Chapter thirteen
freya
The boardroom smells faintly of instant coffee and laminated paper, which feels aggressively on-brand for a PTA meeting. I arrive armed with colour-coded notes and the naive hope that this year’s Christmas Fair might somehow run without me threatening to set fire to a raffle barrel.
Rory is already in the boardroom leaning back in one of the school chairs with a relaxed expression on his face. How is he so chilled about this whole thing?
“You’re early,” I say, setting my folder down and refusing to notice the way he watches me walk in.
“So are you,” he replies.
“I’m the boss, I’m supposed to me”
He hums softly. “The boss hey?” He says, giving me a smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “Careful.”
We spread the playground map between us, shoulders almost level as we lean in, discussing stall placement, access points, safety measures. It’s deeply unsexy content. And yet. There is something about standing this close to him that is extremely sexy and apparently, my body knows it.
“You’ve colour-coded it,” he observes.
“Yes.”
“You terrify me.”
“It’s called organisation.”
“Bossy,” he adds lightly.
“Reliable,” I correct.
He smirks. “Same difference.”
“I am not bossy.”
“You once made me reorganise my entire bedroom because you said the energy was off.”
“It was. It’s called Feng Shui”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound lands somewhere low and inconvenient in my stomach.
“And you,” I say, tapping his column on the sheet, “are in charge of setup because historically you disappear halfway through events.”
His eyebrows lift. “That happened once.”
“It happened three times.”
“I had commitments.”
“You were playing Fifa.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, conceding with a tilt of his head.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll be reliable.”
“Good.”
There’s a pause.
He studies the map, then says, more quietly, “You’re good at this.”
“At arguing about tombolas?”
“At holding everything together.”
The compliment is simple and yet, somehow far more dangerous because of it. I clear my throat and slide another sheet toward him.
“We need raffle prizes sorted. You said you could help with that?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a few contacts.”
“Oh,” I reply lightly. “Look at you. Using your fame for good.”
He gives me a look that is half amused, half warning. “I’m not famous.”
“You literally took half the Ravens with you to the pub last week”
“I was introducing them to my new local.”
“You were showing off.”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
Before I can respond, the door opens. Hannah steps in with a stack of photocopied sheets, pauses mid-step, and looks between us with a knowing expression she doesn’t even attempt to hide.
“Am I interrupting?” she asks sweetly.
“No,” I reply immediately.
“Yes,” Rory says at the same time.
Hannah’s eyebrow arches. She places the papers down slowly, eyes flicking between us, clocking proximity, tone, body language, whatever it is that’s clearly visible to everyone except us.
“I’ll leave you two to your… strategic discussions,” she says lightly, smirking at me as she turns.
“We are planning a raffle,” I say flatly.
“Mmm,” she hums. “Of course you are.”
She leaves before I can throw something at her.
Rory exhales a quiet laugh. “She thinks we’re… up to something,” he says.
“She thinks a lot of things. And we aren’t up to anything.”
He looks at me then in a way that makes my pulse skip just slightly. “Depends,” he says. “Are we?”
The air shifts a little and my pulse increases. I hold his gaze a second longer than is strictly professional.
“We’re planning a Christmas Fair,” I say finally. “Try to keep up.”
He nods, like he’s choosing to accept that boundary rather than push against it. Which is somehow worse.
That evening my phone buzzes while I’m halfway through folding laundry.
Hannah: If sexual tension was electricity, you two could power Oakwood.
I stare at the screen.
Me: We were discussing raffle logistics.
Hannah: You were leaning over a map like you were plotting world domination but in a sexy way.
Me: We were. Except not the sexy part.
Hannah: You fancy him.
I do not fancy him. He is nostalgic. Familiar. Slightly annoying. The kind of harmless, flirty banter that you have with someone of the opposite sex that you know is completely out of bounds.
I press my palms to my eyes and exhale. We are adults. We are co-running a school event. We are not… whatever Hannah thinks we are. And yet.
When I replay the moment he said “you’re good at this”, the way his voice dropped just slightly lower than necessary, the way he looked at me like he was actively choosing not to say something else entirely… I feel it again. That flicker. That hum. And I hate that other people can see it.