She turns to look at me sharply. There it is. That split second of panic before she remembers she is supposed to be pretending she didn’t.How the hell does he know?is practically written across her face.
I grin slightly, keeping my eyes on the back of the seat in front of us. “You’ve got that look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmm.”
I absolutely know what I’m talking about. Freya Collins has about three expressions when she’s pretending not to be curious about something and I’ve known her long enough to recognise every one of them.
“I may have glanced,” she admits eventually, “Purely for safeguarding reasons.”
“Of course.”
“And I assumed it would be you. I can’t see Sienna trading Pilates for a campfire.”
I huff a laugh. “No,” I say. “She’s not exactly outdoorsy.” There’s no bitterness in it, just the simple fact of two people who liked different versions of life.
The coach hits a bump and our shoulders knock together more solidly this time.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time. We laugh. It’s small and easy and exactly the kind of moment I have been trying to avoid. Because this is how it starts. Not with big declarations or dramatic tension, but with this quiet familiarity that slips past your defences before you realise what’s happening.
Theo twists around in his seat before either of us can say anything else.
“Mum! We’re playing cards! You and Rory can play too!”
Freya blinks. “We’re supervising.”
“You can supervise cards.”
I lean forward slightly. “What’s the game?”
“Cheat!” Isla announces proudly.
Within about thirty seconds we are half twisted in our seats passing cards back and forth across the aisle while the children attempt to bluff with the subtlety of fireworks. Theo is spectacularly bad at lying. Isla is ruthless. Freya is absolutely cheating.
“I would never,” she says, scandalised when I call her out.
“You absolutely would.”
“I am a pillar of integrity.”
“You always cheated at Monopoly, Frey.”
“That is not evidence. I was a child.”
I laugh properly then, the sound surprising even me.
God, I’ve missed this. Not the sexual tension. Not the almosts. Just this. Freya being Freya.
Somewhere after the third round the rhythm of the coach begins to change. The initial chaos of excitement begins to fade as the children burn through their energy.
Theo and Isla eventually turn back around in their seats, heads bent together over something in a book, their earlier competitiveness replaced by quiet concentration.
Freya leans back beside me.
“Wake me if we crash,” she mutters.
“I’ll do my best.”
