Page 58 of A Loser by Christmas
“But nothing.” His next guess scores a bullseye. “And no, I won’t push some random tourist off the bridge on the way across the river. The club won’t drop me. I’ve made my peace with it.”
I haven’t.
Calum isn’t done yet. “And no, I won’t do the same to any little kids. Not even if they all line up to make it nice and easy.”
I sniff like I wasn’t about to suggest it. “What about Lito Dixon? You’d push him off the bridge, right?”
“For Jack? Absolutely. But for me?” He shakes his head. “Forget about him.”
That’s easily done. His next order is much harder to follow. Impossible, to be honest.
“And you can forget about me.” At least he doesn’t mean forever. He points at my laptop. “Until you press your submit button.”
He heads out, and I don’t care if dragging on my jacket to fly after him with my shower-wet hair still dripping makes me look like a loser to anyone left in this marina.
“Wait!”
Ducks scatter at my dad-like bellow. Their quacks sound a lot like laughter, but I get to see Calum swing around, with Tower Bridge as a golden backdrop. I won’t need a photo to remember how good he looks framed by it, or by a firework-lit sky like Lito once said would be a sure-fire moneymaker. Calum carves that image into my soul by coming back to zip my jacket. He does that to keep me warm, not to hide a camera, which is just as well—I left everything behind for this second goodbye of the morning.
“Stop making it so hard to leave.” His breath clouds while other boatyard crews unhitch their unsold vessels from moorings. He eyes them, then takes a step back, which I hate even if I understand why he adds some distance. It’s another reminder of one of our very first conversations. Yes, I do want one more goodbye kiss, but not if that means he’d have to hurry stateside to finally use those press packets his media team have ready and waiting. That’s the very last thing I want for him this December.
He takes another step away. “Will you be here when I get done?”
“Probably. You might need to wait for me to get back from the boatyard.”
“How far away is it?”
“An hour or so. Depends on the tide.” I dart back aboard for my keys. “I’ll leave them in here.” I hang them from a waterpump valve and close the deck hatch. “There. If I’m not back, you can let yourself in.”
Calum has to leave then.
I’m so engrossed in watching that I don’t hear Harry join me.
“So the skipper was right. You twoarea thing.”
“Skipper?” It takes far too long for that to compute. “Dad talked about me?”
“When doesn’t he?” We head for the test-drive station, where Harry fires up a boat. His breath clouds like Calum’s did. The river breeze blows it away to show the wrong shade of blue eyes smiling at me. Deep laugh lines crinkle around tropical turquoise, and I’ve never wished more for arctic blueness. Harry shouts over the roar of a high-powered engine. “The skipper was pretty sure your hockey player was interested in more than buying a boat.” His eyebrows waggle. “He wasn’t so sure if you felt the same way. Asked me to keep an eye out.” He shouts again. “To protect your virtue. Didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’re actually saving yourself for a sexy event photographer.”
“Ugh.”
Harry cracks up, and it’s good to spend the morning laughing with him as we work with the team from the yard who help us relay boats back to where they built them. For once, I enjoy sharing each return journey with someone who shouts. Unlike my father, Harry does that to crack jokes and share stories of broken hearts he’s sailed away from. “I never mean for it to happen, but there’s at least one ex in every port.” His grin is devilish. “Sometimes six or seven.”
“You don’t ever want to stay?”
“Nope. Apart from this year, but that’s to keep an eye on a friend going through a tough time. I don’t usually hang around. Might catch feelings.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It was the one and only time I let it happen.” His smile fades, if only for a moment. He’s soon back to grinning. “I won’t make the same mistake twice, because those feelings were almost as persistent as the one time I caught crabs. Plus, I’m too busy for a repeat.” He’s on a mission, he confesses, to follow in his own father’s footsteps. “Or in his flippers.” He grins at me again, laugh lines deeper than ever as he steers around river traffic. “Got a list of dives he made. Of wrecks that he searched.”
“For treasure?”
“For something like that. Anyway, I’m searching those dive sites myself, one by one. Doing that between jobs is simpler if I stay single.”
That’s what I thought too. Now I’m not so certain.
Thoughts about a single future once this Christmas is over follow me along the Thames for a final journey until we moor the last boats at the yard, and Harry picks up from an earlier conversation.
