Clara:I’m just saying. The way he looks at you is not subtle.
Freya:He was looking at everyone!
Clara:Not that look and you know it.
Freya:Clara. He is single. I am single. If he were interested, he would have, I don’t know… used words?
Clara:Some men are emotionally constipated.
Freya:Please never say that again.
Clara:He basically undressed you with his eyes.
Freya:He did not.
Clara:Freya. I was standing RIGHT THERE.
Freya:You were too busy mentally writing cowboy fan fiction.
Clara:Untrue. That was later.
Freya:Also, you are married. Redirect your inappropriate cowboy energy to your husband.
Clara:Mark and I have a very healthy “look but don’t touch” policy.
Freya:I am begging you to STOP.
Clara:Just saying. If you don’t climb that man like a tree, someone else will.
Freya:GOODBYE, CLARA.
I shove my phone into my bag before Clara can remind me anymore that Rory Bennett now lives opposite me. Again.
Clara is dramatic. Entirely unserious. A menace with Wi-Fi. And yet, the problem is that she is not always wrong.
I refuse to replay last night. I absolutely refuse to think about the way Rory’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long, or the way he said my name like we have never been apart. I focus instead on Theo’s running commentary about Halloween sweet rankings, nodding solemnly while he explains that chewy cola bottles are “top tier” and anything coconut-based is “basically a scam.”
Normal morning. Normal thoughts.
I drop Theo at his line in the playground, kiss the top of his head, and head inside for what I’ve been optimistically told is “admin time.” Admin time sounds calm, manageable. In reality, it means I am once again in charge of the entire Christmas fair like I lost a bet I don’t remember agreeing to. I still don’t know how it happened. One minute I was nodding politely in a PTA meeting, the next someone said, “Freya did so well last year,” and I failed to fake my own death quickly enough. Last year nearly finished me. I was dressed as an elf, sprinting between a jam stall and a malfunctioning hook-a-duck while fielding questions about raffle tickets and resisting the urge to cry into a tray of mince pies. But this year. This year I have help. A parent volunteered. Help is a beautiful word. Delegation might be possible. I might not have to inflate four hundred balloons myself while explaining for the fifth time that no, Sharon, we cannot plug a chocolate fountain into an extension lead from 1998.
I clutch my notebook and head toward the boardroom, rehearsing calm competence. I have been told the mystery volunteer has useful contacts and might even assist with higher-end raffle prizes, which would be a minor miracle for ticket sales.
I push the boardroom door open with cautious optimism. And stop.
Oh. No. Rory.
He’s leaning against the end of the table in a grey hoodie with his sleeves pushed up and a backwards navy baseball cap. He’s got a coffee in one hand and an Excel sheet open in front of him. God damn it he looks like an organised and capable snack.
He looks up and smiles. Dimples. Beautiful dimples.
Fuck.
“Hey, Frey.”
I blink once. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs, slow and warm. “Good morning to you too.”
