Page 81 of A Shore Thing

“Yes, dammit. Provisionally. I’m the one who knows the laws and the courtesies. I’m the one who can assess the condition of the thoroughfares and our machines. I’m the one who can fix a broken spoke and true a wheel.” He sounded frustrated. “You’re more vulnerable on the road.”

This was undeniable. Also, irrelevant. She nodded. “And yet I’m accustomed to making my own choices.”

His gaze bored into her. “Your choices affect me.”

She glanced away, confused emotions welling in her chest. The simple statement pushed her strangely close to tears, as though his words had a broader meaning, expressed a sentiment she’d been longing to hear.

You are essential to my life.

She said nothing, heat building behind her eyes.

He folded his arms. “The choice to ride alone was foolhardy.”

Her inner tumult made the criticism sting all the more. She wiggled herself into a more secure position and tugged off her gloves.

“You are overbearing,” she told him, her voice cold.

“You are in a tree.” He matched her tone. “Obviously, I wasn’t overbearing enough.”

They looked at each other in silence.

His thumb began to tap against his bicep. “Can we make a resolution? Going forward, neither of us strikes out unaccompanied. That’s how riders get lost or left behind.”

She shoved her gloves in her pocket and studied the pink mark on her palm. The instinct to refuse seized her. It would feel satisfying—and childish. What he proposed was hardly tyranny. Don’t wander off. It was a basic principle, critical to social cohesion and individual survival.

She sighed. “So resolved.”

“Good,” he said, promptly.

“But if I see a promising cove, we’re stopping.”

“We’ll stop.” He paused. “If it’s reasonable.”

Reasonable could be negotiated. Griffith’s temper ran nearly as high as hers, but he was fair-minded.

“All right,” she said. “Good enough.”

He brushed back his hair, grimacing as he touched a tender point. “Can we make another resolution? No whacking each other with sticks.”

His grimace seemed a bit put on, and his eyes glinted teasingly.

“So resolved,” she said, and felt her lips twitch. A spat was a spat with him. You had it out, and it was over. With Esmé, she’d often felt that she was living the long, punitive aftermath of a fight she couldn’t remember.

“That was easy.” He lifted his brows.

“You seem surprised.”

“You have a truculent streak. I doubted you’d lay down arms.”

“We resolved against sticks.” She gave a small shrug. “Pelting with acorns is still permitted.”

There was a little cache of last year’s acorns in a declivity of the trunk. She took one in hand.

The teasing glint in his eyes became an intense glitter.

“Come down,” he urged softly. “Then pelt me if you dare.”

His low, goading voice sent a shiver along her spine.