I freeze. Freya’s eyes flick up immediately and she stops chewing, mid-bite. And there it is. The one thing I was trying to avoid. A woman stands beside our table, mid-thirties maybe, phone already in her hand like she’s gearing up for proof that she met me.
I force a polite smile. “Yeah,” I say.
“Sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” she says, clearly very much bothering me. “My husband is a huge fan. Could I just…”
She gestures vaguely toward her phone. Freya’s hand tightens slightly around mine under the table. I glance at her. Then back at the woman.
“Yeah, quickly,” I say.
I stand, pulling my hat down slightly like that’s going to do anything now. We take the photo. She thanks me about four times before leaving.
I sit back down and Freya raises an eyebrow.
“Well.”
“Well,” I echo.
“Very discreet.”
“I told you the hat was working.”
She laughs. “That was painfully awkward.”
“I hate that bit,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want this…” I gesture between us “…to feel like that.”
She softens immediately. “It doesn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
She squeezes my hand. “That was just part of your life. This…” she glances between us “…this is separate.”
My mind settles with that thought. “Good,” I murmur.
“Also,” she adds, smiling slightly, “she definitely thought I was just… some girl.”
I frown. “You’re not just some girl. You’re my girl.”
Freya giggles and her cheeks flush slightly. I love how I can make her blush like this.
“I know I’m yours, but she doesn’t.”
I lean forward slightly. “I don’t care what she thinks.”
Her eyes meet mine and just like that, the rest of the room fades again. We finish lunch slowly after that, dragging it out longer than we probably should. Because neither of us wants toleave. Neither of us wants to go back to normal life just yet. But eventually we have to.
We walk back to the car, still laughing, still stealing small touches like we can’t quite help ourselves. And as I start the engine, glancing over at her in the passenger seat, her hair slightly windswept, her smile still lingering. I realise something properly. My mum was right. Freya deserves someone who’s all in. And for the first time in my life… I actually want to be that person.
Chapter fifty-six
Rory
I hate suits. Not because they don’t look good, I know they do. I’ve been told enough times over the years. But because of everything that comes with them. The version of me that wears a suit is not the version of me I actually like. That version smiles for cameras. Shakes hands with people he doesn’t care about. Stands in rooms that feel too polished, too loud, too fake. That version of me isn’t real. And yet… here I am.
