I narrow my eyes. “Careful.”
We spread the playground map between us, shoulders almost level as we lean in, discussing stall placement, access points, safety measures. It’s deeply unsexy content. And yet. There is something about standing this close to him that is extremely sexy and apparently, my body knows it.
“You’ve colour-coded it,” he observes.
“Yes.”
“You terrify me.”
“It’s called organisation.”
“Bossy,” he adds lightly.
“Reliable,” I correct.
He smirks. “Same difference.”
“I am not bossy.”
“You once made me reorganise my entire bedroom because you said the energy was off.”
“It was. It’s called Feng Shui”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound lands somewhere low and inconvenient in my stomach.
“And you,” I say, tapping his column on the sheet, “are in charge of setup because historically you disappear halfway through events.”
His eyebrows lift. “That happened once.”
“It happened three times.”
“I had commitments.”
“You were playing Fifa.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, conceding with a tilt of his head.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll be reliable.”
“Good.”
There’s a pause.
He studies the map, then says, more quietly, “You’re good at this.”
“At arguing about tombolas?”
“At holding everything together.”
The compliment is simple and yet, somehow far more dangerous because of it. I clear my throat and slide another sheet toward him.
“We need raffle prizes sorted. You said you could help with that?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a few contacts.”
“Oh,” I reply lightly. “Look at you. Using your fame for good.”
He gives me a look that is half amused, half warning. “I’m not famous.”
