Page 58 of A Shore Thing

Her eyes were searching his.

He hadn’t answered her question.

“Brothers,” he said. “Also older.” So many years older they’d never paid him any mind. “We’re not close, in any sense.” He blinked, gathering himself. “Shall we? I thought we could take the inland route to Zennor. Ride on a proper road. Eat lunch at the Tinners Arms. Return on the cliff path.”

“What would that be? Twelve miles?” She tipped her head thoughtfully. “Tomorrow we ride around thirty.” She’d also read the paper. The Mutton Wheelers’ first stop was Porthcurno, a village on Cornwall’s southern coast.

“Not too bad,” she added.

“Not a great distance, no.” He felt compelled to correct a potential misimpression. “But it’s the coastal route. We’ll climb hills and round a promontory. There’s rubble, and washouts, and wind. The going is steep.”

She shrugged. “I’ll dismount if necessary. I don’t mind steep. Of all animals, I’m most like a mountain goat.”

His brows shot up in amused surprise. A mountain goat, eh?

“Good, then,” he said. “Agility is important. For the rubble.” He paused. “And the rampaging bull.”

She frowned. “What rampaging bull?”

“Deighton.” He scratched under his cap. “Like father, like son. There might be a charge.”

“You mean he’ll charge at you?” Her voice rose. “This isn’t a joust. We’re all riding in the same direction!”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have raised the issue, beyond asking her to pack some of Raleigh’s sticking plaster.

He waved a hand. “Forget it.”

She looked incredulous. “Forget that you said Deighton might attack like a bull? And what’s this about his father? You know him?”

“Let’s talk as we ride.” He sighed. “It will help if I know I’m closing in on a pub. But first.” He reached into his coat pocket. “I brought something for you.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, and suddenly, she seemed to twinkle with shy expectation. Something went soft and vague inside him, and a funny, fleeting wish unspooled—that he had some kingly gift, precious gems, or the key to a castle.

He fetched up the length of lilac ribbon. “To trim your hat.”

“But my hat has a ribbon.” Confused, she touched her straw boater. The crown was edged with ribbon, wide and white.

“This one matches the lilac necktie I’ll wear with my cycling coat. We don’t have badges. Consider this our club color.”

“Our club.” She smiled wryly and put out her hand for the ribbon. “The Flower Pedals?” She shook her head. “I suppose it’s fitting. For a botanist, and a dandy.” She was eyeing his gardenia.

“First, I was a rake. Now I’m a dandy?”

“They’re not mutually exclusive. And you can’t deny it.”

“I wouldn’t waste my breath.” He shrugged. “Denials are never convincing.”

“True. Also, you’re a dandy.”

Now he laughed. “Fine. I’m a dandy. I adorn the world as best I can.”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw how she rubbed her thumb over the ribbon, caressingly, before slipping it into her skirt pocket. His stomach tightened.

“You can adorn the world with your art,” she told him. “Instead of your person.”

“I can adorn the world with both.” He winked, and then, to forestall her saying—or worse, asking—anything else about art, he turned, grabbed his bicycle, and pointed its front wheel toward the road.

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