Page 1 of More Than I Can Bear

Chapter1

PLEASE NOTE, BEFOREREADING THIS BOOK YOUMUSTREAD THE NOVELLA, POKE THE BEAR, FOR THIS STORY TO MAKE SENSE.

You can find it here.

Freya

Monday morning, after the Magarey Medal count

“What’s with the free-range hotties?” Katie said, bumping hips with me as I worked the coffee machine. “Those two guys at your table…” She nodded toward the customers whose orders I was working on: one black coffee and one cappuccino with only a dusting of chocolate. “They’re the finest pieces of arse to have walked in here for a while.” I glanced in their direction as I tapped cocoa on top of the cappuccino froth. I hadn’t missed the fact that they were damn hot. But there was something a little too intense about the way they were watching our every move. Maybe they were just desperate for caffeine. Or maybe they were serial killers.

“Doyouwant to take their coffees over?” I asked Katie, turning back to her.

“Oh, god, no.” She backed off, hands in the air. “They’re all yours, girl. Those two are looking at you like they’re keen to try a piping hot slice of Freya pie for smoko.” I gritted my teeth, busying myself with cleaning off the milk frother before I picked up the mugs. “They might not be Adam Farrelly, but theyarehot.”

Adam Farrelly was the golden boy of the SANFL: South Australia’s Aussie rules football competition, the state-level version of the national league. Adam Farrelly had also been my date at the Magarey Medal count on Saturday night. But we hadn’t even made it through the vote count. Instead, we’d spent one seriously hot night between the sheets. But what had I done when I woke up before he did? To make sure I didn’t end up the centre of public attention, I’d scuttled out of there as fast as I could. In fact, I’d been so keen to get out of there that I’d left one of my shoes behind. To say I was wary of hot guys was an understatement.

It turned out that Adam hadn’t been content to hit it and quit it, though. And even though it made me sound crazy, I felt like I kinda knew why. Ever since that night I’d had an ache in my chest that throbbed in time with something lower. It felt arrogant to even think it, but I had reason to believe that he was feeling the same way.

That wasn’t me engaging in some romantic notion about love at first sight. He’d fronted up to a press conference yesterday to apologise for missing the moment he won the medal. But then he’d placed my shoe on the lectern, and asked the whole of Adelaide to look for me, like I was Cinderella or something.

I’d left like a thief in the night because I’d been afraid of the media spotlight being turned on me, and then he’d gone and set off a whole city manhunt for me. Which made me wonder about these two and their weird fascination with me.

Did they know?

I felt two sets of eyes on me—one, steel blue; the other, pale grey—as I moved from behind the counter to bring their drinks to them. They continued to watch my progress with far more intensity than a morning coffee deserved but I tried to ignore the creeper factor as I sat their drinks in front of them then put on my fake customer service smile.

“There you go,” I said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Before either of them could answer, though, a child squealed, piercingly. I winced before I could stop myself. It wasn’t just me. As I swung my head to the source of the ear-splitting sound, I saw that almost everyone in the cafe had a similar reaction.

“Do you like that?” the child’s mother asked in that manically happy tone that some people use when speaking to children or pets. “Is that good?”

She’d bought her toddler a slice of banana bread—our boss’ secret recipe that had people coming back over and over—and the little boy did indeed seem to be enjoying it.

So much so that it was all over the floor.

I didn’t blame the kid, or even the mum, but I couldn’t help just standing and staring in growing horror at the mess extending across the floor. It was like a bomb full of baked goods had exploded. People were already tracking through the outer perimeter, spreading crumbs in a distinct trail.

“Yes,” said one of the guys. I turned back to him and decided he fitted the nickname Blue Eyes. He looked up at me as his buddy wrapped his hands around his mug and took a sip. “A dustpan and brush.”

“A dustpan…?” I looked at him in confusion, before I connected the dots and looked back at the mother and child. “Oh, don’t worry—”

“Please.”

He said the word with the kind of finality that made clear that even if it wasn’t a question, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I sighed and went to fetch the cleaning gear. I’d need to clean up the disaster area before it got any worse.

“I’ll see to the mess—” I started to say, but Blue Eyes was already getting to his feet, and he reached across and took the brush and the dustpan from me. He ambled over towards the mother and child at a slow and measured pace, but the length of his stride meant that as I followed along behind him, I was scurrying, two steps to his one.

“It’s OK…” I said, but he didn’t respond. “Really, I can…”

“Here you go.”

Blue Eyes thrust the cleaning implements at the mother. She turned to face him, wide-eyed.

Shit.

“I’m sorry. Is that for me?” Her brows pulled down slightly, as if the answer to her question couldn’t possibly be yes. She finally seemed to see the mess her child had created all over the floor, but then she just smiled prettily. “Oh no, no, no…” She peered past Blue Eyes to look at me. “Fran darling! How are you? You can take care of this little mess, can’t you?”

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