***

"You took over Dr. Singh's practice?" he asked, his eyebrows jumping up in disbelief. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

What a Rhys thing to say, Viola thought sarcastically.

"Are you planning to become my patient?" she asked and took another sip of her tea.

"What?" he grumbled, his eyebrows drawn together now.

"Why else would you need to be informed of this change?" She got up and put her mug in the sink. "Do you know if Mable composts her tea bags?" she asked nonchalantly, and saw his face grow even more taken aback.

You're just being mean and relishing in goading him, Viola. Give the man a break. He's just had a shock. Seeing one's ex wife in lingerie wasn't how he expected his morning to go. And we all know how poorly Rhys Holyoake reacts when his expectations aren't met accurately and in a timely manner.

She exhaled slowly, without turning to him. Why are you suddenly annoyed? It– He has nothing to do with you.

"I'll go see if they need me," she said to him and walked out of the kitchen.

She knocked on Mable's bedroom door, and the woman shouted to her she'd be down for breakfast in a few minutes. Fiona decided to use this time to change.

She opened the wardrobe where she'd hung her clothes the previous night. She moved the hangers around, shuffling her jumpers and shirts - and then she realised she was feeling indecisive, which was so unlike her! She put a lot of thought into her wardrobe - extensive and meticulously picked - so that pieces in each section went well together. She'd packed enough 'weekend/vacation' pieces for the week here to last her a month. Why can't you choose a jumper, Viola? And you know any jeans out of the five pairs you packed will do. They all fit perfectly, they all make your arse look ace. Oh wait... Why does it even matter what your arse looks like?!

Oh.

Viola jerked her favourite stripy tunic jumper off its hanger and threw it on the bed behind her.

You are an idiot, Viola Holyoake.

She pulled the jeans up and prohibited herself to check her backside in the mirror. This arse has nothing to do with the man downstairs. Actually, that's it. There's a new person downstairs, and that's why you're fretting. It could be any person.

She got dressed and grabbed her brush from the vanity where she'd neatly arranged her beauty supplies the night before. Stop grabbing and throwing and jerking your hair. You're only making yourself more frazzled.

She'd known they would meet, she reminded herself. It was just that it had been a surprise, and she'd felt exposed and vulnerable standing in that kitchen pretty muck starkers. She braided her hair, her fingers quickly going through the familiar movements, and tied a clear elastic on its end. She tucked the curls on the sides of her face behind her ears, and threw a quick look in the mirror. Put together but casual. She exhaled and gave herself a smile. Now - she felt like herself.

***

When she came into the kitchen, Mable was already downstairs with Molly. The girl was awkwardly standing in the corner, while Rhys was pulling what looked like ingredients for an omelette from the fridge. Mable sat at the table, regal as usual.

"Ah, Viola dear, will you make us your wonderful coffee?"

"Did Dr. Fenton allow you to have caffeine?" Viola asked.

"He did," Mable said.

"He didn't," Rhys said at the same time. He threw Nana a look over his shoulder.

"Neither did he allow me eggs, to be honest," Nana said with a note of vengefulness in her voice.

Rhys hands froze on the egg he was going to crack into a bowl. Viola pressed her lips hiding a smile.

"Well, I'll have them then," he grumbled and proceeded making his omelette. There will be eggs, ham, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes in that omelette, if there's any in the fridge, Viola thought. Or maybe not. People's tastes change too.

"Please, sit down, Molly," Viola said. "Would you like tea or coffee, perhaps?"

"Coffee, please," the girl squeaked.

"What staffing company are you using?" Rhys asked without turning.

"Please, make your coffee, Viola. I can at least enjoy the smell," Mable said, ignoring Rhys' question.

Molly did the Wimbledon style looking between Rhys and Mable, and Viola felt irritation rise. It wasn't her job to smooth out his lack of manners anymore - and yet, the impulse was there!

"Will you have coffee, Rhys?" she asked, and immediately regretted how sharp her tone was.

He gave her a dark look.

"Yes, please." He put a pan on the hob. "How long are you here for?"

All three women in the kitchen looked at him.

And now he's going to look irritated because, how stupid do we need to be not to suss out whom he's addressing, Viola thought venomously. Yeah, there, his lips are now pressed in a thin line.

He gave Molly a glance, and she pulled her head down into her shoulders.

"The cezve is on the top shelf, dear," said Mable. "And, Rhys?" Her voice was just a tinge less lilting, but Rhys turned, straightening up a bit more. "Leave the girl alone," she said. "Molly, ignore him."

Viola moved a chair closer to the counter. As in any Holyoake household, everything was too tall for her, although she was admittedly the tallest out of all the 'Holyoake wives.' Ex-wife. She climbed on the chair and stretched to pick up the cezve.

It was the confident swift movement of his hands that she caught from the corner of her eye - the pan in his right one, a flipper in his left - and the omelette making a graceful somersault in the air - that distracted her. She whipped her head away - because she wasn't staring! Why would she? - and wobbled.

His - large, scorching - left hand lay on her hip, right on the hip bone, his long fingers as much as cupping her buttock. She forgot how massive his hands were. Their eyes met.

"Please, take your hand off me," she said calmly - feeling anything but.

He removed his hand.

"Sorry," he said. "Thought you were falling."

She fought the urge to rub the spot he'd touched with her hand.

"I don't tend to," she said curtly.

Don't engage him.

He went back to supervising his omelette, and she climbed down, holding the cezve and the bean grinder.

"So, Molly, do you live in Fleckney?" Mable asked mannerly.

"Yeah, in the estates in Fleckney Woulds," the girl answered. "With me mum."

"You're too young to be a professional nurse," Rhys said.

A pause hung in the kitchen. Viola saw Molly shift on her chair, her cheeks flaming. She had large dark brown eyes and glossy thick black hair, tied in a ponytail.

"Don't mind him," Viola said. She put the cezve on the hob next to his pan. "I still hear the same, and I was a resident A&E surgeon in Bristol General for years. Consider it a compliment to your youthful skin."

"Well, it's also because you're so slim," Molly said wistfully. "People actually think I'm older than I am, because I'm so heavy. And I don't look put together or professional because of it."

Viola saw Rhys throw a look at Molly.

"What a ridiculous notion!" Mable exclaimed. "You're not a roasting piglet. Your weight has nothing to do with your worth as a person, and your professional value. You're a capable carer, and you're endlessly professional! You handled my morning wonderfully. Rhys, I think you owe dear Molly an apology."

Viola tore her eyes off the cezve for a second risking to miss the moment the coffee boiled, and saw muscles dance on Rhys' jaw.

"And I thought it was a compliment to her skin," he grumbled and threw Viola a glare.

How's this all of a sudden her fault? Viola released a slow breath, trying to calm herself.

"Molly, dear, can you get three coffee cups from that cupboard, please?" Mable said and pointed at a shelf. "They are these dark brown ones."

The girl readily jumped up and rushed to the cupboard. Viola took the cezve off the hob, and poured two cups.

"I don't think Rhys deserves my coffee," she said in a serene tone. "If he can't play well with others, he doesn't get any sweets."

He was plating his omelette, and his hand with a pan froze above the plate. Viola could just imagine the bewilderment that no doubt splashed in his eyes. She didn't look at him and went to the fridge to get cream. Mable emitted a small laugh.

"And to think of it, after being divorced for ten years, you still have all the wifely skills," she drew out.

"I'll go eat in the dining room," he grumbled, picked up his plate, and left the kitchen.

"That told him," Mable murmured when he disappeared in the hall. "Could I have his coffee then?" she asked Viola nonchalantly.

"You shouldn't, Mrs. Holyoake," Molly answered before Viola could. "It's in your file," she added and blushed again. "No coffee, no alcohol, and no high fat, high cholesterol food."

Viola put a cup in front of Molly. "Here, you get the sweets," she said. "Never let a Holyoake bully you into doing what doesn't feel right. They tend to be somewhat overbearing." She leaned in and kissed Mable's cheek, who tilted her head readily. "Even the best of them."

"It's part of our charm," Nana said.

"Would you like cream for your coffee?" Viola asked.

"Yeah, probably. It seems strong." The girl looked down in her cup.

"It is." Viola passed her the cream jar. "There are also spices in it. There's a coffee machine if you prefer something different."

"No, no, it's good!" The girl poured a generous amount of cream in hers and took a sip. "Oh, wow! That's— I mean— Wow!"

"Viola, dear, do you think he's been punished enough, and Rhys could have a bit of your coffee?" Nana asked, and Viola looked at her over the rim of her cup.

Rhys had always been Nana's favourite. He was said to be a very close copy of his Grandfather, after all. Viola smiled at the old woman.

"Only because you asked," Viola said, got up, and poured another cup.

Also, he'll be in a better mood if he has some, she thought. Not that it mattered to her. She'd do it for Nana's sake.

She walked into the dining room and stopped silently by the door. A memory came - sharp and painful - of him sitting in the exact same spot, with an untouched cup of tea in front of him. She remembered his pale face, sunken eyes, and wrinkled clothes, after three days in the hospital, where he'd had to go through his mother, his uncle, and his aunt's deaths after hours of waiting and hoping and losing hope. Odd, she thought. She hadn't thought of that day - or Rhys Holyoake in general - in years.

He lifted his eyes off the plate at her.

"I brought you coffee," she said, suddenly choking up.

What's this about?

"Thank you," he said, his voice slightly coloured with surprise. All things considered, he did have a very attractive voice.

Viola stepped to the large oak table and put the cup in front of him. He looked at the drink.

"Turkish?" he asked.

"Egyptian," she said.

"Ah, right, because your husband was Egyptian."

He picked up the cup and took a sip. She didn't know he knew that Hani was Egyptian.

"You still take it black, I reckon," she said, and he nodded.

She turned around and left.