Can't Help Falling

by Kara Isaac

  Allie’s face brightened. “Of course you did.”

  So she’d be the third wheel for three days out of every fourteen. And probably need to buy some earplugs. Sounded like a bargain price to pay. “When are you getting married?”

  “We, uh, haven’t set a date yet.” Something in Allie’s countenance shifted. Huh. Interesting. From what she’d observed they were practically the world’s most smitten couple, yet they hadn’t set a wedding date. Her journalistic radar pinged with the scent of a story but she ignored it.

  Allie hurried on. “So, what do you think?”

  Emelia’s face must have been blank because Allie expanded on her question. “About moving in?”

  That was it? A ninety-second quasi-interview? “Don’t you want to know anything more about me?” Emelia regretted the question as soon as she’d asked it. What was wrong with her, inviting questions she might not be able to answer? She liked Allie. Didn’t want to lie to her. But there was no chance Allie would have her as a roommate if she had any idea what Emelia had done. The pain she’d caused.

  Allie scrunched up her forehead, then shook her head. “Not really. Peter likes you and Elizabeth hired you.” Emelia looked to where her boss was watching the whole exchange with an amused look. “Between those two things, I know pretty much the most important stuff. And if you end up being one of those flatmates urban legends are made of, my name is the one on the lease, so I can just change the locks and leave your stuff on the stoop.” She grinned.

  Emelia’s heart rate had escalated at the mention of Peter, but Allie moved on before she could dwell on the words “Peter likes you.”

  “When do you want to move in?”

  It almost killed her to say it, but she didn’t want to appear too eager. “How about this weekend?” Two more nights wouldn’t kill her.

  “Sure. Where are you staying at the moment?”

  “The Magnolia Manor.”

  Allie’s mouth almost dropped off her face at the same time as the top book slid off her pile and hit the floor with a bang. “The grotty place they parole inmates to?” She ignored the tome at her feet.

  “They do?” Well, that explained a lot.

  “I have a car. How about tonight?”

  Eleven

  PETER OPENED THE DOOR TO SpringBoard’s office and stepped inside, a blast of sleet accompanying him. Someone had forgotten to tell nature it was spring already. Slamming the inclement weather out, he pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

  After an hour standing on the riverbank, watching guys out on the water, frozen to the bone, bodies straining against the wind and rain, not even a shower with the hot water on full blast could get the chill out of his bones.

  “Morning.” Elizabeth looked up from her perch at the front desk.

  “Morning. How’s everything looking?” She was probably doing month-end. There was a board meeting coming up where Elizabeth would be giving the latest financial update.

  She pulled her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “We’re going to need a miracle. You here to meet with Emelia?”

  “Yeah.” His pulse thrummed in his neck. It had been five days since she’d managed to see a way through his behaving like a donkey’s behind and not replace him with another board member.

  Elizabeth gave him a piercing look. “Emelia told me she’s willing to work with you, but don’t forget what I said. If there are any issues . . .”

  He would be the one to go. “I know.” There wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it. Saving SpringBoard was way too important. He could do cordial-but-distant. Lord knew he’d had enough experience with some of the rowing groupies over the years. “We’ll come up with a plan, Elizabeth. A good one.” At least the board had given them until the April meeting to come back with some formal fund-raising proposals.

  “Just do your best, that’s all any of us can do.” He hated that there was an air of defeat about the way that she said it as she turned her attention back to her computer screen. But then she was the one taking the calls from donors with every excuse under the sun as to why they were pulling their support.

  Shrugging out of his coat, he hung it on the rack in the corner, adding his hat to another hook. Stalling for time. The twisting in his gut was a sensation from the past. It was reserved for the starting lines of big races. He hadn’t been on one of those in nine months. It didn’t belong in this dingy office, about to start a meeting with a girl he had to maintain a professional distance from.

  He strode down the hall, the sound of his feet announcing his approach. Emelia looked up as he rounded her door. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a thick braid and she wore a fitted red sweater that did nothing to downplay her curves.

  His confident stride stalled at the distinctly unprofessional, non-distant thought.

  “Morning.” She tilted her head. “Are you planning to come in?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” He took a couple of steps forward, sat down in the chair opposite her desk. It was different from the one he’d sat in last time.

  “I traded it out. It looked pretty uncomfortable. Being wedged in the last one.” She answered his question before he could even think it, the hint of a smile on her full lips.

  “Thanks.” Interesting. Emelia was very observant. He filed the piece of information away.

  They sat in silence for a couple of seconds.

  “So—” they both said at once.

  “You go first—” And again. Then silence.

  “How are you finding Oxford?” Peter grasped at the first thing that came to mind. Good one. That wasn’t lame at all.

  Emelia leaned back in her chair. “Pretty good.” She cast a glance up to her small window, where the sound of wind whipping around outside seeped through. “Can’t say this is what I imagined when I pictured an English spring.”

  “Are you staying with family?” He tried to sound only politely interested. Hopefully she’d say she was living with her boyfriend. Some nerdy Harvard alumnus doing his PhD in biophysics. He was busy hibernating in a lab somewhere, which was why he hadn’t been at the party. That would kill whatever this distracting chemistry was between them. Force him to focus on the task at hand. The one that mattered.

  “I’ve, um, moved in with Allie.”

  Peter just stared at her. Had she just said she’d moved in with Allie? His Allie? Well, not his Allie, but . . .

  “If it’s going to create problems, I can find somewhere else.” Emelia rushed in, seeming to take his silence as discontent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about this. Us.” Her hand gestured between the two of them. “I mean not us us. Obviously. I mean they’re your friends. I get that it might be awkward. Or weird. Of course it is. I fall out of a wardrobe onto you. Then you find me in another one at a party. Then I’m working here. Now I’ve moved in with your friend. Wow. Now that I’ve said it aloud it’s very weird. I’ll find somewhere else.” Her words kind of tumbled out, falling over each other.

  “No.” He held his hand up to try to slow the tirade. “It’s not weird.”

  Her brow rumpled. “It’s not?”

  “I mean, it’s certainly an interesting lineup of events. I was just surprised.” In the kind of good way that should have alarm bells flashing. “Look, Allie is great. And I know Jackson will be happy she’s got a roommate. He worries about her living alone since he’s in Cambridge.” He flashed her a grin. “The Lord of the Rings and Narnia nerds together under one roof. Tolkien and Lewis would be thrilled.”

  Emelia laughed. “I’m pretty sure I have a long way to go before I’ll come even close to Allie’s level.”

  The sound of her laughter resonated inside him, resulting in a lighthearted feeling that he hadn’t felt since Anita died. If his cousin were here right now, she’d probably have been giving him eyes, mouthing “I like her” at him.

  But she wasn’t. And it was all his fault.

  If Lacey w
ere here right now, she’d have been mentally designing her couture bridesmaid’s dress. And part of Emelia wouldn’t have blamed her. She hadn’t had this kind of chemistry with anyone since . . . well, ever, if truth be told.

  She’d walked in here this morning knowing exactly what she was doing. Guarded. After two nights of real sleep and hot showers she was back on her game. Playbook prepared and memorized. Two minutes of small talk, then down to business. Cordial but professional. Everything had changed now that Peter was her sort-of boss.

  Then it had all unraveled the instant she had connected that moving in with Allie put them in not only the same professional circle but also the same personal one.

  “So, um . . .” Peter cleared his throat. “We should probably talk about how we want to approach this. Working together.”

  Emelia tried to divert her gaze from the way his sweater stretched across his sculpted shoulders. Allie had mentioned he coached the Oxford rowing team and he was clearly a rower as well. Or had been. Even though she’d managed to find him a larger chair his powerful physique still dwarfed it like it was a piece of doll’s furniture.

  “Emelia?” Peter tilted his head and gave her a bemused look.

  “Yes, of course.” Focus, Emelia. Guard up. Her self-imposed Google exile still stood, so she couldn’t research him online, but there was only one reason she could think of why a guy like Peter would be involved in a failing charity. There had to be some kind of personal connection. Which meant that if he knew who she really was, he would hate her. Rightfully so. “I’ve drawn up a draft proposal for your consideration. Very high level.” Picking up two copies of the plan she’d spent the day before sweating over, she pushed one copy across her desk toward him.

  He reached forward, the movement doing absolutely nothing to hide his muscular physique. She forced her gaze to the page in front of her. The words swam out of focus but it didn’t matter. She knew the whole thing back to front.

  There were only three things that mattered: Saving Anita’s charity. No one here finding out who she was. And keeping her wildly inappropriate attraction when it came to the man sitting opposite her firmly in check.

  Peter scanned the pages. Emelia pretended to be looking over hers, while reading into every tap of his fingertips, twitch of his cheek, and furrow of his brow.

  He hated it. Oh, he hated it. Maybe he was right. She didn’t have any business being here. Her little stints of charity involvement back home had nothing on this.

  Finally, he lowered the pages and leaned forward, looking directly at her. “Tell me about these three big events.”

  Emelia leaked out a breath. He hadn’t shot her down outright. That was a start. “Given our size and resources”—or lack thereof—“I think that we’re better placed to focus on three major fund-raising events. We can fit in smaller ones around them if it works but one of the big mistakes charities often make is spreading themselves too thinly across too many small activities that just don’t offer a good return on investment.”

  Something flickered in his green eyes. Not quite approval, but maybe grudging acceptance. “What kind of things could they be?”

  “It could be anything. Sporting. Cultural. Intellectual. We are in Oxford after all. I have a couple of ideas but I was hoping you could maybe give me some guidance.” As much as it pained her to admit it, he was right. She did need someone who knew the “English way.”

  “You’re thinking summer, autumn, and winter?”

  “Yes, since we’re already into spring. I was thinking everything should culminate in a big event toward the end of the year. That also gives us some time to . . .” She trailed off, not sure how to say what she needed to. But it had to be said if they were going to make any headway. Or they’d just be spitting into the wind.

  “To?”

  “Work on reputation repair.” She said the words quietly, gaze focused at a spot just over his shoulder.

  “You’re referring to Anita.” His shoulders tensed a little, but his gaze, his tone, remained neutral. Nothing to give her any hint as to how close their personal relationship was. Or even if they had one.

  “Yes. I’m assuming that’s part of why you’ve been losing donors.”

  Peter leaned back, looped his hands around his propped-up knee. “It would be fair to say that a number have given that as their reason for reconsidering their involvement with SpringBoard, yes. She was also our biggest fund-raising weapon. The board are well-meaning and dedicated to the cause but none of us have the hobnobbing skills that she did. SpringBoard’s success was all down to her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emelia struggled to keep a hitch from her voice. She’d seen Anita out on the LA social circuit a few times. The girl was beautiful, vivacious, and intelligent. The type who could sell sand to Saudi Arabia. If it wasn’t for who Anita had been engaged to, she’d still have been alive and Emelia would still have been in LA making a career off destroying people’s lives. She couldn’t change it. The one thing left was to ensure Anita’s legacy didn’t die along with her.

  Peter turned his attention back to her as he finished the document. “So, tell me, what’s your great idea?”

  Under the intensity of his gaze she suddenly doubted herself. What if it wasn’t a good idea at all? Not that she’d even claimed it was. “So Cambridge and Oxford are quite big rivals, right?”

  Peter’s mouth twitched. “Very.”

  “Could we use that somehow? Have some kind of Oxford-versus-Cambridge event? Or even a couple of them?”

  “Go on.”

  “I was thinking you obviously have an in with the rowing team. What if after the Boat Race we set up some other kind of contest between the two teams? It wouldn’t have to be rowing. It could be something more friendly.” The famous annual rowing fixture between the two universities was only a few weeks away. The opportunity to leverage off it was too good not to explore.

  Peter barked out a laugh. “You could have a knitting contest between the Oxford and Cambridge rowing teams and it wouldn’t be friendly.” He bit the bottom of his lip, thinking. “We’d have to get the go-ahead pretty fast. Once the Boat Race is over the guys are generally pretty jammed catching up with their studies and preparing for exams. Then they all disappear in July. And it wouldn’t be an official Oxford-versus-Cambridge fixture.”

  “But even if it was something unofficial? With only some of the guys voluntarily participating? Would it still be enough to get people interested?”

  She held her breath as he pondered her question across from her.

  After a few seconds he grinned, a dimple she hadn’t noticed before appearing on his left cheek. “Probably. The rowing competition is so intense people would pay to watch them play tiddlywinks against each other. You might just have cracked something. I’m embarrassed I didn’t think of it myself.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from grinning back.

  “I’ll just need to talk to a few people. I’m sure I could get some of the Oxford guys on board easy enough. Give me a few days to sound out my Cambridge connections. I’ll work out if it will be better to formally raise it before the race or after.”

  His moss-green gaze connected with hers across her desk and for a second neither of them looked away. “Right, so . . .” She trailed off, not having a plan for either his unbridled enthusiasm for her idea or whatever it was that was bouncing between them.

  “The team leaves for London tomorrow. We train there the last few weeks before the race. Is it better for me to call or email when I’ve talked to a few people?” He quirked up a smile. “Actually, we’ll be keeping some pretty weird hours, I’ll just email.”

  “No!” They both jumped a little as she practically yelled. Why didn’t she just write call me across her forehead? “I mean, phone is fine—”

  A ringtone saved her from herself. Not hers. Peter fumbled for a second, then pulled his iPhone out of his pocket.

  “Sorry. I need to take this.” Swiping the screen, he put it to his
ear. “Hi.” The other person spoke for a couple of seconds. “You’re joking.” A few more words. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Stabbing the screen, Peter shoved the phone back into his pocket and blew out a huff of air. “I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  “Right. Sure.” The sudden sense of loss left her disconcerted.

  Peter was already out of his chair and halfway through her door. Then he paused and turned back. “Are you coming? To the Boat Race?”

  “I, um . . .” She floundered. For all the hype around the city about the big annual showdown between the two universities, it hadn’t occurred to her to go.

  “You should. Jackson and Allie are coming. It’s pretty amazing.” He tilted his head, flashing the dimple. “I think you’d like it, Emelia Mason.”

  She couldn’t have said no if she tried. “Okay.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you there.” And with that he was gone, leaving her as flushed and flustered as a dorky mathlete who’d just been invited to the prom by the star quarterback.

  Emelia Mason. She replayed the way he’d said her name in her head. It had sounded nice. Respectable. Maybe even a little bit girl-next-door.

  Everything she wasn’t.

  Twelve

  PETER TRIED TO CLAMP DOWN on the churning inside of him as he ran, cutting across lanes and streets, almost slipping a few times on cobblestones. Puffing, he pulled up in front of his destination, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades despite the cold. He wished he could say it was the first time, but it wasn’t. Far from it. The Saint Aldates police station sat in front of him, three imposing stories of beige stone. At least it was barely a couple of kilometers from the SpringBoard offices.

  What had his brother done now? Peter trudged through the main door, pausing to let out a man who smelled like he hadn’t taken a shower this side of Christmas. Walking inside, his feet tramped their way across the familiar peeling linoleum to the front desk. The bobby tending it offered up a flicker of recognition. “Can I help?”