Page 129 of A Shore Thing

His eyes shone. Those eyes seemed far, far away, but they were made of starlight, and starlight could travel an impossible distance. It reached her. Here. Now. Those other images drained of color and scattered, wisps of the past, floating back to where they belonged.

“And there’s a fossilized-looking collie a few yards away,” he continued, a smile warming the silver of his gaze. “He’s old as the hills, with very few teeth and enormous dignity of bearing. He can’t hurt you. I promise.”

She nodded, without looking away from his face. Her blood began to flow again. All her muscular aches gathered in her chest, where that cold splinter still lodged, its point aimed at the plumpest, softest region of her heart. Oh yes, she was going to yearn for this man, in the months and years and decades to come. She would yearn bitterly. For her, this wasn’t distraction. This was life itself, at its sweetest. And she wouldn’t regret a single moment.

If Kit rode with her now, would his regret haunt him?

“There is time,” she blurted, and grabbed his arm.

“Penny.” He gave a minuscule twitch, of confusion or dismissal.

“You and I resolved that neither of us would strike off, but we can make the choice together to split up.” She gulped, aware she was speaking out of turn and that she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t continue. “To win the wager, I must finish the run today, not you. Don’t go to Lucy if you don’t want to. But if you do, don’t let anything stop you. Not this.”

Not me.

He was staring, a kindling hope in his eyes.

“Are you certain?” he whispered. His pinkie hooked hers. She looked down at their linked little fingers, skin hidden by the dirty leather of their gloves.

She was certain. That wasn’t a lie. And she was certain too that letting go of his pinkie would feel like tearing away a part of her own body.

“All mount!” Deighton bellowed it from the front of the column.

She let go. She swung up her leg and sat astride her bicycle.

Kit’s eyes were blazing.

She wished her own eyes could inscribe a message on the back of his skull.

Good luck. I love you. Goodbye.

She pushed off. The wheelmen were already in motion, bumping over the cobbles.

“What’s going on?” Deighton had twisted to look over his shoulder. “Griffith, where are you going? Have you lost your mind?”

She also allowed herself a backward glance.

Kit was riding too, but in the other direction, riding hard for the White Hart Inn.

—

He found them in the busy coffee room, Lucy, Gwen, and Nelly. They were absorbed in a discussion—Lucy scowling, jabbing a hairpin into her frizzy curls, Gwen sketching as she spoke, Nelly tapping her cup with her spoon. His knees almost buckled at the sight. To stand on the outside of their little circle, peering in—it felt ghastly and perverse, and for a split second, he felt ghastly and perverse, for separating himself from them, forcing a new reality that caused everyone discomfort. Betraying his best mates.

By being who you are?

He heard Muriel’s indignant voice, and the split second passed. He strode to their table. “You wanted to see me?”

His words drew three pairs of startled eyes.

The hairpin slipped from Lucy’s hand and splashed into her tea. Gwen was so reserved her emotions rarely reached her face, but she stared in open-mouthed surprise. Nelly yelped.

“How are you here? Are you here?” She stuck her fingers in Lucy’s tea and yelped again. “It’s hot.”

“Hotness is tea’s only defense against fingers.” Kit’s pulse was crashing, but his voice sounded dry. “You got what you deserved.”

“I wanted to get the hairpin.” Nelly leapt up. “To poke you, in case you’re a mirage.” She grabbed him in a rib-cracking hug. She worked in clay and marble and had the arms of a discus thrower.

“Ow!” She stepped back. “You pinched me.”