Can't Help Falling (23 page)

“Thanks.” Peter managed to get the word out before he walked toward the bar, Emelia trailing after him.

“Would you like something?”

Emelia cast her gaze to a brown stain on the ceiling. “Only if it comes in a sealed container.”

Peter ducked behind the bar and grabbed two cans of Coke from the fridge, setting a handful of change on the bar as the twang of a guitar came over the amp. He took the drinks back to Emelia and made a show of snapping hers open in front of her. Handing it over, he did the same with his and took a long sip.

Next came the sound of something hitting the drums followed by the squeal of . . . no, surely not. But there was no mistaking the distinctive sound. Bagpipes.

“Hello, everyone.” It was Norm at the microphone. “Welcome to our gig tonight. We're the Groovestars.” The couple in the corner didn't even make any sign they'd heard him. The
band launched into “Walking on Sunshine.” Every single band member had a hearing aid. Probably turned off, going by the bumpy first few lines.

It was unlike any music Peter had ever heard before. Norm half crooning, half barking like an aged Elvis. George powering it along on the bagpipes. Harold tapping away on the drums, and the guy they hadn't been introduced to barely managing to keep up with the rest of them on the bass.

“Would you like to dance?” He turned to Emelia.

“What?”

“You heard the man. We're his gropies, Smoky. We can't let him down.”

“Try groping anything and you'll lose your hand. Just remember that.” The quiver of Emelia's lips finally gave her away.

“Oh, c'mon. I'd be making my move chaperoned by four octogenarians. It doesn't get any better than that. It would be the most excitement they've had at one of their gigs since Harold's last heart attack.”

Emelia looked at the band, shook her head, and smiled. Ha! Got her. “Why not?”

Taking her Coke and putting it down on a table with his, Peter grabbed her hand and tugged her between the two tables separating them from the band. He put his hand on Emelia's waist and started spinning her across the 1970s-era brown and orange carpet until she was breathless and smiling.

It was no ball, but for some reason, it was even more fun.

As he turned her around on the nonexistent dance floor, he saw George's eyes twinkling at them, and the old man gave him a wink.

He lowered Emelia into a dip with his good arm, and she clasped her hands around his neck, grinning up at him. Their gazes caught and something in her expression softened. For a second, the final note of the bagpipes, the worn carpet, and the dingy pub all faded away and there was only her. Wavy hair falling out behind her, the ends touching the floor, her eyes sparkling, her smile carefree.

Friends, just friends. She thought he was crazy for wanting to make a comeback. He forced the thoughts through his brain before he did something stupid. Were there any more torturous words in the English language?

S
he should never have said yes to dancing with Peter. Emelia's heart started pounding again under the intensity of his gaze. Not knowing what to do or say, she tucked her chin into his shoulder as he pulled her back to her feet.

He let her go into one final spin as the song ended, and she immediately missed the feeling of being cradled against his chest.

Her gaze lingered on him for a second at the other end of his outstretched arm, then she let go of his hand and turned toward the band, clapping.

The four old men grinned and offered little bows.

Shoot. She so wanted to hire them for the ball. High society or not. What they lacked in talent, they more than made up for with chutzpah.

“Let's slow it down, gentlemen.”

The opening notes of “It Had to Be You” drifted out and Peter held out his hand.

Emelia studied it for a second, then moved toward him, captivated by some weird magic. Tucking her against his chest, Peter waltzed her across the floor, the top of her head against his chin, the feel of his breath wafting down the side of her face, tormenting all her senses.

I wandered around, and finally found . . .
The words drifted across the room.

The heat of his hand warmed through the back of her top, and she gasped as he lowered her into another graceful dip, his hold strong and steady underneath her. “Don't worry. I'm not going to drop you.”

“I know.” She looked into his face and suddenly wasn't sure if they were talking about dancing anymore. Time to change the subject. Fast. “What are your plans until Boat Race training for next year starts? Besides babysitting me, of course.” She tried to keep her tone light, teasing.

He pulled her back onto her feet. “Summer is busy for beginners' courses and I've still got a couple of coaching jobs.”

“How's your shoulder?” Emelia focused on keeping some distance between them, despite the almost overwhelming urge to tuck her head into the curve of his neck and rest against his chest.

“Not horrible. Not great. I'm due to have some more scans soon. That will tell us more about when I can get back into training.”

She noted his use of “when.” But she kept her mouth closed. The guy was an elite athlete. He had to have some of the best sports doctors in the country giving him advice. He didn't need to hear any more of hers.

“Enough about me. Let's talk about you, Miss Mason. Starting with, what were you called back home?”

“Sorry?”
She was thrown by the sudden change in topic.

“Emelia. It's beautiful, but at four syllables, I can't believe it didn't get shortened.”

She drew a deep breath. “Mia. Most of the time I was called Mia.”

He studied her, but nothing in his gaze made her think he was connecting the dots. “You don't like it?”

The urge came over her to pour out her entire gritty past right there in a decrepit pub in Oxford, but she tamped it down. She'd tell him one day, but not tonight. After the ball. She wasn't going to ruin this.

“I never felt like Mia.” That was as close as she could get to telling him the truth. And it was true. There was a reason she'd picked Mia Caldwell as her byline. Because then, in some way, she could separate herself from her alter ego.

“What about Emmy?”

She actually jolted that time. It would have been easier to dodge the question, but she was tired of doing that. She wanted to give him something. A piece of her that was true. That mattered. Emelia sucked in a breath. “My mom used to call me Emmy. I haven't let anyone else call me that since she . . .” She choked up, unable to get the final word out. Emmy had died the day her mom did. She hadn't let anyone call her it since. “My mom died when I was six.”

Peter's hand tightened around her waist, and she found herself cradled between his arm and his chest. He didn't say anything, his breath whispering across her cheek.

Slowly, she relaxed into the music, his strength, and their steady steps across the worn carpet. After a few more seconds, she lifted her head to find his green eyes focused on her. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not trying to make it okay.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Whatever her response was going to be, it faded as she realized that at some point in the last few minutes her fingers had slid up his shoulders and were tracing the nape of his neck.

“I concede defeat. You win.” Peter leaned down and whispered the words in Emelia's ear. She leaned back, tilting her head and peering up at him from under her lashes.

“I win what?”

“The band. We should hire them. We'll just have to make sure we get everyone's donations first.” He gave her a grin.

For a second disappointment flooded through her but she masked it. She looked at the four pensioners, a smile coming to her lips.

“You're probably right. It is a ball about second chances, after all.”

“Is that what you're in Oxford looking for? A second chance?” Peter gazed at her like he could see all her secrets and didn't hate her. Which was how she knew it was just a fantasy.

Emelia shook her head. “I don't believe in looking for something I don't deserve.” She pushed off from his chest and stepped away. “We should go. We've got what we came here for.”

C
RICKET
. P
OSSIBLY THE MOST BORING
game in the world. Peter hadn't mentioned that at any point. As far as Emelia could work out, a guy ran up and threw a ball, and a guy at the other end hit the ball. Other players in the field tried to catch it or pick it up and throw it at some sticks that were behind the batter. And so it went on. For hours. Occasionally punctuated by players throwing their hands up in the air and yelling something indecipherable.

Emelia stifled a yawn as she surveyed the grounds at Oxford's historic University Parks. She could now add this game to her list of things that only the English understood. They'd sold out of tickets weeks ago, even though the setting meant that people could just wander up and watch for free if they so desired. Apparently the appetite in this town for anything that featured the historical Oxford–Cambridge rivalry was pretty much insatiable.

She breathed in the warm summer air. Somehow, every member of both squads had committed to play. Along with a few of the coaching staff to make up numbers. Even though some of the guys had already finished their exams and had left their respective universities for summer, they'd come back for this.

As much as Emelia hated to admit it, it was all thanks to Sabine again. The two of them had given each other a wide berth but she'd seen her talking to Peter a few times. They'd certainly looked more friendly than most exes she knew.

“You look like you'd rather be watching paint dry.”

She looked up to see Peter walking toward her. His blue fitted T-shirt highlighted his muscular physique, the strapping tape poking out from underneath one of the sleeves displaying the reason he wasn't on the field for Oxford.

He lowered himself down beside her on the grass. After doing her last set of rounds to check on refreshments for the teams, she'd found herself a spot at the far end of the field, where spectators were sparse.

“Do you wish you were out there?” She nodded toward the pitch.

Peter shook his head. “Nah. Cricket's not really my thing.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” The words burst out of her. “I don't think I've seen such a boring game in all my life.”

Peter let out a snort of laughter. “I wouldn't go saying that too loudly. We English are quite protective of our national sport.” He grinned at her and the air crackled between them. They hadn't really seen each other since the evening at the pub. Emelia had been busy with final details for the match—thank goodness that had required zero knowledge of the game—and Peter had, well, apart from the rowing beginners' courses he'd mentioned teaching, she actually had no clue what he did with most of his time now that the Boat Race was over.

Not that it mattered. Not that he could matter. Knowing he was Anita's cousin. Knowing that at any second Victor could decide to renege on their deal. That day had been a game changer. Any foolish fantasies she might have harbored that there could ever be something between them were well and truly destroyed. The dancing at the pub had been a mistake. She'd let herself get carried away and now was taunted by the memory of being in his arms when it couldn't be allowed to ever happen again.

She searched for something neutral to say. “Oh. I finally finished the book about the brothers who rowed in the Boat Race.”

If he was surprised by her abrupt change in topic, he didn't show it. “What did you think?” Peter leaned back on his good arm.

What did she think? She thought it was the craziest thing she'd ever read. Ever heard of. “In the first bit. That guy. Seb. Is that true? Did he really pass out?”

“He did indeed. Cost Cambridge the race.”

“He was unconscious!” Emelia was offended on the guy's behalf. Even if it had been over a decade ago. She'd reread the first chapter over and over, trying to understand what it was that would make someone not even stop rowing when they were passing out.

“That's how it works. You leave everything on the water.” Peter looked back to the field at the cracking sound of the bat hitting the ball.

“Is that how you felt on the water? When you were rowing?” After finishing
Blood over Water
Emelia felt like she had a small understanding of what might drive him to risk
everything to get to the top again. But she wanted to hear it from him.

“Yeah.” He looked back to her, his face contemplative. “Those guys, they were closer to me than my own brother. You'd do anything not to let the team down. All of us would. When I came to in hospital that night in Italy, one of my first thoughts was,
At least it didn't happen in the boat
. If I had to get injured, at least I didn't fail the team.”

“How old were you when you started?” This was safe territory. She could talk to Peter about rowing all day without worrying about her secrets trying to escape.

“Fourteen.” He laughed. “Poor Mum. If she'd had a clue how bad I was going to get the bug, she never would have promised to be there to cheer me on at every race.”

“Your mom was at every race?” But if he'd become an elite athlete, surely that must have been . . . hundreds?

“Every one in England. Rain, sleet, or sun. I let her off the hook for the overseas ones. Though my parents did manage to make it to a couple of world champs.” He shook his head. “I can still see her like it was yesterday. Every race. There she was with her blanket and thermos of tea.”

“That's so—” Without warning, Emelia found herself choking up. She coughed and tried to finish her sentence like a normal human being but found herself unable to speak past the boulder in her throat.