Freya laughs, bright and warm, and for a second the four of us are just standing there in the middle of a muddy field in Wales while children run around shouting about campfires and tents.
I step back. Because this feeling? This feeling is exactly what I’ve been trying not to have. This is going to be a very long four days.
Chapter thirty-seven
Freya
By the time the tents are finally finished, the light has begun to slip away in that quiet, sudden way it does in the countryside, where the sun doesn’t so much set as disappear behind the hills and leave the whole world a shade dimmer. It’s only just gone four. And it is already getting dark. The air has that damp bite to it that creeps into your sleeves and down the back of your neck if you stand still too long, the kind of cold that smells like earth and wet leaves and distant wood smoke. The instructors are moving around the clearing checking tents, tightening ropes, making approving noises while teachers clutch clipboards and herd muddy children.
Theo and Isla are currently under the enormous oak tree near the edge of the clearing with some of the other kids, comparing torch brightness like it’s a competitive sport.
I’m standing with two of the other mums near the stack of logs that have been dragged over for the fire pits, rubbing my hands together to bring the feeling back into them, when the instructors hand out axes. Not to the children. To the adults.
“Just splitting some kindling,” one of them says cheerfully.
Several of the dads immediately perk up like someone has activated a deeply buried instinct. And Rory steps forward. Heshrugs his jacket off first and drops it over the back of a wooden bench nearby, revealing a dark thermal shirt underneath that fits a little too well across his shoulders. I absolutely do not notice this. Except I obviously do.
He picks up the axe with the sort of casual confidence that suggests this is not his first time doing something mildly dangerous outdoors, rolls his sleeves up a fraction further and positions a log on the chopping block. The first swing is clean and precise and the log splits neatly down the middle with a satisfying crack. Someone nearby lets out an impressed “ooh.” I glance over without meaning to and immediately wish I hadn’t. Becausefuckhe looks good chopping wood. His stance is steady, feet planted wide in the mud, shoulders turning with each swing in a way that makes the muscles in his arms shift under the fabric of his shirt. It is, annoyingly, very attractive and, if I’m honest, it’s turning me on a little. Okay… A lot.
“Bloody hell,” one of the mums murmurs quietly beside me, her mouth slightly parted as she stares in Rory’s direction. I don’t respond. Because that would require admitting that I have noticed. But she’s not wrong.Bloody hell indeed.
The cold air has put colour into his cheeks, and every time he lifts the axe his forearms flex in that stupidly distracting way that makes you suddenly aware that yes, he is very much a grown man who carries things and builds things and apparently splits logs like some sort of rugged outdoor model.
Fuck. This is ridiculous. This could literally be the start of a lumberjack porno.
I tear my gaze away and focus on the fire pit. For approximately five seconds before my eyes are back on Rory again and my jaw becomes slightly slack.
Another log splits cleanly under the axe and Rory bends to pick up the pieces, stacking them neatly beside the pit with an ease that suggests he’s enjoying himself.
Two of the other mums are openly watching now. I say watching, I mean staring. And by staring, I mean drooling. One of them nudges the other and whispers something that makes them both laugh quietly behind their scarves. A small, sharp pang shoots through my chest. Which is stupid. Rory is not mine. He has never been mine. He is simply a man chopping wood in a field in Wales while other women exist nearby with functioning eyes and lady parts. That is all. And yet, there is something unpleasantly territorial that flares up in my stomach anyway, a quiet little instinct that I do not approve of but apparently possess.
I glance over to Rory again. Unfortunately, Rory chooses that exact moment to glance up. Our eyes meet. For half a second neither of us looks away. Then he smiles that small, familiar lift of one corner of his mouth that has always made my stomach do stupid things.
“Enjoying the show?” he calls across the clearing to the three of us.
The other two women giggle. My brain empties instantly. “I’m supervising,” I say, because apparently that is the only sentence I know.
He laughs quietly and drives the axe into another log. “Looks exhausting.”
“It is,” I reply. “I’m carrying the emotional load.”
“Of course you are.”
The last log splits and he wipes his hands on his jeans before gathering a stack of kindling under one arm and walking it over to the fire pit. Which means he is now walking directly toward me. Excellent. I’m practically panting over him and he’s on his way over.
He drops the wood beside the pit and crouches down to start arranging it while the instructor explains somethingabout airflow and pyramid structures that Rory clearly already understands.
“You cold?” he asks without looking up.
“A bit.”
He nods toward his jacket draped on the bench “You can steal that if you want.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mmm.”
He strikes the lighter and the flame catches quickly, licking along the dry twigs before settling into a steady crackle. The smell of wood smoke spreads through the clearing. It’s strangely comforting.
