“Relax,” I mutter, though I’m not entirely sure which of us needs to hear it more.
We walk over.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my tone easy, as if my pulse hasn’t just picked up for no sensible reason.
“Morning,” she replies, and there’s that small, unguarded smile before she reins it in.
The kids dissolve into chatter almost instantly, Isla and Theo already planning structural engineering projects that will inevitably involve every cushion in her house.
Now would be the moment. Ask about the playdate. Keep it simple. Keep it about the kids.
I glance at her and catch her looking at me at exactly the same time, and something quiet and electric hums in the space between us.
The idea of stepping inside her family home, sitting at her kitchen island, making small talk with her and her partner whiletrying not to notice how fucking beautiful she is suddenly feels like a very bad plan.
Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. But I know myself, and I know it’s not a good idea.
“Everything okay?” she asks lightly, noticing the hesitation.
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep great.”
Which isn’t a lie, exactly. She nods and doesn’t press, turning back to Theo as he begins a dramatic retelling of something that definitely did not happen the way he’s describing it. The moment passes. And I let it. Because I don’t trust myself to sit across from her at a kitchen table and be normal. I don’t trust myself not to look at her longer than I should. I don’t trust myself not to resent a man I don’t even know.
We walk part of the way home together later, the kids racing ahead and arguing about whose house has better snacks.
“Is it good to be back?” she asks after a while.
“Yeah,” I reply, and there’s more in that than I intend. “Feels different.”
“Different good?” she asks.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I say, because it’s safer than the truth, which is that everything feels slightly off balance when she’s this close.
We reach the point of the cul-de-sac where our paths split.
“Well,” she says, adjusting her bag. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I reply, stepping back just enough to re-establish some distance. “See you.”
I watch her walk away then force myself to turn in the opposite direction.
I’ll ask another time about the playdate. When I can be sure I’m doing it for Isla and not because I’m looking for an excuse to stand in Freya’s kitchen and pretend I don’t still react to her like this. Because right now, standing too close to her, feelingmy heart race and my dick twitch, I am not entirely convinced I would make the sensible choice.
Chapter thirteen
freya
The boardroom smells faintly of instant coffee and laminated paper, which feels aggressively on-brand for a PTA meeting. I arrive armed with colour-coded notes and the naive hope that this year’s Christmas Fair might somehow run without me threatening to set fire to a raffle barrel.
Rory is already in the boardroom leaning back in one of the school chairs with a relaxed expression on his face. How is he so chilled about this whole thing?
“You’re early,” I say, setting my folder down and refusing to notice the way he watches me walk in.
“So are you,” he replies.
“I’m the boss, I’m supposed to me”
He hums softly. “The boss hey?” He says, giving me a smirk.
