Sweet Seduction ✔︎

|9| 𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒓

Now I’m trapped.

His words reverberated back to her as she sat in her windowless cubicle, compiling and stapling reports. That wasn’t how she wanted to make him feel. It sounded as if Gavin had been trapped for most of his life—both by his father and his lack of choice in a career and his duties. Then by wartime experiences too dreadful to name, and now by his own mind and inflexibility.

No, she didn’t want to trap Gavin Knight. She wanted to be the one to set him free. Being free meant being happy.

And while Freya didn’t feel exactly free in her boring job, she had enough friends and fun times to offset the tedium and total lack of workplace socialization. The two sallow-faced insurance agents were always holed away in their own offices, so her main work relationships were with the copier and the filing cabinet.

But it wasn’t as if she planned to keep the job—or be “petulant” about it—forever. She just had to figure out what to do next.

She stuck a file folder in the cabinet and turned to the blank sheet of paper on the desk.

Five things she was good at. The order had stuck in the back of her mind all morning.

She glanced at the clock. Quarter to twelve. She was half-tempted to ignore the command and not send him anything. Part of her just wanted to know what he’d do if she disobeyed. The other bigger part of her wanted to find out why he’d dreamed up this little exercise in the first place.

What was she good at that didn’t have anything to do with French literature or academics? She couldn’t cook. She couldn’t sing or play a musical instrument. She could dance, but only in the context of a club. Math wasn’t her strong suit.

She was good at fashion, makeup, and flirting, but Gavin knew that already. And she wasn’t supposed to include stuff like that anyway.

She picked up the pen and wrote:

I’m good at decorating.

That was true. Her apartment was a little haven of charm, and although she didn’t know if she could style a room to be modern and contemporary, that wasn’t the point. Everyone had their own style and taste, and hers happened to be French Country with a crapload of girliness thrown into the mix.

She added: I’m a good friend.

Was that a skill? Maybe not. She crossed it off the list.

I’m good at organizing stuff.

That was because she’d collated and filed so many damned reports.

I’m good with people.

Probably that was why she was so unhappy here at Ye Olde Insurance Agency. No one to talk to. At least when she helped Jupiter at the bakery, she could chat with customers and be social. People seemed to like her, too. Surely that was a good quality.

Three down. Two to go.

She tapped her pen on the desk. The fact that she had to think so hard about this was rather demoralizing.

I’m good at photography and making scrapbooks.

Also true. She’d created a scrapbook for her granny’s seventy-fifth birthday, and she’d done several for her friends commemorating their high-school or college years. One of her wedding gifts to Jupiter and Josh would be a full scrapbook of their wedding, complete with photos and mementos.