CHAPTER SEVEN
Rory
The second I step into Rose’s Café, I regret it.
Not because of the croissants, which smell criminally good, but because every head turns like someone’s rung a bell.
Conversations dip. A couple of parents freeze mid-sentence.
A teenager near the window mouths my name like he’s just spotted an alien.
Small-town fame is exhausting. In the city, you disappear.
Here, you are still Rory Bennett from the cul-de-sac, only now with headlines attached.
I nod at a few people, offer a half-smile, keep moving. If I stop too long, it turns into questions and crowds and autographs. I don’t mind talking rugby. I just don’t particularly want to be dissected before coffee.
Mark is behind the counter. Thank God! A familiar face.
We both grew up in this town and although we were never close, not a single week would go by where we wouldn’t run into each other.
That and the fact that every kid in Oakwood used to basically see his Grandma, Rose as their own Grandma.
He took over Rose’s Café when she passed a few years back, and somehow the place still feels like hers.
“Rory,” he says, grinning. “Long time. You visiting?”
He clearly hasn’t been listening to the gossip mill.
“Not visiting,” I reply. “Back for good.”
He raises his eyebrows at that, but before he can push further, I spot Freya.
She’s hiding in a corner booth. Coffee in hand. Pretending very hard not to be visible. Of course she’s failing miserably. My body reacts to her presence immediately. Annoying.
She glances up and catches me looking. There it is. The flush. The quick intake of breath she tries to hide. The way she reaches for the menu to hide behind.
I feel something low and entirely inappropriate settle in my stomach. I love the fact that I can still make her react like that.
This is dangerous. Not emotionally. I’m not that dramatic. Physically. She’s still the only woman who can look at me like that and make my trousers instantly bulge.
I should look away. I don’t. Instead, I let my gaze linger a fraction longer to let her feel it. Let her know I saw. She drops her eyes again. Good. That small, smug warmth that I absolutely should not be enjoying creeps up anyway.
Jesus, Bennett. Get a grip.
I turn back to Mark before this becomes obvious.
“So,” he says quietly, leaning in. “What happened with… her?”
Sienna. Of course that’s what he means. I run a hand through my hair, keeping it casual.
“It’s complicated I say simply. “She’s with someone else now.”
No drama. No theatrics. Facts are easier.
Mark’s mouth drops open slightly. “And Isla?”
“Sole custody,” I reply. “She didn’t want it. I did.”
The words come out flatter than I expect. I don’t add that it was humiliating. That the press is fucking brutal. That I had to relive it all every time I went online. I don’t add that Isla cried for weeks. Those parts are mine.
Mark claps my shoulder. “Bloody hell. Rough.”
“Could’ve been worse,” I shrug.
It could have.
I glance back toward Freya before I can stop myself. She’s still there, cheeks faintly pink, pretending to be invested in a menu she is definitely not reading. Especially since she’s probably had it memorised since 2004. The friend beside her is staring at me like I’m a live broadcast.
“Ah,” Mark says slowly. “You know Freya, don’t you?”
I don’t look at him.
“Yeah,” I say. “From back in the day.”
“Right. Well, that’s my wife, her best friend sat with her. Small world.”
Small is one word for it.
I nod once, keeping my expression neutral, as though that information does not make the air feel thicker. Best friend. So, Clara knows things. Interesting.
I take my coffee and finally force myself to acknowledge Freya properly.
Not a glance, an actual look of acknowledgment.
She meets my gaze this time. I tilt my head slightly and press my lips into a small smile, just enough to let her know I’m not pretending we don’t share history.
Her blush deepens. That does something to me that I will absolutely not unpack right now.
Enough.
I break eye contact first, grab my coffee and head for the door before I do something stupid, like walk over and remind her exactly how well I remember the woods behind this town.
The cold air outside hits harder than expected. Good. I need that.
I walk back to my parents’ house. It still feels temporary.
Spare room. Suitcases half unpacked. Mum’s frozen lasagnes stacked in the freezer.
I have three more house viewings today. Yesterdays were…
fine. A cottage too dark to raise a child in.
A new build that felt like it had been printed rather than built.
A larger place near town with a decent garden but something missing, something I couldn’t quite name.
Maybe I’m being picky. Maybe I’m avoiding committing to anything.
Maybe it’s easier staying in the house I grew up in. Opposite hers.
I tighten the strap of my bag and keep walking, telling myself firmly that proximity is irrelevant.
This town is small. We are bound to bump into one another.
That doesn’t mean anything. It definitely doesn’t mean I walked into that café hoping she might be there.
And it absolutely doesn’t mean I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll see her blush.