Free Polly by Freya North

‘Yo!’ triumphantly while Clinton and Jackson rigged up a ‘come-along’ to secure the correct tautness between struts. A small army of men wore tool belts slung like holsters; whipping out hammers with a speed that would have done John Wayne proud, or twirling their tools with all the flair of a rock-and-roll drummer. Everyone had a job to do, everyone knew their place. Overseeing the entire operation was a small, wiry man, the architect and only paid member of the team, bearded strangely minus a moustache, who darted nimbly around the growing skeleton, heaping praise, advice and instructions with a softly spoken voice. All three ‘A’ frames were now in place and point four on the list had been reached.
    Every strut, joist and plank had a home in either a notch, a wedge or a grip in a neighbouring plank, strut or joist. Corresponding holes in the wood allowed for oak pegs to further secure the bond. A jigsaw puzzle the size and shape of a house. The hillside rang with the song of chatter, of laughter and of knock, knock, knock on wood. Enter two carpenters, father and son: Bob and Mikey McCabe. Polly had a doughnut in one hand and a small offcut of pine in the other and she was intermittently sniffing the two when she first caught sight of Mikey. Tall and lithe in physique, his dark hair long. He had the most beautiful forearms, ditto his strong, muscled legs with their masculine smattering of dark hairs. His face was so handsome it could well be illegal.
    Polly bit into the wood, hard, and thought to herself that English doughnuts were so much softer and more tasty and who on earth was that scrumptious man and he’s taken his T-shirt off, oh my God.
    She was utterly taken aback. She had no control over her eyes as they darted to and from this figure. Her heart pounded. She was horrified and exhilarated.
    But I don’t look twice at normal men.
    Normal?
    I mean, real-life blokes. Only Max. For the past five years. Apart from film stars – who don’t count.
    She let the doughnut fall to the ground as if it were an off-cut of pine, and she placed the offcut of pine, teethmarks and all, on to a plate of doughnuts.
    Polly Fenton doesn’t look twice. But I can’t keep my eyes off him.
    â€˜Isn’t this great!’ squeezed Jojo, at her side.
    â€˜Super duper,’ agreed Polly in fine style, half relieved to be led away from this apparent danger zone, half ruing the fact that stirring the beans prevented visual access to Mikey McCabe.
    â€˜He’s out of sight,’ she lamented softly to the great saucepan as she sat on her heels over the pit.
    â€˜Isn’t he just!’ colluded Kate cautiously but with a skew smile. ‘Outa sight. Totally.’
    â€˜I meant,’ fumbled Polly, immensely uncomfortable and almost lost for words, ‘I meant – absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.’
    Kate doffed her head and departed with a smile that was kind. And wise. And something else too.
    Outa sight
, Polly twanged to herself.
    Max is out of her mind.
    She is totally engrossed in the sensation of the present.

SEVEN
    â€˜H ey there,’ he said, bowling over to her at lunch-time with an easy smile, ‘I’m Mikey.’
    A warm, firm handshake.
    Look at his neck. His Adam’s apple. Shoulders. Chest.
    No don’t.
    â€˜Hullo,’ she responded, ‘I’m Polly.’ Desperate to be demure and disinterested. Failing.
    Fight the smile.
    Failing.
    Am I blushing?
    Yes.
    â€˜From England, hey?’
    â€˜Yes, from Old Blighty,’ Polly enunciated. He nodded and smiled, displaying perfect white teeth behind full, deep red lips. The morning’s exertion had had superb consequences for his appearance; his hair was damp and tousled and scraped hastily into a pony tail while sweat and sawdust gave a subtle glisten to his body and had made his eyes watery and dark. Polly tried not to stare and hoped sincerely that her pupils were not