Can't Help Falling (30 page)

“Such a hard life you lead.” She grinned up at him, and
he longed to run his fingers through her hair. He settled instead for a playful tug on the end of her ponytail, like he was twelve.

Opening the door at the end of the hall, they stepped into a world of bustle. Cameras and lights were being moved all over the place. People traversed the space with purpose. A few director chairs lay scattered around. Peter took a quick glance. From the look of things, they were preparing to film in the main entryway and the parlor. In both rooms, people were busily arranging furniture, setting out props, and taking light readings.

There were no actors to be seen—they were still in makeup or costuming—meaning Peter and Emelia had a little time to look around before they'd be in the way.

They stood for a few seconds watching the swarm.

“What do you think they're filming?” Emelia's gaze followed a middle-aged woman cutting through the room holding a stack of papers.

“Looks like something set in the twenties.” He gestured at a set of fringed flapper dresses being wheeled past.

“Do you think we might be able to watch some filming?”

“Maybe. If we stay out of their way.” He almost added “and if it's soon” because he wanted to get home at a decent time, but one look at her shining eyes sealed his mouth. He'd be here all afternoon if being able to watch a few minutes of filming would keep the excitement on her face.

“Let's go see what's happening in the parlor.” Grabbing her hand, he weaved them between people into the other room. It was more set up in here—cameras and screens placed, the space where they were all focused immaculate.

Someone rushed past them, bumping Emelia, so that she
was thrown against his chest. He grabbed her under her elbows to steady her. “You okay?”

“Fine, thanks.” But she kept standing there, gazing up at him.

Peter couldn't stop himself. His fingers ran lightly down her arms. When they reached her hands, her fingers curled around his.

He tried to drag in a breath, find a rational thought, but everything dimmed in comparison to the girl standing in front of him staring at him like he was her whole world.

Something flickered in her eyes as he reached a hand up and ran his thumb across her cheek.

“So, we should, um . . .” She stepped back and started to turn away. He felt himself sag with disappointment.

The next thing he knew, she'd spun back again, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down, leaning against him as her lips found his.

For a split second he didn't move, then his arms slid around her waist, his hands running up and down her back as he leaned into the kiss. All reason fled his brain. All that remained was the feeling of Emelia cradled against his chest.

“Wow.” After a few seconds, she pulled back, both of them breathless.

He didn't say anything. Just stood there.

Emelia peered over her shoulder. He looked too. In all the hustle of the room, no one seemed to have noticed them.

She grabbed his hand. “Let's go.”

He blinked. “You don't want to stay and watch some filming?”

“Nah. I'm good.” She shot him the kind of smile that almost had him pulling her into his arms for an encore performance.
But she tugged at his hand and started striding toward the door that would take them back into the hallway.

He tried to catch his breath as he followed her. He knew he should be sorry. Except he wasn't. Not at all.

W
hat had she done? Emelia tried to keep the thought at bay as she dragged Peter back through the main foyer, past the safety of the door they'd entered from.

Once again, her need to poke her nose into things had screwed up everything. She and Peter had managed to find their way to some kind of even keel and she'd gone and ruined it all again.

The whole morning she'd held herself together, managed to resist the pull of his appeal. She had been turning around to walk away.

And then it had all collapsed like a sandcastle hit by a rogue wave.

Her stomach still felt curdled from the moment she'd
turned around and seen Jude using his trademark smile on a simpering production assistant.

In that second, she'd forgotten that she wasn't Mia. That she didn't look anything like her. That Jude wouldn't even glance her way for a moment because he was all about blondes, and he'd never in a million years have had any reason to think his most-hated reporter would be here. Especially when she was a wavy-haired brunette in the middle of the English countryside on his movie set.

But in that moment when she thought Jude would see her, and destroy everything, she'd done the only thing she could think of. She'd turned around and laid one on Peter like she meant it. Which she did. Every single part of her.

And now she was in the world's stupidest mess, all because she hadn't kept her wits about her. She'd lost her ability to keep her cool under pressure, something she'd been known for in LA.

“Emelia.” She barely heard Peter as she kept barreling down the hall, not wanting to stop or deal with what had just happened. “Emelia!”

“What?” She dared to look up at him.

Peter smiled and it almost undid her. “Is there a fire somewhere I should know about?”

Emelia sucked in a breath, forcing herself to slow down. “No. Sorry.”

“Was it that bad?”

“What?”

“Was the kiss so bad that you need to flee?”

“No.” The kiss was . . . perfect. But it wasn't like she could exactly tell him why it had happened. That she'd seen a movie star who'd had a target on her head ever since she'd flirted with him in a nightclub and gotten him on record propositioning her while his wife was two blocks away in the hospital with their one-day-old daughter.

She wasn't one bit sorry his marriage had subsequently broken up and his ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners in the divorce. The guy was a grade-A creep.

“Thanks. Your fulsome denial was very reassuring.”

“It was fine.”

“Fine.” Peter's eyebrows ratcheted up a notch. “You've got real skills in making a guy feel good. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He stepped closer, a dangerous glint in his eye. “It was much better than fine and you know it.”

Emelia stepped back, bumping against the wall at the end of the hallway. Trapped between the wall and the guy she had a huge crush on, who was advancing on her with intent written all over his face. In any other situation it would have been the best thing ever.

“Now you've got two choices.” Peter leaned his arms on the wall, a hand on either side of her head.

“Yes?” She hated that her voice was all breathy, like some damsel in a soap opera.

“You can either admit that it was more than fine, or . . .”

“Or?”

“I can refresh your memory.”

Oh.

“Which will it be?” He moved one hand down to loop a strand of her hair around his finger, twirling it like he had all the time in the world.

She couldn't breathe. His green eyes drilled into hers. Her knees felt like they were melting. She was a cliché, every female stereotype she'd ever mocked.

You're never going to be good enough for him. Even if he never finds out the truth, one day he will still leave you. Just like everyone else.

The thought ripped through her head with the power of a nuclear bomb.

Before she could rethink it, give in to what she really wanted to do, she planted both hands on his chest and shoved. Hard.

Peter stumbled back, almost falling.

“What
do you think you're doing?” Emelia pushed herself off the wall.

“I . . .” He stared at her, speechless.

“Is this some kind of game to you?”

“No.” He grabbed a breath. “Of course not.”

She summoned up her death stare. “You've told me that I'm not good enough for you. That I never will be as long as I don't believe in the big guy in the sky. You know how I feel about you. You know that every time I'm around you it's torture. So, what are you doing? Do you like messing with me? Get some kind of kick out of taunting me with what I can't have?” She ignored that she had kissed him first. That had been by accident. Sort of. But this, his tormenting her with what she couldn't have, was on purpose.

His face had whitened, the freckles standing out. He reached out toward her arm, then stopped. “I'm so sorry. I never . . . I would never . . . You're right. That wasn't right. You deserve better. Will you forgive me?”

He deserved better. He just had no idea how much. “We're done here. Take me home.”

W
HAT HAD GOTTEN INTO HIM
, pulling a stunt like that? Frustration bubbled up inside him as he stormed down the hall of his flat. And Emelia had called him on it. Rightly so. Peter felt sick remembering the stricken look on her face as she'd pushed him away.

The drive back to Oxford had been an hour of strained silence.

He checked the time. A couple of hours left of daylight. Maybe enough time to get out for a row if he moved fast. After this afternoon, he needed some punishment in the boat—body screaming, lungs burning, hands bleeding. It didn't matter whether his shoulder could take it or not. There was no time to ponder all the ways your life was stuffed when you were trying to suck in enough air to stay conscious.

He pushed open the living-area door with enough force that it hit the wall with a crack.

“Nice to see you too.” Jackson sat on one of the couches, a plate of food in his lap and sports blaring on TV.

“Sorry. Didn't think you'd be here.”

Jackson shrugged. “Allie had a baby shower for a girl from church.” He shoveled some crisps into his mouth and kept
speaking around them. The guy had the physique of a professional athlete and the eating habits of a three-hundred-pounder. “Missed you at the service this morning.”

Peter headed for the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. “Went home for lunch. I went to church with Mum.”

“And Emelia.” It was a statement, not a question.

“We had some ball stuff to do.”

Jackson nodded. “So, how's that working out?”

“What?”

Jackson picked up the remote and turned down the volume. “Playing with fire.”

“It's not. We're not. She's not . . .” Peter stopped talking. He didn't even know what he was trying to say.

“Not what? Attracted to each other? Because you'd have to be as thick as the Great Wall to expect anyone to believe that.”

“It's complicated.”

“It always is.” Jackson shoveled some crisps into his mouth.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just tread carefully, buddy. I don't want to see either of you getting hurt.”

It was a bit late for that. The pain in Emelia's face as she'd shoved him away was etched in his mind.

“Sometimes you have to do the hard thing to do the right thing. If it's meant to be, God will work it out. Remember, I walked away from Allie. Then I let her walk away from me. Almost killed me both times.”

“I'm going for a row.” He knew that Jackson was right, but he didn't want to hear it. He'd already been forced to let go of one dream in the last year. Surely that was enough.

Peter strode down the hall, grabbing his already prepared kit bag off the floor. Pulling open the door, he halted, not entirely sure he should believe what he was seeing. Emelia stood on his front porch, a purple cardigan pulled around her and hair blowing in the wind.

“Hi.” It had been three hours since they'd kissed.

“Hi.” She shifted on her feet. “Have you got a minute?”

“Um, sure.” He dropped his kit bag back on the floor, gestured toward the porch. “Want to sit?” After their conversation he didn't particularly want Jackson to hear this. He stepped out, closed the door behind him.

“Sure.”

They both lowered themselves down onto the top step, leaving a good couple of feet between them.

“I'm really sorry about today.”

“It's okay.” She turned toward him; a sad smile crossed her face as she wrapped her arms around her torso. “It's my fault. I was the one who kissed you.”

Like that was going to make him feel better about being such a cad. “It's killing me too. But the other way? It would just kill both of us slowly.”

“I know.” Emelia said the words with quiet resignation as she craned her neck up at him. “I never asked you how your latest scans went.”

Peter ran his fingers along the banister beside him. “My shoulder's healing, but not as fast as we'd hoped.”

“What does that mean for you?”

“A return to competitive rowing is possible, but it will be a long road.” He tried to push the specialist's other warning out of his head. That if he tore his shoulder up again, it wouldn't
be a question of rowing, it would be a question of whether he would just have normal function.

“Guess it's a good thing you're the type of guy who believes in miracles, then.”

Did he? He didn't know anymore. His miracle was supposed to be a podium finish. It had been his goal since he was a teenager. Instead, he was a barely employed coach. Sean didn't really need him for the Boat Race next year. He'd call any day now to confirm it.

Everything in him had been focused on the Olympics . . . yet he couldn't see his way clear to try again. The early mornings, the soul-destroying agony, not knowing if this time it would be enough. Or if he'd fail, again. Just like he'd failed Anita. “What if I'm not good enough? Or I totally ruin my shoulder like you said?”

“But what if you are? I know that I haven't exactly been falling over myself with enthusiasm for you trying to make a comeback, but you love rowing. I see it in your eyes whenever you talk about it.”