“Rory,” he says, grinning. “Long time. You visiting?”
He clearly hasn’t been listening to the gossip mill.
“Not visiting,” I reply. “Back for good.”
He raises his eyebrows at that, but before he can push further, I spot Freya.
She’s hiding in a corner booth. Coffee in hand. Pretending very hard not to be visible. Of course she’s failing miserably. My body reacts to her presence immediately. Annoying.
She glances up and catches me looking. There it is. The flush. The quick intake of breath she tries to hide. The way she reaches for the menu to hide behind.
I feel something low and entirely inappropriate settle in my stomach. I love the fact that I can still make her react like that.
This is dangerous. Not emotionally. I’m not that dramatic.Physically.She’s still the only woman who can look at me like that and make my trousers instantly bulge.
I should look away. I don’t. Instead, I let my gaze linger a fraction longer to let her feel it. Let her know I saw. She drops her eyes again. Good. That small, smug warmth that I absolutely should not be enjoying creeps up anyway.
Jesus, Bennett. Get a grip.
I turn back to Mark before this becomes obvious.
“So,” he says quietly, leaning in. “What happened with… her?”
Sienna. Of course that’s what he means. I run a hand through my hair, keeping it casual.
“It’s complicated I say simply. “She’s with someone else now.”
No drama. No theatrics. Facts are easier.
Mark’s mouth drops open slightly. “And Isla?”
“Sole custody,” I reply. “She didn’t want it. I did.”
The words come out flatter than I expect. I don’t add that it was humiliating. That the press is fucking brutal. That I had to relive it all every time I went online. I don’t add that Isla cried for weeks. Those parts are mine.
Mark claps my shoulder. “Bloody hell. Rough.”
“Could’ve been worse,” I shrug.
It could have.
I glance back toward Freya before I can stop myself. She’s still there, cheeks faintly pink, pretending to be invested in a menushe is definitely not reading. Especially since she’s probably had it memorised since 2004. The friend beside her is staring at me like I’m a live broadcast.
“Ah,” Mark says slowly. “You know Freya, don’t you?”
I don’t look at him.
“Yeah,” I say. “From back in the day.”
“Right. Well, that’s my wife, her best friend sat with her. Small world.”
Small is one word for it.
I nod once, keeping my expression neutral, as though that information does not make the air feel thicker. Best friend. So, Clara knows things. Interesting.
I take my coffee and finally force myself to acknowledge Freya properly. Not a glance, an actual look of acknowledgment. She meets my gaze this time. I tilt my head slightly and press my lips into a small smile, just enough to let her know I’m not pretending we don’t share history. Her blush deepens. That does something to me that I will absolutely not unpack right now.
Enough.
