Page 48 of Oar Than Friends

She shook her head. ‘Nothing like this. A little on the Connecticut River.’

‘Let me show you.’ I held my hand out for her to take, only for her to dismiss it with a withering glance. ‘Kate, do as you’re told. Take my hand, it’s slippery.’

She pursed her lips and glared at my outstretched palm, but finally took it. As she did, it was like a pressure had loosened in my chest; it was slight, but my next breath was definitely deeper.

I guided her to the edge of the river; the water was so far out that we were almost standing on the murky silt, which was more like quicksand for the way it sucked you in. As it was, the pebbles I kept us on were so slippery it provided the very real possibility of a dramatic slide and fall into a tangled heap. Not that I objected to her falling onto me in a tangled heap, as long as she avoided my dick this time – hence the hand holding.

Or not, as she’d taken her hand back the second we stood still. I moved behind her; even though the pale-blue bobble on the top of her beanie made her seem taller, she was so short she barely came up to my chest. The subtle scent of summer limes and jasmine, which had been living on the tip of my tongue since the day I’d met her, whipped in the wind around us. It took all my discipline not to bury my face in her neck, and breathe her in.

‘The race begins here.’ I pointed to the stretch of the river just in front of Putney Bridge, then thumbed behind me. ‘You can’t see it right now, but there’s a granite stone up on the footpath which marks the official starting point. Each boat is held so the bow is lined up with the stone. If the weather’s bad, the water can be terrible and it makes ithard to navigate. As soon as the buzzer goes it’s up to the cox to steer out of the choppy water, and fight over the smooth channel in the middle.’ I guided my finger along to the centre of the river where the lowest current flowed. ‘Marshy’s an aggressive coxswain; two years ago he nearly got us tangled up with your lot by steaming ahead and turning them too hard, but he was brought up on this river and knew exactly what he was doing. We won by two lengths.’

She nodded along, listening, then, ‘Is he the cox who cried last year?’

‘What?’ I frowned down, only to see her look away. A faint tint of pink crested her ears, but she offered nothing more.

‘I heard after your race last year you were angry and snapped your oar in two … and made the coxswain cry.’

‘Are you serious?’ I stared, waiting for her to crack a smile under the pressure of this ridiculous statement, before it became clear it was a genuine question, ‘Oh Jesus, you are serious.’ I laughed loudly, ‘Oh, Yankee Doodle, that’s definitely one of the better stories about me I’ve heard. Wait until I tell Pete …’ I laughed again, especially when her features contorted with annoyance. ‘He’s going to love that.’

‘So, it’s not true?’

‘No. It’s not, I’ve never made anyone cry, that I’m aware of. And I’ve never snapped my oars. I’m not sure I’m even strong enough.’ I grinned at her.

She crossed her arms angrily. ‘How am I supposed to know what to believe?’

The smile dropped from my face, and I sighed deeply.‘I know we’ve only known each other six weeks, but did I ever give you the impression I’m the type of guy who snaps carbon fibre oars in half?’

After a long,longsecond she looked away, her mouth curving down at the edges, ‘No, no, you haven’t.’

‘Tell you what, moving forward let’s just assume that everything you hear about me is untrue. Unless of course it’s that I’m devastatingly handsome and the best stroke ever to have walked the earth. That youcanbelieve.’

She replied with a deep eye roll.

‘I’m serious, Kate. I know what people say about me, and what you’ve no doubt heard, but you want to know something, come and ask. I will tell you everything, and I’ll never lie to you.’

She held my gaze, unblinking. She stared so long I’d almost finished counting the little flecks of navy blue scattered around the edges of her green irises, but she turned back to the river before I could. We stood in silence, watching a couple of rowers enter the water from a boat club a couple of hundred metres away, and push off, ‘What happened last year? Why didn’t you win if your cox is so good?’

‘He’d broken his leg and couldn’t compete. Our reserve cox didn’t know the river quite as well,’ I waited for her to say something, but she stayed staring at the current, the undulating waves almost hypnotic. ‘There are two big bends along the course, you have to know how to steer them. And aggression works, which Marshy has.’

‘Why didn’t he get disqualified for cutting in front?’ she frowned.

‘Rules are slightly different than the Olympics or WorldChampionships, you don’t get fined for disruption or interference. As long as no one loses their oars then you have to use the river to your advantage.’

‘Which side of the river is best?’

I shrugged. ‘Depends who you ask. Marshy would say the Surrey station, which is the opposite side of the river to this one. You’re closer to the bends, and once you pass under Hammersmith Bridge you can really take the lead. Eighty per cent of teams who’ve been in the lead at Hammersmith Bridge have gone on to win.’

‘What if I asked you?’

‘Is that one of your questions?’ I grinned, but she simply raised one of her perfectly shaped brows at me. ‘We rowed on the Surrey station last year, and lost. If Oxford wins the coin toss, I’m going with Middlesex.’

‘Why are you telling me this? I’m your enemy. I could be asking these questions to pump you for information.’

I chuckled again, at the seriousness carved so earnestly into her features, as though speaking to me was akin to sharing trade secrets with the Russians. A thick strand of hair had been flapping in her face for our entire conversation, and no matter how much she tried to push it away with her forearm, it didn’t budge. I pulled off one of my disposable gloves, allowing myself a moment to touch her soft skin as she stood still, her brow warm against my fingertips even in the cold early-November wind. I brushed it under the rim of her beanie. ‘No, Yankee Doodle, you’re not. You could never be my enemy.’

‘I’m on the opposite team.’ Her shoulders dropped for the first time since we’d arrived here, like she’d been fighting an internal battle she wasn’t ready to surrender to.

‘So?’ I responded, as I had the first time she’d protested a month ago in the boathouse changing room.

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