CHAPTER thirty-six
RORY
The coach smells like crisps, damp coats and whatever industrial cleaner the school uses that never quite manages to disguise the fact that thirty children are breathing the same air.
I drop into the seat beside Freya and immediately become aware of approximately every part of my body.
Fantastic. Four hours. Four hours sitting next to the woman I have spent the last few months very deliberately not looking at for too long, not standing too close to, not letting my hand brush by accident and definitely not thinking about while I…
Freya’s leg brushes against mine, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Plenty of room,” I say, shifting slightly toward the window, because the seats are narrow and our thighs are already touching.
“Loads,” she replies, equally unconvincing.
The coach pulls away from the school and the noise rises immediately. Children shouting across aisles. Crisp packets crackling open. Someone already asking if we are nearly there despite the fact we have been moving for approximately twelve seconds.
Freya has a clipboard in her lap, looking down at it with the intense concentration of someone who would rather study laminated paper than acknowledge the situation she is currently in. Which is sitting beside me. I recognise that expression because I am wearing a version of it myself.
“So,” I say after a few minutes, keeping my tone deliberately casual, deliberately easy, the tone of a man who is absolutely not aware of the warmth of her leg against his. “Did you check the register to see if I was coming?”
She turns to look at me sharply. There it is. That split second of panic before she remembers she is supposed to be pretending she didn’t. How the hell does he know? is practically written across her face.
I grin slightly, keeping my eyes on the back of the seat in front of us. “You’ve got that look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmm.”
I absolutely know what I’m talking about. Freya Collins has about three expressions when she’s pretending not to be curious about something and I’ve known her long enough to recognise every one of them.
“I may have glanced,” she admits eventually, “Purely for safeguarding reasons.”
“Of course.”
“And I assumed it would be you. I can’t see Sienna trading Pilates for a campfire.”
I huff a laugh. “No,” I say. “She’s not exactly outdoorsy.” There’s no bitterness in it, just the simple fact of two people who liked different versions of life.
The coach hits a bump and our shoulders knock together more solidly this time.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time. We laugh.
It’s small and easy and exactly the kind of moment I have been trying to avoid.
Because this is how it starts. Not with big declarations or dramatic tension, but with this quiet familiarity that slips past your defences before you realise what’s happening.
Theo twists around in his seat before either of us can say anything else.
“Mum! We’re playing cards! You and Rory can play too!”
Freya blinks. “We’re supervising.”
“You can supervise cards.”
I lean forward slightly. “What’s the game?”
“Cheat!” Isla announces proudly.
Within about thirty seconds we are half twisted in our seats passing cards back and forth across the aisle while the children attempt to bluff with the subtlety of fireworks. Theo is spectacularly bad at lying. Isla is ruthless. Freya is absolutely cheating.
“I would never,” she says, scandalised when I call her out.
“You absolutely would.”
“I am a pillar of integrity.”
“You always cheated at Monopoly, Frey.”
“That is not evidence. I was a child.”
I laugh properly then, the sound surprising even me.
God, I’ve missed this. Not the sexual tension. Not the almosts. Just this. Freya being Freya.
Somewhere after the third round the rhythm of the coach begins to change. The initial chaos of excitement begins to fade as the children burn through their energy.
Theo and Isla eventually turn back around in their seats, heads bent together over something in a book, their earlier competitiveness replaced by quiet concentration.
Freya leans back beside me.
“Wake me if we crash,” she mutters.
“I’ll do my best.”
She closes her eyes. I tell myself not to look at her thick, dark lashes floating against her slightly pink cheek.
The way her hair falls perfectly at either side of her face.
The little spattering of freckles across her nose.
Which obviously means I look. Just briefly.
Jesus. This is exactly why I pulled back.
Because my brain still does this. Still notices the details it shouldn’t.
The soft curve of her mouth when she’s relaxed.
The way she curls up slightly when she sleeps, making her look extra cute.
The coach hits another bump. Her head tips sideways onto my shoulder.
For a second my brain stops functioning entirely.
Freya is asleep on me. She jolts slightly like she’s waking up, probably realising what’s happened, and instinctively I shift just enough to steady her instead of letting her fall away.
“It’s okay,” I murmur quietly. “You can stay.”
The words come out softer than I intended.
She goes still again. Then slowly her cheek settles properly against my shoulder.
I stare straight ahead at the motorway. This is fine. I can absolutely sit here for the next however long with the woman I am trying very hard not to want resting against me like she belongs there. No problem at all.
Her hair brushes against my jaw when the coach turns. She smells like clean soap and vanilla.
Don’t think about it. Do not think about it.
My arm is resting along the armrest and every now and then the movement of the coach shifts her slightly closer. Which means every now and then I become very aware that she fits there. Like she’s always fit there.
I spend most of the journey looking out of the window watching the motorway give way slowly to the green folds of the Welsh countryside, telling myself repeatedly that this is normal.
Friends sit next to each other. Friends fall asleep on each other.
Friends definitely do not spend twenty straight minutes trying not to notice the warmth of someone’s body against theirs while willing their dick not to grow while on a bus full of kids.
Her breathing evens out properly after a while. She’s completely asleep. I should wake her when we get close but I don’t. Because she looks exhausted and deserves the rest. But also because if I wake her, she’ll move and that thought irritates me more than it should.
The driver eventually calls back that we’re ten minutes away. Freya stirs slightly against my shoulder. Her eyelashes flutter.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
She blinks up at me, confused for a moment before awareness floods her expression.
“Oh my god.” She jerks upright instantly. “I fell asleep.”
“You did.”
“On you.”
“Also true.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Which it is. Which is exactly the problem.
The coach pulls into the gravel car park of the outdoor centre and the children erupt instantly like someone has set off fireworks.
“WE’RE HERE!”
Teachers start herding them off the bus with the strained patience of people who know the next few days will be chaos. Freya stands to grab Theo’s bag from the rack above and our hands collide reaching for the same strap.
“Sorry,” she says again.
We step down from the coach into cold Welsh air that smells like damp earth and wood smoke. The kids immediately scatter across the field like caffeinated squirrels.
“Stay where we can see you!” someone shouts.
Theo runs straight over carrying his bag like it weighs nothing.
“Mum! We’re in tents!”
“I’m aware.”
“WITH ACTUAL PEGS.”
“Also aware.”
I grab Isla’s rucksack and sling it over my shoulder.
“You excited?” I ask her.
“Obviously,” she says. “We get fires.”
“Supervised fires.”
She rolls her eyes.
The instructors gather everyone together and start directing groups toward rows of piled up canvas, ready to be turned into tents.
Freya and I end up helping the kids drag their bags through the grass. Theo immediately begins issuing instructions like he’s leading an expedition.
“I’m having this one,” he says very seriously.
Freya crouches down beside the canvas to help unroll it.
“Well that means I’m in this one,” Isla adds pointing to the pile of canvas next to Theo’s. “Daddy, you and Freya can go there.” Isla adds, pointing to the two slightly off to the side.
I kneel down on the other side of Theo’s tent to help with the poles. Freya reaches across to pass me a peg at the exact moment I reach for it. Our fingers brush. Just for a second. But it’s enough. She pulls her hand back quickly.
“So,” she says, slightly too brightly. “Camping.”
“Camping.”
Theo sticks his head between us.
“Rory can you hammer this one?”
“Absolutely.”
I take the mallet and knock the peg firmly into the ground. Freya watches for a moment.
“You’re suspiciously competent at this.”
“I’ve camped before.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Believe it or not.”
She smiles. God. That smile. I look away quickly and focus on tightening the rope instead. Because the alternative is staring at her mouth like an idiot.
When we stand again we’re closer than I expected. Freya brushes dirt off her hands and our shoulders knock lightly.
“Sorry,” she says automatically.
“You really do apologise a lot.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling again.
Theo suddenly throws his arms around both of us and Isla joins in, wrapping her arms around the back of Theo.
“This is the best day ever!”
Freya laughs, bright and warm, and for a second the four of us are just standing there in the middle of a muddy field in Wales while children run around shouting about campfires and tents.
I step back. Because this feeling? This feeling is exactly what I’ve been trying not to have. This is going to be a very long four days.