they’d also graced any dating profile - his hair was too done, the tuck of his shirt that exposed a sliver of his toned stomach just that little bit too casual.
He’d even got one with a careful splotch of paint right on the line of his cheekbone.
“And, you know, proud of it, I suppose.”
He swiped to a picture of the finished kitchen: clean lines, dark countertops, a little rugby ball-shaped clock on the wall. It was very neat, no appliances out on the surfaces, no knickknacks or clutter.
“Looks good,” Georgia said, impressed. “Very neat.”
“Wait till you see the bathroom,” he said, still flicking through photos. “Oh, and check this out. Made this myself for my gear. Built-in, like.”
Georgia scooted closer along the sofa, their shoulders brushing.
It was a hallway bench, tucked into an awkward corner next to the front door.
Underneath it was a shoe rack with at least six pairs of trainers slotted together.
She counted three pairs of rugby boots too, their backs and studs dropping mud onto the laminate floor beneath.
He’d added cushions to the solid wood seat and fitted a coat rack above it.
His coats were hung in colour order, starting with black on the left and moving through grey to a green waxed jacket on the right.
The whole house was tidy, everything in its place.
Georgia’s flat was a little more chaotic.
The monstera her mum had bought her when she moved in was giant now, twirling round its stake, big leaves sectioning the sofa off from the dining table.
She and Rach had chosen the blue velvet sofa together, making sure the L-shape had enough space for each of them to stretch out in an evening.
The cushions were too soft, really, always sagging in the middle, slipping off the frame, but they were comfy.
Georgia had spent hours choosing the prints for the room, making sure the pastel colours complimented each other and the sofa.
The long wall of kitchen units along the back wall of the big room were covered in appliances - kettle, toaster, the coffee machine, Rachel’s air fryer and the barely used slow cooker.
They had little jars with cork lids for their tea bags, the sugar.
After one too many mishaps, they kept the island counter clearer.
But even then, the big wooden fruit bowl she’d bought in Barcelona sat on the edge, framed by the large bow window overlooking the street.
“And upstairs,” Matt started, scrolling up through yet more photos.
Georgia nodded, but her mind had wandered several photos ago.
Not because she wasn’t trying – she was.
The wine and the tiredness softened the edges of everything, including him.
She wanted to care about his house, his tile choices, his mystery cupboard.
But her attention had snagged somewhere else entirely.
The open collar of his linen shirt. The roll of his sleeves.
The way his forearms moved as he spoke, golden-skinned and easy. Comfortable.
It was unfair, really. How charming he could be without trying.
That laugh, that messy hair. The glint in his eye when he teased her.
He’d always been like that: sunny, boyish, just enough danger to feel like a crush, not enough to feel like a threat.
And now here they were, years later, sitting in her flat, trying to turn all those teenage what-ifs into something real.
It scared her a little. The idea that something easy and warm could grow from this.
A life. A home in that neat house, round the corner from her parents.
Someone to come back to after the whistle blew and the bruises faded.
Someone who saw her as more than a player or a captain. She should be so lucky.
Georgia stopped his explanation of how he’d had to move the soil pipe when he redid the en suite bathroom him with a hand on his arm. “You’ve worked hard on it, I can see.”
“Yeah.” Matt grinned, that wide, honest smile that had no doubt made a hundred girls feel like the only one in the room. For a second, she sank into it. Into him. The possibility. “Told you I’m good with my hands.”
He watched her for a moment longer. Then he leaned in, slow enough she could stop him if she wanted, his eyes on hers the entire way. Georgia’s breath caught, and then his mouth met hers.
The kind of kiss that came from someone who’d been thinking about it for a long time and wanted to get it right.
His hand brushed her cheek, thumb skimming along her jaw, and she felt herself tilting into him, forgetting the half-empty flute of wine in her hand, forgetting the beige walls and the rugby clock and everything else.
When he pulled back, he was still close, still smiling.
“Told you,” he mumbled. “I’m…”
“Good with your hands.” Georgia laughed, a little breathless. “Except that wasn’t your hands.”
Matt’s grin widened. “You haven’t seen the rest of the demo yet.”