“You,” I say, pointing at him with my notebook like it might double as a weapon, “are the mystery volunteer?”
“The one and only.”
I drop into the chair opposite him and try very hard not to notice how unfairly good he looks doing absolutely nothing. “You play professional rugby. Why are you volunteering for the Christmas fair?”
He lifts one shoulder. “Off-season. Too much free time. Mrs Patel mentioned the fair needed help.” A pause. “And I’m very good with my hands.”
He says it so straight-faced it takes my brain half a second to catch up. My eyes narrow.
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.” He gestures toward the spreadsheet. “Look. Columns.”
“Good Lord.” I mutter.
He grins.
“And,” he adds, tone softening just slightly, “I want to show up properly. For Isla.”
That takes the wind out of my sails a little, which is inconvenient because I was preparing to be righteously irritated.
“Well,” I say briskly, flipping open my notebook, “this involves spreadsheets, risk assessments, and Sharon’s annualattempt to plug a fondue fountain into something that cannot handle it.”
He winces. “I already vetoed fondue.”
“You’ve been here five minutes.”
“I move fast.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table, and my traitorous brain immediately registers the flex of his muscles and the very visible veins trailing down them. I look back down at my notes.
Professional. Freya, be professional.
“We’re placing the mulled wine stall near the hall,” I say. “Clear access to power. No trip hazards.”
He studies the map. “You’ve always been bossy when you’re stressed.”
“I am not bossy.”
“Commanding, then.”
“That sounds worse.”
“Terrifyingly competent?”
“That I’ll allow.”
He smiles again, softer this time, and there’s that familiar warmth between us.
“You know,” he says, tapping the page lightly, “you look good doing this.”
“Running a school fundraiser?”
“Bossing people around with a clipboard.”
I glance up at him. “Careful.”
