Page 123 of Freckles

I count to sixty after the worst of his struggling has stopped, but Lance raises his forefinger. “Give it just a few minutes more. It’s better to be certain.”

And I’m happy to defer to his experience. When I next release my grip, I press my fingers to his throat, searching for his carotid artery, and unable to find a pulse.

“Don’t bother yourself,” Lance advises when I start to remove the bags. “I have a cleanup crew who’re more than happy to take over from here.”

I’m not sure what to say. Nothing I think of matches to the complicated emotions that result from his unusual present. I settle for, “Thank you.”

“It’s my absolute pleasure.”

I shift my weight, staring at the floor before I meet his eyes again, giving a small shrug. “And you know that Kincaid hasn’t been ignoring any hints. He’s just working to my timeline instead of yours.”

He gives a deep chuckle. “Well, I suppose you’ve got to get your shots in where you can. I’m aware our family takes persuasion to a whole new level.”

His dry delivery makes me burst into laughter, and when he tucks me under his arm for the walk back through the warehouse, I don’t object in the slightest.

At the doorway, he steadies me while I put my heels back on, then he plucks a few loose hairs away from my shoulders, as fastidious as his nephew. “And you should know, I don’t mind if you’re planning to formalise things now, next decade, or never.”

He cups my neck, pulling me into a hongi, then presses a gentle kiss on each cheek.

“Welcome to the family, my dear. We’re all so pleased to have you.”

* * *

Two yearslater

FRANCESCA

The university grounds are crawling with spectators for the semi-final match and the enthusiasm of the crowd is contagious. Sitting pride of place in the stands, I get into the spirit, bouncing to my feet to cheer when a try is pressed to the ground, or a conversion sails between the posts.

Then I join in the exaggerated groans, complaining the ref needs glasses when the calls don’t go our way.

Occasionally, I’ll bump into sideways glances at my dress, the fabric rearranged with the judicious application of teeth and brute force, but I’ve grown a skin thick enough to ignore them. Kincaid is never happy with any dress I chose to wear to his matches. They always end up ruined.

Iend up ruined, too, the slipperiness of his release pooling between my legs.

But none of that distracts my attention when the game is in play.

All I have eyes for is the men working their hardest on the pitch below me.

One player more than others.

Although he took a three-month sabbatical from his senior year, Kincaid’s grades were high enough for him to sign up to a few university courses. At his current pace, it’ll take him approximately a decade to cobble together a degree and graduate, but he doesn’t care. He only bothers with the classes that help him understand the inner workings of his uncle’s business—earmarked to become his—and also qualify him for the university rugby team.

He no longer has ambitions to turn professional but enjoys the game as much as I enjoy watching him. After his short absence, Kincaid returned as much of a fan favourite as ever judging by the noise from the stands.

I can hear their unwavering support in the ecstatic cheers that erupt each time he does a great pass, the stamping feet turning into a drumbeat of appreciation when he savagely tackles another player to the ground.

It’s especially weird for an away game.

As the ref blows the final whistle, our side are four points ahead, taking the victory. I jump up and down in my seat, waving to the players as they walk off the field, then Kincaid angles towards the stands, beckoning me with his finger.

In front of a crowd of a thousand strangers, he bends my head down to receive his kiss, taking his time, not caring about his teammates or coach or the rampant applause.

As he pulls away, his gaze focuses solely on me. A reminder that I’m the most important person in his world.

“Come down,” he says, jerking his head at the stairs. But they’re already packed with exiting spectators and instead of waiting, he lifts me over the barrier, swinging me into his arms for the walk along the tunnel to the locker room.

“I hope you don’t mind one more,” he calls to his coach, not paying enough attention to tell if he objects or not.

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