CHAPTER ten
FREYA
Clara: I’m just saying. The way he looks at you is not subtle.
Freya: He was looking at everyone!
Clara: Not that look and you know it.
Freya: Clara. He is single. I am single. If he were interested, he would have, I don’t know… used words?
Clara: Some men are emotionally constipated.
Freya: Please never say that again.
Clara: He basically undressed you with his eyes.
Freya: He did not.
Clara: Freya. I was standing RIGHT THERE.
Freya: You were too busy mentally writing cowboy fan fiction.
Clara: Untrue. That was later.
Freya: Also, you are married. Redirect your inappropriate cowboy energy to your husband.
Clara: Mark and I have a very healthy “look but don’t touch” policy.
Freya: I am begging you to STOP.
Clara: Just saying. If you don’t climb that man like a tree, someone else will.
Freya: GOODBYE, CLARA.
I shove my phone into my bag before Clara can remind me anymore that Rory Bennett now lives opposite me. Again.
Clara is dramatic. Entirely unserious. A menace with Wi-Fi. And yet, the problem is that she is not always wrong.
I refuse to replay last night. I absolutely refuse to think about the way Rory’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long, or the way he said my name like we have never been apart.
I focus instead on Theo’s running commentary about Halloween sweet rankings, nodding solemnly while he explains that chewy cola bottles are “top tier” and anything coconut-based is “basically a scam.”
Normal morning. Normal thoughts.
I drop Theo at his line in the playground, kiss the top of his head, and head inside for what I’ve been optimistically told is “admin time.” Admin time sounds calm, manageable.
In reality, it means I am once again in charge of the entire Christmas fair like I lost a bet I don’t remember agreeing to.
I still don’t know how it happened. One minute I was nodding politely in a PTA meeting, the next someone said, “Freya did so well last year,” and I failed to fake my own death quickly enough.
Last year nearly finished me. I was dressed as an elf, sprinting between a jam stall and a malfunctioning hook-a-duck while fielding questions about raffle tickets and resisting the urge to cry into a tray of mince pies.
But this year. This year I have help. A parent volunteered.
Help is a beautiful word. Delegation might be possible.
I might not have to inflate four hundred balloons myself while explaining for the fifth time that no, Sharon, we cannot plug a chocolate fountain into an extension lead from 1998.
I clutch my notebook and head toward the boardroom, rehearsing calm competence. I have been told the mystery volunteer has useful contacts and might even assist with higher-end raffle prizes, which would be a minor miracle for ticket sales.
I push the boardroom door open with cautious optimism. And stop.
Oh. No. Rory.
He’s leaning against the end of the table in a grey hoodie with his sleeves pushed up and a backwards navy baseball cap. He’s got a coffee in one hand and an Excel sheet open in front of him. God damn it he looks like an organised and capable snack.
He looks up and smiles. Dimples. Beautiful dimples.
Fuck.
“Hey, Frey.”
I blink once. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs, slow and warm. “Good morning to you too.”
“You,” I say, pointing at him with my notebook like it might double as a weapon, “are the mystery volunteer?”
“The one and only.”
I drop into the chair opposite him and try very hard not to notice how unfairly good he looks doing absolutely nothing. “You play professional rugby. Why are you volunteering for the Christmas fair?”
He lifts one shoulder. “Off-season. Too much free time. Mrs Patel mentioned the fair needed help.” A pause. “And I’m very good with my hands.”
He says it so straight-faced it takes my brain half a second to catch up. My eyes narrow.
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.” He gestures toward the spreadsheet. “Look. Columns.”
“Good Lord.” I mutter.
He grins.
“And,” he adds, tone softening just slightly, “I want to show up properly. For Isla.”
That takes the wind out of my sails a little, which is inconvenient because I was preparing to be righteously irritated.
“Well,” I say briskly, flipping open my notebook, “this involves spreadsheets, risk assessments, and Sharon’s annual attempt to plug a fondue fountain into something that cannot handle it.”
He winces. “I already vetoed fondue.”
“You’ve been here five minutes.”
“I move fast.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table, and my traitorous brain immediately registers the flex of his muscles and the very visible veins trailing down them. I look back down at my notes.
Professional. Freya, be professional.
“We’re placing the mulled wine stall near the hall,” I say. “Clear access to power. No trip hazards.”
He studies the map. “You’ve always been bossy when you’re stressed.”
“I am not bossy.”
“Commanding, then.”
“That sounds worse.”
“Terrifyingly competent?”
“That I’ll allow.”
He smiles again, softer this time, and there’s that familiar warmth between us.
“You know,” he says, tapping the page lightly, “you look good doing this.”
“Running a school fundraiser?”
“Bossing people around with a clipboard.”
I glance up at him. “Careful.”
He holds my gaze a second too long, a smirk spreading across his lips.
“I am being careful,” he says.
“I saw Theo’s Dad earlier,” he adds, tone changing, “didn’t mean to stare. Just… noticed.”
I feel the tiniest flicker of something in my chest.
“You’ve got your thing,” he continues, “I’m not here to mess with that.”
There it is. The line. And instead of feeling relieved, I feel unsettled but I don’t delve into that statement anymore. Rory doesn’t need to know that James cheated on me and is now with that very same woman.
“Good,” I reply lightly. “Because I don’t have time to manage emotional chaos and a raffle table.”
He huffs a laugh. “Emotional chaos, ha, Story of my life.”
“You could try being boring,” I suggest, pointing at him with my pen.
“Tempting. But I’d be bad at it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
We both smile, the kind that belongs to people who know each other too well. I slide the stall layout toward him. Our fingers almost brush. I pull my hand back first.
“You’re on gazebos and games,” I say. “Heavy lifting.”
“Great, my strong suit.”
“I’m sure” I say, glancing at his bulging biceps before quickly looking away.
He tilts his head slightly. “You don’t trust me?”
“With inflatable reindeer and oversized tents?”
“With anything.”
There’s challenge in it now.
“I trust you with gazebos,” I reply calmly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He laughs, properly this time, and the sound catches me off guard in the worst possible way.
God, I forgot how easy this part was. We fall into it without meaning to.
Teasing. Half-arguments about stall placement.
Him insisting hook-a-duck needs better branding.
Me telling him he’s not allowed to rebrand primary school games like a corporate takeover.
At one point he leans closer to look at the map and murmurs, “You always smell like vanilla, even now.”
My heart stumbles.
“That’s hand cream,” I say too quickly.
“Right.”
Silence hums for half a beat. He straightens first.
“Anyway,” he says lightly, almost deliberately shifting gears, “I’ll keep this strictly gazebo-related.”
And within a second, we are professional again. Which is somehow hotter than if he’d pushed.
By the time we’ve mapped out the stalls and assigned responsibilities, my brain feels like it’s run a marathon.
He closes his laptop.
“So,” he says, standing, “I’ll see you at pickup.”
Like that’s normal. Like we haven’t just spent an hour playing verbal tennis over reindeer hoopla.
“See you,” I reply, aiming for composed and landing somewhere just shy of flustered.
He pauses at the door, glances back once.
“Try not to stress too much, Frey,” he says. “You’ve got this.”
And then he’s gone, leaving behind a perfectly reasonable Christmas fair plan and an entirely unreasonable amount of tension.