Page 72 of Love In Translation

This wasn’t fun and she didn’t want to do it anymore. Rheo lifted her T-shirt and wiped the sweat off her forehead before realizing she’d substituted sweat for mud.

Yuck.

She was done. She didn’t need to prove anything...not to them. They should love her no matter what, no matter how she approached life and its challenges. She could complete this race, she knew she could. She could stomp through more mud and cross another ditch. She might have to ask for a heart transplant at the end of it, but she would finish.

But why should she have to do this categorically stupid race to prove she was confident and in control? She was making a point tothem, not herself. She already had faith in what she could do.

And because she did, she would go back to the UN and she woulddoher job to the best of her ability. If she hit the UN’s high standard, excellent. If she didn’t, she would make another plan and find something else to do. She was smart and she was strong and she didn’t need Fletch, Paddy, or her parents’ approval.

Rheo slapped her hands on her thighs and looked over to where the onlookers stood, her eyes drawn to two tall men. Sunlight bounced off Fletch’s hair, more gold than blond in the sunlight. Neither he nor Seb, who’d joined his team at the last minute, looked like they’d completed a twelve-mile obstacle course.

The bastards.

Her eyes connected with Fletch’s, and they stared at each other. Across the mud and grass, blue slammed into green, and the shouts of the onlookers and the music from huge speakers faded away. Fletch lifted one eyebrow. He knew she was about to walk away, that she was done. Disappointment and irritation flickered over his face.

He’d expected her to quit. Wasn’t surprised. And at that moment, one of the few times in her life, Rheo hated her predictability.

No, damn him. She categorically refused to give him the satisfaction of being right.

She wasn’t done, not quite yet.

Lifting her head, she scowled at him before turning back to the track. There weren’t many obstacles left, one of which was a rope climb, up and over an inclined wooden wall. She would get over that fucking wall if it killed her.

The resolution to finish the damn course now had nothing to do with her needing confidence or being out of her comfort zone; she simply needed to show Fletch he was wrong. She had grit. She didn’t fold. She was mentally tough and stronger than he believed her to be.

Pissy? Absolutely. Prissy? Not so much.

Fletch might be a big-time explorer who’d crossed jungles and glaciers. Carrie might be an adventurous wild girl, and Rheo’s parents might be wanderers. But Rheo possessed determination in spades. She’d studied her ass off to get her master’s in romance languages, and she’d worked damn hard to build a reputation for consistency and accuracy in the UN Interpretation Service. She’d made a home and created the life she needed, a life that made her feel secure and stable.

Sure, it wasn’ttheirlife, but it took hard work and persistence. If completing a stupid obstacle course covered in mud showed them—not herself,them—that she could do anything she put her mind to, then she’d do it.

She’d do it even if it killed her. And it very well might.

Rheo finished second to last in the fun race that afternoon, but Fletch thought it was a miracle she’d finished at all. As he’d watched her white-knuckle her way through the race, he’d been convinced, a few times, she’d throw in the towel.

But Rheo surprised him by carrying on. Though, God, he couldn’t believe anyone could take so long to climb that rope wall. Rheo’s arms looked lovely, but she had the upper body strength of a noodle.

He’d needed to catch up on work, so after watching Rheo stumble over the finish line, he’d returned to the Pink House and spent the next four hours on his laptop, answering emails and catching up with his production company CEO. He was tired. And hungry. Walking down the stairs of the Pink House, he frowned at the lack of noise. He’d expected Rheo’s parents and Carrie to be in the kitchen or the sitting room, catching up over a bottle of wine, but when he stuck his head into the living room, library, and study, they were all empty. In the kitchen, he noticed a note propped against an open wine bottle.

Ed, Gail, Seb, and I have gone out for a drink at Diego’s. Meet us there!

C, xoxo

The last place he wanted to be was in a noisy bar, especially since he knew it was karaoke night. Carrie loved karaoke and would be there until the bar closed, and so, he imagined, would Ed and Gail. Seb, a lot more reserved, would sit in the corner and make jibes at Carrie for being an attention seeker. He didn’t want to be with them. He wanted to be with Rheo.

After pouring a glass of wine, Fletch walked out the back door to the gazebo, thinking of his and Rheo’s uncomfortable conversation the night before. He’d spoken the truth—they were too different and couldn’t have a relationship going forward. Flying in to see each other, taking a weekend here, a week there? No, it was impossible, and because he’d always want more, he’d be constantly frustrated and miserable. It was far better to end it now, before they managed to hurt each other more.

But he wasn’t proud of how he’d laid it on the line. He wasn’t used to heart-to-heart discussions or having his feet held to a conversational fire, and he’d floundered. But he should have had a fucking conversation with her, and discussed his doubts.

And ghosting her had been a dick move.

Rheo sat on the bench, her bare feet on the seat, her arms around her knees. Of course, she was here. He’d subconsciously expected her to be. She looked pale and shattered, and he suspected every muscle in her body was on fire. He wished he could massage her from tip to toe before making slow and tender love to her.

But he knew that after everything they’d said to each other yesterday—and him burning all their bridges by being an asshole—there was no going back.

Yet he couldn’t stay away.

He leaned against the same pole as he had last night. “How are you feeling, Rhee?” he asked.

---