chapter seventeen
freya
It’s Thursday evening and Theo and I have the most riveting evening ahead of us… The food shop.
We are in Sainsbury’s at that dangerous hour between six and half past, when everyone else has also realised they forgot something for dinner and the aisles feel like slow-moving traffic.
I have a basket that is both too full and somehow still missing three essential things, and Theo is narrating the biscuit section like he’s hosting a cooking show.
“These,” he informs me, holding up a packet of chocolate digestives, “are elite tier.”
“We are not buying elite tier,” I reply, scanning a jar of passata without looking at him. “We are buying sensible tier.”
“Elite tier tastes better.”
“Sensible tier costs less.”
He considers this like it’s a moral dilemma, then sighs with exaggerated disappointment as we move on toward the bakery section.
I turn the corner too quickly and collide with something solid, warm, and very definitely not shelving. A hand catches my waist before I’ve even registered I’m off balance.
“Careful,” Rory says quietly, close enough that I feel the vibration of his voice before I properly see him. As I look up, his mouth curves in that way that makes my groin ache.
Theo’s head snaps up. “ISLA!”
Isla appears from behind Rory clutching a box of mini pizzas, and the two of them collide in a way only children can, instant and uncomplicated and oblivious to the adult electricity humming two feet away.
Which leaves me and Rory standing far closer than is necessary in the middle of carbohydrates.
“You stalking me now?” I ask lightly.
“Hardly,” he replies, glancing at the shelves. “This is neutral territory.”
I bend to grab wraps from the lower shelf at the same moment he reaches for something behind me, and our shoulders brush in that small, accidental way that shouldn’t matter but absolutely does.
Then his hand slides over mine where it rests on the packet.
We both still. He looks down at our hands, then up at me, and there is something in his eyes that is not casual.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t move immediately.
“It’s fine,” I answer, and I’m not sure which part I’m referring to.
Theo and Isla are arguing about pizza toppings as though this is a matter of national importance, and we’re just there, suspended between shelves, pretending we aren’t hyper-aware of each other.
“You always this tense in supermarkets?” he asks after a moment, voice low, smirk on his face. His perfect, chiseled face.
“I’m not tense.”
“You look tense.”
“Maybe you’re standing too close.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “I am standing too close.”
I hold his gaze. “You could move.”
“I could.”
He doesn’t.
The air shifts, and I swallow, my eyes drifting to his lips. “You do realise,” I say, because humour is safer than honesty, “that this is wildly inappropriate flirting next to baked goods.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m buying bread.”
“You just admitted you’re standing too close.”
“That’s observational.”
“That’s suggestive.”
A slow exhale leaves him, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re the one calling it suggestive,” he says quietly. “What exactly are you suggesting, Frey?” He says, moving ever so slightly closer.
Fuck me sideways, this man will be the death of me.
And there it is. That subtle step over the line. My stomach flips in a way that is both thrilling and deeply inconvenient.
“Nothing,” I reply, far too quickly.
“Right.”
He runs a hand through his hair like he’s annoyed with himself, like he knows he’s trying something and doesn’t trust where it leads.
Theo tugs at my coat sleeve.
“Mum, can Isla come over soon? Please? We’ve been asking forever.”
Isla nods emphatically, like this is the most pressing issue in her small, glitter-covered life.
“Daddy said he has to ask you.”
I look at Rory. There’s something almost cautious in his expression, which surprises me. Like he’s weighing more than just logistics. He brushes a hand on the back of his neck and looks away, almost guilty this time. He definitely hasn’t asked me.
“It’s fine,” I say, because it is fine, and because I refuse to let a brush of hands in the bakery section derail basic parenting. “Bring her round tomorrow after school.”
His head tilts slightly. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, we’re free, are you?”
Theo beams like I’ve just secured a peace treaty.
Rory hesitates, just enough that I notice. “I… er… yeah. I don’t have to stay,” he says carefully. “If that makes things easier.”
Easier. The word sits between us.
“It’s a playdate,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “Not a conference. You can drop her off, or you can stay. It’s up to you.”
His gaze lingers on me as though he’s trying to read something I’m not offering.
“Four o’clock?” he says finally.
“Four’s fine.”
The kids have already moved on to planning Lego fortifications and snack hierarchies, weaving between us like this decision is the most natural thing in the world.
Rory steps back. “See you tomorrow,” he says.
And something about the way he says it feels unsure. Like he’s nervous. I can’t lie, I am too. The air is so charged between us, especially when we’re alone. I don’t know if I’d rather he dropped Isla off and left, or he stayed so that I can soak in every second of his magnetic pull.
Jesus Freya, you’re playing with fire.
I watch him walk toward the freezer section, Isla skipping beside him, and try to ignore the warmth still lingering where his hand had rested on mine.
It’s just a playdate. And yet, walking toward the checkout with Theo rambling about elite tier biscuits, I can’t shake the sense that I’ve just opened a door neither of us fully trusts ourselves to walk through.