Can't Help Falling (13 page)

“I know. I'm not asking you to wait. I'm just asking you not to . . .” She trailed off, looked down for a second.

“Not to what?”

“Not to choose someone else.” She scrutinized him. “Or am I too late already?”

“I don't know.”
Emelia.
The luxurious wavy hair. The enigmatic smile. The intensity behind her gaze. The way that when she laughed it made him feel lighter. But when her heady presence left, all the reasons as to why pursuing something between them was crazy remained.

“Look, I don't want to be the villain ex-girlfriend here. I'm not jealous that you might have moved on. Well, maybe I am a little, but that isn't what this is about. I've been trying to get the nerve up for months and I'm kicking myself. I should've said something at Allie's party that night but you just disappeared.”

The same night he'd properly met Emelia. In the second wardrobe. What might have happened if he'd never gone up those stairs? If Sabine had snagged him there for this conversation?

“If you can look me in the eye and tell me that it's her, not me, then I will walk away. I will. I don't want to make your life harder. In fact, I want you to be happy. I just believe that I can give you more than she can.” She cast a sad smile. “Whoever she is.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just the sound of silent panic.

“You don't
have to decide right now. You just have to not decide.” And with that, she stood on her tiptoes and dropped a kiss onto his left cheek while sliding her other hand down his right. “See you 'round, Seven.” And with that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him an island on the dance floor.

E
MELIA WAS EARLY
. L
IKE AN
hour early. Between the fund-raising ideas bouncing around inside her head and her excitement over getting to see where C. S. Lewis and the Inklings used to meet, the afternoon had dragged on agonizingly slowly.

She'd suggested they meet somewhere other than the office given that you couldn't swing a cat in any of the rooms there, let alone spread papers out and plan. She'd meant the library or something similar but when Peter had suggested the Eagle and Child, Emelia hadn't been able to say yes fast enough.

She looked around the room, trying her best not to look like some wide-eyed tourist. The historic pub looked just like she'd imagined it would. Wood paneling, rich tones. The kind of decor that was somehow both ancient and timeless. It didn't take much imagination to see Lewis, Tolkien, and the other Inklings gathered around a table somewhere, engaged in debate or critiquing each other's work.

“What can I get for you?” A bored-sounding waitress materialized beside her.

“Um, can I just have a Coke, please?” She didn't even like
Coke that much, but it was one of the few drinks that she didn't have to struggle to remember the British translation for.

“Would you like a menu?”

“Yes, please.” The buzz of the busy room didn't bother her. She could happily sit here until Peter arrived and lose herself in Lewis.
The Magician's Nephew
perched inside her bag for this exact occasion. “Actually, no need. I'll have the fish and chips, please.” She'd been intending to try some ever since she'd arrived.

“Garden peas or mushy?”

“Mushy.” When in England, do as the English do. At least once. And she hadn't tried them yet.

Pulling out her battered paperback copy of the book that chronologically started Narnia, she flipped it open and reread the words that were engraved in her brain:
“This is a story about something that happened long ago . . .”

Within a couple of sentences she was back with Digory, Polly, and crazy Uncle Andrew.

“Fish and chips are generally best hot.” His voice cut into her world just as Digory struck the bell that awoke the slumbering world of Charn and brought about the White Witch's first appearance. It was one of her favorite parts in the whole series.

Slipping her bookmark between the pages, Emelia closed the paperback and placed it down on the tabletop. Craning her neck, she let her gaze travel up, landing on Peter's freckled face. “You're early.”

He smiled as he slid across from her. “Not as early as you.”

Touché. Along with Peter, her early supper had also arrived at some point and been placed in front of her.

“Sorry for interrupting.
You looked very absorbed. But, honestly, cold fish and chips are nasty.”

“This is the first time I've had them.” For some reason, the presence of the muscular rower made her forget all notions she'd had of being happy sitting here reading alone.

Guard up, Emelia.

His face registered shock. “Really? How can you have never had fish and chips?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “They're just not really a thing where I come from.”

He gestured to the plate. “Well, please don't let me stop you.”

Now that she was looking at the food, the smell of its greasy goodness wafting up at her, she registered the hole her stomach had gnawed in her insides.

“You sure?” She didn't give him a chance to answer before she picked up a fry—which wasn't really a fry; it was much fatter—and popped it into her mouth. Grease and salt and potato all exploded into a hot bite of bliss. Two more followed in quick succession. “Want some?” She nudged the plate toward him, and he helped himself.

“Thanks.”

She managed to find her manners long enough to use her cutlery to get a bite of fish. But she almost forgot about them when she bit into the flaky goodness. “Oh, wow.”

“Good, huh?”

She nodded, her mouth too full with the next bite to reply.

The peas were next. She loaded her fork up with a pile of the bright green lumpy sludge that looked like baby food. Popping it into her mouth, she prepared herself to be overwhelmed by the new experience.

Which she was. In the worst way. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It was all wrong. The consistency. The taste. The . . . all of it. If she'd been by herself, she would've spat it into her napkin. Instead she forced herself to swallow the nasty things down.

“Not a fan, huh?” Peter's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“What did those poor peas ever do to you? To this country?” She picked up another pile of the green sludge on her fork and studied it, trying to work out how it could taste so nasty. “Why would you do that to them?”

He laughed. “Ease up. They're a national treasure.”

“If these are a national treasure, I'll—” She'd always been the kind of person who gestured when she talked. Which the poor guy discovered when the fork suddenly jumped in her hand and catapulted the pile of green at him.

It was like something from a slow-motion sequence. She watched the sludge fly through the air. At the last second, she closed her eyes, unable to bear seeing where it landed.

Knowing her luck it would be . . . she slid one eye open. Yup. It'd hit him right on the side of his face and was already starting to slide down his cheek. An avalanche of green.

Peter blinked and pointed at her napkin, which lay on the table. “May I?”

Only the British would be so polite after someone had just assaulted them with a vegetable. “Of course.”

Picking it up, he swiped at the mess and caught a decent amount before it dropped off his jawline onto his sweater. Folding the napkin, he gave it a second attempt, leaving only a green smear across part of his cheek. “Got it all?”

Emelia shook her head. “There's just a little bit left about halfway down.” He wiped. Missed. “Here.” Plucking the napkin
from his hand, she leaned over and blotted away the last bit. His moss-colored gaze caught hers as she did it, and he gave her the kind of smile that almost made her forget where she was, what she was doing.

“Well, Emelia Mason.” The accent got her every time. The guy could have been about to insult her five ways to Christmas and she would have listened happily. “I have to say, it's never boring when I see you.”

She stared at him. At a loss for words.

He didn't seem to notice. “Think I might order something as well. I won't have time to go home and eat before church.”

She blinked at him. Replayed the sentence. Yes, he had definitely said “church.” Huh. Apart from the occasional door-to-door types back home, she didn't know a single person her age who was religious. Though, now that she thought about it, she wouldn't have been surprised if that was where Allie went on Sunday mornings. She was always gone by the time Emelia woke up. She'd just assumed she and Jackson went out for brunch every time he was in town.

Peter smiled at her. “That bad, huh? You look like I just said I was on my way to rob a retirement village.”

“No—I mean—”

“Would you like anything, sir?”

Thank goodness she was saved from herself by the waitress. She tuned out Peter ordering while she filed away this new piece of information about him, unsure what to make of it. Who even still went to church these days? And on a
Monday night
?

“How did you enjoy the rest of the ball?” Peter asked the question around one of her fries.

“Um,
I left pretty soon after we spoke. I wanted to get back to the hotel to start planning.”

“Planning?” He looked puzzled.

“The ball.”

He stared at her for a couple of seconds, then started laughing, shoulders jumping like crickets.

She held up her hands. “I know, I know, I'm a total nerd.”

He finally stopped laughing and swiped another fry, dragging it through the disgusting pea sludge. “Well, you certainly get points for commitment to the cause.”

“Thanks. I think.” She picked up another fry and crunched down.

“Why don't we talk about the other two. We should get started on planning those first since they'll be sooner. What do you think of a row-off and a cricket match?”

“You're going to have to explain the terminology.”

“Well, a row-off is pretty much as it sounds. We'd hire a gym or some other similar large space. Chuck a few ergs on the floor and have all the rowers race over a set distance. I was thinking we could pair up the Oxford and Cambridge rowers by position. That will make it really competitive.”

She was going to guess that “erg” was another name for a rowing machine. Didn't want to look dumb as a hammer asking. Especially not when she now knew an Olympic-level rower sat across from her.

Emelia pulled out her planner from the bag beside her and made a show of reading her notes. She knew them all by heart but it was a helpful distraction from the unwavering gaze sitting across from her. “When we last talked about dates, we were thinking about the end of May for the first one, assuming
the board approves it next week. Will that still work or is it getting too close to exams?”

“We might want to make it mid-May. I think exams are early June but I'll check with a few of the guys and get back to you. If we were going to try a second event it would probably need to be straight after exams end, before everyone leaves for summer.” Peter snagged another fry.

Which would give them a month to get this row-off approved by the board, organized, and done, and then another month to arrange the cricket thing. Whatever that was. Hard but not impossible. Especially if they started soon and could capitalize on the post–Boat Race fever. “Have you got anyone willing to do it yet?”

“I've asked a few and have had good responses—depending on that date, of course. But if anyone says no to me they definitely won't say no to Sabine.”

“Sabine?” Emelia tried to ask the question lightly, disconcerted at the spurt of jealousy that had shot through her at just the sound of his mentioning another girl's name.

“She used to row with Anita back in school and wants to help out. She's now the cox of the women's Olympic eights team. No guy rower will be able to turn her down.” Including him, Emelia would have guessed by the way his gaze flickered as he talked about her. Peter drummed his fingers on the table, evading her gaze slightly. “In the interest of full disclosure, we used to date. We broke up about eight months ago. Is that okay?”

Emelia tried to untangle the question. Was what okay? That they broke up? That they used to date?

“That she helps, I mean.” Peter's food had arrived and he speared a piece of fish.

“She's
your ex-girlfriend. If it's okay with you, then it is more than okay with me. Sounds like she'll be a great asset.” Emelia did her best to keep her tone neutral, hiding her expression by jotting some meaningless notes down on her pad.

Sabine was probably blond and gorgeous. To be a cox she was definitely going to be as petite as they came. And as far as Emelia was concerned there were only two reasons you offered to help out your ex-boyfriend with something like this. Sabine was either the nicest person on the face of the earth or she was on a mission to take the “ex” out of “ex-boyfriend.”

Emelia would have placed some good money on which one it was.

“S
OMEONE HAS TOLD YOU WE'RE
planning a ball, not a war, right?” A week later, Peter paused in the doorway of Allie's—Emelia's—living room and scanned it for somewhere to put down the pizza he was carrying. Every flat surface was stacked with reams of paper, magazines, brochures, or her computer.

“You're right. War would be way easier.” Emelia barely even glanced up at him from where she sat hunched over her laptop and didn't seem the slightest bit surprised at his appearance. He'd happened to arrive just as Allie was heading out and let him in. Emelia's hair was bunched up in a bun on top of her head, a pencil shoved through the middle. She wore a baggy gray sweatshirt and black track pants. He felt overdressed in his jeans and jumper.