Chapter thirty-seven
Freya
By the time the tents are finally finished, the light has begun to slip away in that quiet, sudden way it does in the countryside, where the sun doesn’t so much set as disappear behind the hills and leave the whole world a shade dimmer.
It’s only just gone four. And it is already getting dark.
The air has that damp bite to it that creeps into your sleeves and down the back of your neck if you stand still too long, the kind of cold that smells like earth and wet leaves and distant wood smoke.
The instructors are moving around the clearing checking tents, tightening ropes, making approving noises while teachers clutch clipboards and herd muddy children.
Theo and Isla are currently under the enormous oak tree near the edge of the clearing with some of the other kids, comparing torch brightness like it’s a competitive sport.
I’m standing with two of the other mums near the stack of logs that have been dragged over for the fire pits, rubbing my hands together to bring the feeling back into them, when the instructors hand out axes. Not to the children. To the adults.
“Just splitting some kindling,” one of them says cheerfully.
Several of the dads immediately perk up like someone has activated a deeply buried instinct.
And Rory steps forward. He shrugs his jacket off first and drops it over the back of a wooden bench nearby, revealing a dark thermal shirt underneath that fits a little too well across his shoulders.
I absolutely do not notice this. Except I obviously do.
He picks up the axe with the sort of casual confidence that suggests this is not his first time doing something mildly dangerous outdoors, rolls his sleeves up a fraction further and positions a log on the chopping block.
The first swing is clean and precise and the log splits neatly down the middle with a satisfying crack.
Someone nearby lets out an impressed “ooh.” I glance over without meaning to and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Because fuck he looks good chopping wood.
His stance is steady, feet planted wide in the mud, shoulders turning with each swing in a way that makes the muscles in his arms shift under the fabric of his shirt.
It is, annoyingly, very attractive and, if I’m honest, it’s turning me on a little. Okay… A lot.
“Bloody hell,” one of the mums murmurs quietly beside me, her mouth slightly parted as she stares in Rory’s direction. I don’t respond. Because that would require admitting that I have noticed. But she’s not wrong. Bloody hell indeed.
The cold air has put colour into his cheeks, and every time he lifts the axe his forearms flex in that stupidly distracting way that makes you suddenly aware that yes, he is very much a grown man who carries things and builds things and apparently splits logs like some sort of rugged outdoor model.
Fuck. This is ridiculous. This could literally be the start of a lumberjack porno.
I tear my gaze away and focus on the fire pit. For approximately five seconds before my eyes are back on Rory again and my jaw becomes slightly slack.
Another log splits cleanly under the axe and Rory bends to pick up the pieces, stacking them neatly beside the pit with an ease that suggests he’s enjoying himself.
Two of the other mums are openly watching now.
I say watching, I mean staring. And by staring, I mean drooling.
One of them nudges the other and whispers something that makes them both laugh quietly behind their scarves.
A small, sharp pang shoots through my chest. Which is stupid.
Rory is not mine. He has never been mine.
He is simply a man chopping wood in a field in Wales while other women exist nearby with functioning eyes and lady parts.
That is all. And yet, there is something unpleasantly territorial that flares up in my stomach anyway, a quiet little instinct that I do not approve of but apparently possess.
I glance over to Rory again. Unfortunately, Rory chooses that exact moment to glance up. Our eyes meet. For half a second neither of us looks away. Then he smiles that small, familiar lift of one corner of his mouth that has always made my stomach do stupid things.
“Enjoying the show?” he calls across the clearing to the three of us.
The other two women giggle. My brain empties instantly. “I’m supervising,” I say, because apparently that is the only sentence I know.
He laughs quietly and drives the axe into another log. “Looks exhausting.”
“It is,” I reply. “I’m carrying the emotional load.”
“Of course you are.”
The last log splits and he wipes his hands on his jeans before gathering a stack of kindling under one arm and walking it over to the fire pit. Which means he is now walking directly toward me. Excellent. I’m practically panting over him and he’s on his way over.
He drops the wood beside the pit and crouches down to start arranging it while the instructor explains something about airflow and pyramid structures that Rory clearly already understands.
“You cold?” he asks without looking up.
“A bit.”
He nods toward his jacket draped on the bench “You can steal that if you want.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mmm.”
He strikes the lighter and the flame catches quickly, licking along the dry twigs before settling into a steady crackle. The smell of wood smoke spreads through the clearing. It’s strangely comforting.
“There we go,” he says quietly, sitting back on his heels to watch the flames take hold. “Fire.”
“You seem very pleased with yourself.”
“I made fire with my hands, Frey. This is basically caveman levels of achievement.”
I laugh. “Well done. I’m very impressed.”
“You should be.”
The fire grows steadily, flames curling up around the larger pieces of wood as the instructors start calling the kids over.
“Right everyone!” one of the teachers shouts. “Hotdogs!”
The children appear instantly. Theo arrives first, skidding to a stop beside the pit.
“FIRE!”
“Yes,” I say. “Be careful.”
Rory hands him a long stick with a hotdog carefully skewered on the end. “Hold it over the flames,” he instructs. “Not in them.”
Theo nods with intense concentration.
Around us the rest of the class gathers in a messy circle, sticks extended, hotdogs hovering over the fire while teachers and parents move around offering gentle corrections.
“Turn it slowly.”
“Not that close.”
“Yes, it will explode if you do that.”
Rory crouches beside Isla to help her adjust her stick. “Like this,” he says, guiding her hand slightly so the hotdog rotates evenly.
She grins up at him. “Am I doing it right?”
“Perfect.”
I watch them for a moment. He’s patient with them. Just naturally calm, answering questions, helping when needed, letting them figure things out without hovering.
Theo looks ridiculously proud of his hotdog. “Mum look!”
“I’m looking.”
“Rory helped me not burn it.”
“Good teamwork.”
Rory glances up at me briefly and something passes between us.
And for a second my brain produces a thought that is so unhelpful I almost physically shake my head to get rid of it.
We would have been good together. Him crouched beside Theo and Isla.
Me standing here watching them. The four of us in the glow of the firelight like something from a family photograph. I swallow and look away quickly.
The hotdogs eventually disappear into buns and the children scatter again under the big oak tree while the instructors start preparing the next stage.
“S’mores!” someone announces.
The excitement returns instantly. Marshmallows appear along with chocolate and biscuits.
Rory hands me a stick. “You’re participating this time.”
“I thought I was supervising.”
“You can do both, Frey.”
Fair point. I spear a marshmallow onto the end of the stick and hold it carefully over the flames. The marshmallow begins to brown slowly, the surface turning golden and glossy.
“Turn it,” Rory says quietly beside me.
“I know how marshmallows work.” I say with an eye roll.
When it’s finally toasted I sandwich it between two biscuits with a square of chocolate and bite into the gooey treat. The marshmallow stretches as I pull it away and a small blob drops straight onto my chin.
“Oh for…”
Before I can wipe it away Rory reaches out instinctively. His thumb brushes lightly on my chin as he swipes the melted sugar away. The contact is brief, barely a second, but it sends a ridiculous, electric shiver straight down my spine.
“There,” he says quietly.
My brain forgets how words work. “Th…Thanks.”
Theo appears beside us at exactly the wrong moment. “Mum,” he says suspiciously, “why did Rory just wipe your face?”
Rory coughs slightly.
“She had marshmallow on her chin,” Isla announces helpfully from the other side.
“Oh.” Theo says.
I feel my cheeks go warm.
“It was an emergency,” Rory says gravely.
Theo considers this. “Okay,” he decides. “That makes sense.”
He runs off again. I exhale slowly. We stand there for a moment longer beside the fire while the children demolish their s’mores.
The flames crackle softly in the growing darkness.
And somewhere under the noise of the kids and the smell of smoke and chocolate, there is that same quiet tension humming between us.
The kind that reminds me this is only the first evening.
And there are still three days left. Which is…
concerning. For several reasons. Mostly the fact that my heart is already doing things it absolutely should not be doing.
And the even more concerning fact that Rory seems to know it.