Page 24 of That Fake Feeling
“That’swhat was going through your mind?Theboat was about to tip over, we could have both ended up in this revolting water, andthat’swhat was bothering you?Headlines?”
“Thatand my family seeing another story confirmingI’mthe loser they already thinkIam.”
Idunk the oars and lean back to give them a good hard pull to finally get us away from the low hanging tree limbs.
“Howcould they possibly think you’re a…”Rose’sface suddenly forms the expression of someone who’s seen a hungry lion running up behind me.
Sheholds up both hands. “Stop, stop.Stop.”
“What?”
There’sa hard tug on the side of myT-shirt.
“You’restuck.Onthe branch.”
Theboat continues to move backward, butIremain in exactly the same spot.
Igrab the branch to try to wrestle it from my shirt, but it’s poked through and impossible to get out.Orat least impossible to get out quickly while panicking about being dragged into the murky depths.
Asit pulls my backside off the seat, the boat slides sideways out from under me.There’snothingIcan do this time.I’mstuck fast.Awatery humiliation is inevitable.
ThensuddenlyRoseflies at me, grabs me round the waist and tackles me flat on my back.Thesound of ripping fabric signalsI’mfree of the branch.
Shelands with her face right in my crotch.
Irub the back of my head where it slammed into the bottom of the boat just as she lifts her face and looks up at me, cheeks flushed and hair all over the place.It’squite the vision.
“Ona first date,Rose?Ididn’t think you were that kind of girl.”
Shepushes herself up onto her seat. “Andthat’s the thanksIget for saving you from the shame you just told me you’d do anything to avoid?”
Sheruns her fingers through her hair, then dusts off her red knees.
“Sorry, yeah.”Irub my backside.Shetook me down hard. “Imean, thanks.”
Iretake my rowing position and grab the oars. “Shallwe get out of this fucking boat and go get the picnic over with?”
“Sure.Sinceyou’re so enthusiastic about it.”
7
ROSE
“God, this is heavy.”
Ipick up the picnic basket the driver dropped at my feet before he sped away.It’sround, wicker, lined with red-and-white-checked fabric, and has a lid that flips up on both sides.I’veonly ever seen picnic baskets like this in cartoons.
“Givenyour history with heavy bags, let me take it,”Connorsays.
Hegrabs the handle, his fingers brushing against mine.
Atingle ripples through my fingers and up my arm.
That’snot good.
Neitherwas how muchIenjoyed watching him row the boat.Thestrength in his arms as he pulled on the oars, stretching hisT-shirt across his shoulders.Andthe way the muscles in his legs flexed as he moved back and forth.
“Whereshould we go?” he asks, thankfully cutting through my inappropriate thoughts.
