Dinner time tensions

At dinner, I deliberately took the seat opposite him, pretending not to notice when his knee brushed mine under the table as he passed the fish sauce. "So," I said, twirling noodles around my fork, "Bella says you're training for the London marathon?" My voice came out lower than usual, almost husky.

Mr. Hartwell—*James*, I reminded myself, since he'd insisted twice now—wiped his mouth with a napkin, the muscles in his forearm flexing. "Next year, maybe." His chuckle was warm, the kind that settled low in your stomach. "But my real love is the stupid-long races. Did a hundred-miler through the Brecon Beacons last autumn. Twelve hours in pouring rain, hallucinating sheep."

Bella groaned, stabbing at her tom yum. "Dad, no one cares about your midlife crisis masquerading as sport."

James shot her a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated, the kind only a parent could master. "Says the girl who cried during her first 5K." His fingers tapped the tablecloth—long, capable fingers, I noted, the knuckles slightly roughened. Trail running scars, probably. The thought sent an irrational pulse through me.

"Ultramarathons aren't about speed," he continued, leaning back in his chair. The movement stretched his shirt taut across his chest, revealing the shadow of defined pecs beneath. "It's about resilience. Knowing how to pace yourself when every instinct screams to stop." His gaze flicked to me then, just for a heartbeat, and my fork slipped through my suddenly slick fingers. The clatter against my plate was obscenely loud.

Bella rolled her eyes, oblivious. "Flick's got enough endurance for both of you. Remember when she played district finals with a sprained ankle?" She nudged my shin under the table—a familiar gesture that now felt charged with tension I couldn't explain.

James's attention lingered on me, the corner of his mouth quirking. "I remember." His voice dropped just slightly, like he was sharing a secret. "Stubborn streak a mile wide." The way he said it wasn't mocking—more appreciative, like stubbornness was something to be admired. Heat prickled along my neck as I shoved a too-large bite of noodles into my mouth to keep from responding.

He pushed his plate away with a sigh, the chair creaking as he leaned back. "Your mum'll be back from her shift soon, Bel." His fingers drummed once on the table, decisive. "I've got paperwork piled to the ceiling in the office. Board meeting tomorrow." The way his jaw tightened told me it wasn't optional, but his eyes flicked to me again—just for a heartbeat—before he stood.

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller with him upright, his presence taking up all the oxygen. He moved like someone used to occupying space; shoulders back, that runner's stride effortless even in socked feet. My pulse jumped when his hand hovered near my shoulder as he reached for his water glass—close enough that I caught the faint scent of his aftershave again, something dark and citrusy under the sweat. "Don't stay up too late, girls," he said, but ot felt like his fingertips lingered on the back of my chair for a fraction too long.

Bella was already stacking dishes with the clatter of someone who'd never worked in hospitality. "Yeah, yeah, old man." But the moment the study door clicked shut down the hall, she rounded on me, eyes bright with mischief. "Okay, spill. You've been weird since dinner."