I pick up my drink and take a large sip because unfortunately there is no argument I can make that doesn’t sound like an admission.
Clara softens again then, her expression shifting. “Freya,” she says quietly, “if this is real, tell him how you feel.”
My stomach tightens. “I don’t even know what I feel.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not a lie, it’s admitting the truth to myself because the truth is too scary.”
She smiles a little. “Same thing.”
Before I can answer, Rory returns with fresh drinks and drops one in front of me.
“I didn’t ask for another,” I say.
“No,” he replies, sliding back into the seat beside me. “But you looked like you were thinking too much and I support preventative measures.”
I laugh. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His hand lingers on the glass for half a second too long before he lets go, and the small, stupid tenderness of that almost does me in more than anything else has all evening. Because that’s the problem now, I think. It isn’t just that I want him. It’s that I want all the bits around it too. The easy banter. The looking over. The instinctive kindness. The way he notices things before I say them out loud. And that is a much more alarming kind of want.
As the evening wears on the group gets louder, looser, softened at the edges by alcohol and familiarity. Stories get retold. Someone puts money in the jukebox. The room feels golden and warm and full in that particular Friday night way, and all the while something private hums beneath the surface between Rory and me. The quiet “you cold?” when he notices me rubbing my arms. The way he leans in when he speaks so I can hear him over the noise and suddenly I can smell him, cleanand warm and familiar, and my whole body goes traitorously still. The way he is resting his head on his hand, and his elbow on the back of the booth behind me as he talks to me. At one point he says something quietly that makes me laugh so suddenly I nearly spill my drink, and when I turn back toward him we are much too close for a second, our faces only inches apart, the noise of the pub blurring around the edges. Neither of us moves immediately. Then someone at the bar shouts Rory’s name and the moment breaks. But not properly. Because it leaves something behind. And I know, with a certainty that settles low and warm inside me, that tonight has shifted things again. The girls noticed. The men probably have too. And more importantly, I noticed. The way he keeps finding his way back to me in a crowded room. The way I keep turning toward him without thinking. The way this already feels like more than just what happened in Wales. Which is thrilling and equally terrifying. And, if I’m honest, probably exactly why I curled my hair.
Chapter forty-eight
Rory
The pub is louder than usual tonight. Or maybe it just feels that way because my brain has been doing that irritating thing all evening where it keeps circling back to the same person regardless of what conversation I’m technically supposed to be part of. She’s across the room when I walk in and for a moment I actually forget what I was about to say to the group behind me because she looks…Jesus.She looks incredible. She’s laughing at something Clara says and there’s a softness to her face that does something very inconvenient to my dick. I look away before it grows any more than it already has. Which is harder than it should be considering we’ve spent the last four days practically glued to each other in Wales. But that’s exactly the problem. Because now we’re back in Oakwood and everything suddenly feels real again.
The pub fills quickly with the usual crowd. Chairs scraping, pints arriving, people greeting each other across the room like nobody has seen anyone in weeks instead of days.
Mark nudges me as we move toward the bar. “You good man?”
“Yeah why?”
“You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re listening but your brain is somewhere else.”
“I’m tired.”
“Bullshit.”
We shuffle forward in the queue and he glances over my shoulder toward the booth where the girls are sitting. Mark follows my line of sight and lets out a low whistle.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“That.”
I sigh.
“You’re subtle as a brick.”
“Something happened, didn’t it?”
I nearly drop the empty glasses in my hand. “Jesus, Mark.”
