Ryan saw, and his smile softened. They were standing so close; she could smell the roasting coffee that had permeated his clothes, see the flecks of gold in his irises. He reached his hand out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers brush against her hot cheeks. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from moaning at his touch. He dropped his hand back to his side and she could still feel the cool trace of him on her skin. She tried to focus on breathing normally.
“Fred…” He held her gaze. His voice was a rasp that raked through her and made her whole body tighten in delightful anticipation.
“Yes…” The word came out of her mouth almost ridiculously whispery.
BZZZZZZZZZZZ
The intercom for the front gates blared like a siren, and their tender moment dispersed into the ether like steam from a kettle. Fred darted behind Ryan, discombobulated from their encounter as though she had just been rudely awakened from a dream, and picked up the handset.
“Hello?” she said into it, hoping that her heartbeat would return to normal soon.
Crackling on the line was followed by a man’s voice shouting, “I’ve got wood!”
“I’m sorry?”
Ryan sniggered behind her.
More crackling. “…Aggie’s order for logs!”
“It’s Mr. Bishop,” said Ryan, and suddenly the world made sense again.
She buzzed the farmer in, and she and Ryan made their way around to the front of the house to meet him.
Mr. Bishop’s tractor was idling on the driveway. Behind it was a trailer filled with neatly chopped kiln-dried logs.
“Greetings, troublemakers!” he shouted from his cab. “Been getting frisky in any more sandpits lately?”
Ryan choked, seemingly on nothing, and Fred sucked in a breath. Mr. Bishop chortled merrily to himself at their discomfort.
“Permission to drive the old girl round to the wood store?” he shouted.
“Sure,” Fred returned, running on ahead to open the wooden double gates at the side of the house.
Together they stacked the logs in the woodshed and when they’d finished, Aunts Aggie and Cam arrived with a tray each of hot chocolate and warm mince pies.
“Right, I’d better be off,” said Ryan.
“Oh.” Fred couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“I’m on elf duty at the grotto later, and I need to get some roasting done at the shop before I leave.” He picked up another mince pie and dropped it into his top pocket.
Aunt Cam nodded approvingly.
“You didn’t get to show me your cracker coffee sachets,” said Fred, aware that she was finding excuses for him to stay. “Do you want to talk me through them, or tell me anything to pass on to Mum?”
“Um, no, it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Maybe discuss it between you and get back to me? I’ll probably be at the grotto till late tonight.”
She nodded. “You never stop, do you?”
He shrugged and grinned. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop!” he growled, in a near perfect imitation of Mr. Bishop.
Mr. Bishop gave a roar of appreciation. “Was that supposed to be me? I’ll give you idle hands, Ryan Frost, you little toerag!”
Ryan dodged away from having his ear playfully cuffed by the elderly farmer, and called out, “See you later, all!” as he headed down the steep drive to his car.
The box Ryan had delivered was still on the workbench, and Fred lifted the flaps and looked inside. The coffee was in sachets, about three inches square, which could be easily folded to fit into the cavity of a cracker. The main body of the sachet was illustrated in a classic modern 1920s style with lettering to match. A rich orange sunset with navy blue waves rolling toward tall green-and-white cliffs. On the back was the flavor profile and instructions on how to make the best cup of coffee. She couldn’t fault his designs. They made a stylish artisanal gift that suited Hallow-Hart Crackers in every way.
Like his shop and his coffee, this project had taken a great deal of thought, time and attention to detail. She could feel the care that had gone into it. Just like she could feel his passion for Coast Roast. These were the things thatdidn’ttally with the boy she’d once known. The Ryan who left homework to the last minute, lefteverythingto the last minute. Who was always busy doing a hundred and one things, and starting a hundred and one more, and never finishing any of them. The Ryan who only considered the future in terms of how the next day’s weather might affect his plans and whose name was synonymous with the phrase “happy-go-lucky.”
