Can't Help Falling (10 page)

Under the intensity of his gaze she suddenly doubted herself. What if it wasn't a good idea at all? Not that she'd even claimed it was. “So Cambridge and Oxford are quite big rivals, right?”

Peter's mouth twitched. “Very.”

“Could we use that somehow? Have some kind of Oxford-versus-Cambridge event? Or even a couple of them?”

“Go on.”

“I was thinking you obviously have an in with the rowing team. What if after the Boat Race we set up some other kind of contest between the two teams? It wouldn't have to be rowing. It could be something more friendly.” The famous annual rowing fixture between the two universities was only a few weeks away. The opportunity to leverage off it was too good not to explore.

Peter barked out a laugh. “You could have a knitting contest between the Oxford and Cambridge rowing teams and it wouldn't be friendly.” He bit the bottom of his lip, thinking. “We'd have to get the go-ahead pretty fast. Once the Boat Race is over the guys are generally pretty jammed catching up with their studies and preparing for exams. Then they all disappear in July. And it wouldn't be an official Oxford-versus-Cambridge fixture.”

“But even if it was something unofficial? With only some of the guys voluntarily participating? Would it still be enough to get people interested?”

She held her breath as he pondered her question across from her.

After a few seconds he grinned, a dimple she hadn't noticed
before appearing on his left cheek. “Probably. The rowing competition is so intense people would pay to watch them play tiddlywinks against each other. You might just have cracked something. I'm embarrassed I didn't think of it myself.”

She couldn't stop herself from grinning back.

“I'll just need to talk to a few people. I'm sure I could get some of the Oxford guys on board easy enough. Give me a few days to sound out my Cambridge connections. I'll work out if it will be better to formally raise it before the race or after.”

His moss-green gaze connected with hers across her desk and for a second neither of them looked away. “Right, so . . .” She trailed off, not having a plan for either his unbridled enthusiasm for her idea or whatever it was that was bouncing between them.

“The team leaves for London tomorrow. We train there the last few weeks before the race. Is it better for me to call or email when I've talked to a few people?” He quirked up a smile. “Actually, we'll be keeping some pretty weird hours, I'll just email.”

“No!”
They both jumped a little as she practically yelled. Why didn't she just write
call me
across her forehead? “I mean, phone is fine—”

A ringtone saved her from herself. Not hers. Peter fumbled for a second, then pulled his iPhone out of his pocket.

“Sorry. I need to take this.” Swiping the screen, he put it to his ear. “Hi.” The other person spoke for a couple of seconds. “You're joking.” A few more words. “Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can.” Stabbing the screen, Peter shoved the phone back into
his pocket and blew out a huff of air. “I'm really sorry. I've got to go.”

“Right. Sure.” The sudden sense of loss left her disconcerted.

Peter was already out of his chair and halfway through her door. Then he paused and turned back. “Are you coming? To the Boat Race?”

“I, um . . .” She floundered. For all the hype around the city about the big annual showdown between the two universities, it hadn't occurred to her to go.

“You should. Jackson and Allie are coming. It's pretty amazing.” He tilted his head, flashing the dimple. “I think you'd like it, Emelia Mason.”

She couldn't have said no if she tried. “Okay.”

“Okay, I'll see you there.” And with that he was gone, leaving her as flushed and flustered as a dorky mathlete who'd just been invited to the prom by the star quarterback.

Emelia Mason.
She replayed the way he'd said her name in her head. It had sounded nice. Respectable. Maybe even a little bit girl-next-door.

Everything she wasn't.

P
ETER TRIED TO CLAMP DOWN
on the churning inside of him as he ran, cutting across lanes and streets, almost slipping a few times on cobblestones. Puffing, he pulled up in front of his destination, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades despite the cold. He wished he could say it was the first time, but it wasn't. Far from it. The Saint Aldates police station sat in front of him, three imposing stories of beige stone. At least it was barely a couple of kilometers from the SpringBoard offices.

What had his brother done now? Peter trudged through the main door, pausing to let out a man who smelled like he hadn't taken a shower this side of Christmas. Walking inside, his feet tramped their way across the familiar peeling linoleum to the front desk. The bobby tending it offered up a flicker of recognition. “Can I help?”

“Peter Carlisle. I've had a call from Sergeant Grant.”

The flicker of recognition turned into a mental connection. “Ah, you're the brother. I'll just get the sarge for you.”

Peter drummed his fingers on the front desk as the constable disappeared through the door behind him. In a few seconds, he returned with Sergeant Mark Grant behind him. His friend opened the partition off to the side and let him through. Mark looked weary, annoyed, which was to be expected.

No point wasting any time. “What was it this time?”

Mark strode ahead of him through the bowels of the station. “The usual. Drunk and disorderly. Urinating in a public place as a bonus.”

Classy, his brother. Peter glanced at his watch. “It's barely lunchtime.” He'd only last seen Victor a few hours ago at training. They still had the second session of the day this evening. What on earth was wrong with him?

“We picked him up at ten. I gave him a couple of hours to dry out before I even called.”

A sigh escaped him. “Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate it.”

His friend studied him with a somber face. “He's got to sort it out, Pete. And I mean soon. This is the third time this month. At this rate, it's only a matter of time before he's going to get charged with something. And when that happens, there's no special favors. He'll get exactly the same as anyone else.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'll talk to him.” Like Victor would listen. But what else could he do? His brother's wild ways were already breaking his parents' hearts, and they didn't even know the half of it.

“You ever think that you might be making it worse by constantly rescuing him?”

Well, it clearly wasn't making it any better. “What happens if I don't? If you call me and I don't come, then what?”

Mark shrugged. “Depends on the situation. But maybe it's time to let him find out.”

And take the risk that the papers would get wind of the fact that the future Viscount Downley spent half his life sobering up in the slammer? No thanks.

Victor would be off the squad for sure if Sean had any
idea what he got up to. Even if the race was only weeks away. The head coach had no tolerance for stuff like this and there were plenty of reserve rowers desperate for Victor's spot. Who wanted it more, deserved it more. Which would be a relief for Peter. Not having his brother rub it in his face every day that he was living his dream. So why did he keep on saving him? Most of the time he didn't even know.

“Think about it, okay?” Without waiting for Peter's response, Mark nodded to the copper at the entry to the cells and pulled out his keys as they went in. The stench of urine, vomit, and body odor hit Peter like a wall. Why anyone would put themselves on a path that led to getting locked in here more than once was beyond him.

In the end cell, his brother lay on the rudimentary bed, hands tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling. He looked as relaxed as if he were enjoying an afternoon on a lounge chair in the Bahamas.

Mark gave the bars a shake. “Time to go, sunshine.”

Victor rolled over, his expression revealing nothing when he saw the two of them. Pushing himself up, he stood and waited for Mark to unlock the door and swing it open. “Excellent hospitality as always, Sergeant. See you next time.”

“There isn't going to be a next time.” Peter quashed the desire to push his brother behind the bars and tell Mark to lock him back up.

Victor cocked an eyebrow at Peter. “Says who? The fun police?”

“You are such a pillock.”

“Look, little brother. No one made you come here to get me. Lord knows I certainly didn't ask to see your smug, sanctimonious mug. If you want me to grovel with gratitude for
your liberating me again, then like I've already told you, you're going to be waiting a long time.”

“You've got five seconds to get out of my cells or I'll arrest you myself.” Mark intervened before Peter lost his cool and did something that would put him where Victor had just been.

“Sorry, officer.” Victor gave Mark a mock salute.

Striding out of the cells, past the station traffic, Mark led them back out into the main entryway. And closed the gate behind them

“No lecture this time?” Victor tossed the question at Mark.

The bobby crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I'm done lecturing. I've got better things to do with my time. Let's be clear, Victor. I don't care what our family connections are. I will arrest you if you keep on this track. That will give our mothers something to talk about at bridge.”

For a second, Peter saw something flicker across Victor's face that cut through his insolent, smug expression. But then it was gone, and the usual mask fell back into place before he could work out what that expression even was.

“Oh, look at that.” Victor checked his watch. “Perfect timing. I've got to check in with the professor at two. She's always happy to see me.”

Only Victor could manage to be a full-time drunkard, genius scholar, and top-level rower. Peter should've just left him in jail. Let him see what it felt like to be on the losing side for once.

T
HE DAY OF THE
B
OAT
Race. You'd have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind if you were within five miles of the Thames and didn't know about the famous rowing race.

Emelia tugged her Oxford-dark-blue sweater down and peered at her fitted jeans tucked into her brown leather boots. She'd spent a decent chunk of the morning trying to work out what one wore to a rowing race. In London. And had landed on this. Only to show up at the river's edge and discover that it really didn't matter. The entire spectrum was there, from men in suits to women in yoga gear.

“You cannot be serious!” Emelia turned to where Allie was pointing a finger at Jackson. Who, at some point, without either of them noticing, had draped his neck with a scarf in Cambridge light blue.

Jackson smirked at his fiancée as she tugged at her opposing dark blue scarf. “It's a win-win. No matter what happens, at least one of us will be victorious.”

“If Cambridge wins, I'll choke you with it.” Emelia raised an eyebrow. For someone who had been at Oxford all of six months, Allie had certainly drunk the Kool-Aid.

So much, in fact, that they had been there hours early to
stake out a prime spot on the Thames bank by the finish line. At least England had finally gotten into the swing of spring and the skies were blue and the sun shining.

Emelia patted her phone in her pocket, confirming it was still there. Over the last couple of weeks she'd exchanged a few sporadic emails and phone calls with Peter about the fund-raising idea. All very professional and aboveboard. He was clearly very busy with the team and absorbed with race preparation. The distance had her half-convinced that she'd overblown the attraction that she'd felt between them.

Though not even that had prevented her stomach knotting itself up when she'd texted him an hour ago, wishing him luck, despite the talk she'd given herself about how he probably wasn't even near his phone. She probably wouldn't even see him today. He had much more important things to be doing than responding to her lame message, but she still couldn't help but check her screen every time a phone went off. Which was often, since she was surrounded by a crowd of people.

Emelia glanced over her shoulder to see that Allie had her grip on Jackson's scarf, holding on to its ends as she tugged him down for a kiss. That was what she got for agreeing to be the third wheel.

A helicopter buzzed overhead. The hum of the crowd seemed to get louder as the minutes counted down to the start. The women's race had already happened, followed by the men's reserve crews.

The banks of the river were awash with people in the two shades of blue. According to the news reports, they were expecting over two hundred and fifty thousand in the crowd
along the course. Another fifteen million would be watching it on TV. It was like the British version of the Rose Bowl. She'd had no idea this would be so huge. And to think that Peter was in the middle of it all.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, her breath stalling as she saw his name on the screen.

Thanks. Thanks for being here.

She read the message once, twice.

“What are you smiling at?” Allie had curiosity written all over her face.

“Oh, nothing.” She tried to slide her phone back into her pocket subtly, but her roommate's eyes missed nothing.

“If that was nothing, I'd love to see something.”

Thankfully Emelia was saved from having to reply by another helicopter roaring right overhead.

It was stupid, whatever it was. She'd come to England to reinvent herself, to make amends for what she'd done. The last thing she needed was a relationship. Not with Peter. Especially not with Peter. Instinct told her that he wasn't a guy who went into something lightly. The idea of dating someone just for a bit of fun wouldn't even be on his radar.