She opened her mouth wide in mock offense. “I am not Toad,” she said, narrowing her eyes theatrically. “You take that back.”
“You aresoToad,” he said, grinning. Chloe leaned forward and carefully crawled toward the back of the boat.
“What are you doing?” he laughed, trying to keep the boat steady as it wobbled beneath them. She didn’t answer, just reached out and seized the long pole from him, pulling it out of the water in one swift movement.
“Chloe,” he said, still laughing as he sat down, pulling her toward him to help balance the boat, “the captain tells me this is very dangerous.”
She turned to him with a wicked smile, then extended the pole sideward—not gently—so it pressed against his chest, pinning him lightly to the floor of the boat.
“Take it back,” she said, eyes glinting with the challenge.
“Not a chance,” he said, eyes locking on hers.
Now their laughter fizzled into silence. Their breath came hot and fast as they wrestled for control of the pole, pushingagainst each other. Suddenly this playful game didn’t feel playful at all, it felt charged with a different kind of energy. Chloe froze, suddenly too aware that she was on top of him, straddling him, his fingers clasped over hers on the pole, their hips pressing together, a wave, like falling, coursing through her.
“I take it back,” he said quietly, and she quickly let go, like the pole was red-hot.
They both looked away, her skin tingling, gut swirling. What was that? It took him a moment to compose himself too, as he shifted toward the back of the boat.
“Well, Richard, I think we have a mutiny on our hands,” John said eventually, his voice back to normal now.
“Maybe it’s my turn to punt,” she said, holding out her hand for the pole, and he looked grateful not to have to stand up again.
He handed it over without meeting her eye. She’d only been messing around, teasing him like she used to, but now something between them was different. It was the same charge she’d felt last night. John moved to sit down in the seat she’d vacated, shifting Richard across to make room. Then he whispered in Richard’s ear, loud enough for her to hear.
“Don’t call her Toad, she will beat you.”
“Shush or I’ll make you walk the plank,” she said. He raised his eyebrows, finally daring to hold her gaze again. She blushed. He was being cute. Why was he being cute?
He lay back in the seat and trailed a hand in the water.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re giving Sean too much credit,” he said, his voice cool again now. “You had a good creative partnership, but I think you’re wrong if you believe he’s the key to unlocking some font of creativity. What did Edison say—‘Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percentperspiration’? Writing, even badly, is what makes you better at writing.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Edison,” she said, rolling her eyes, but now they were back to the safer kind of teasing.
“Why are we arguing?” John asked Richard. “We should be enjoying the Isis in summer’s prime, where college spires reach for the sky’s dark frame.”
She couldn’t help laughing at this but then bit her lip. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not. I enjoyed it. He’s quite the Renaissance man,” John said, and she realized she hadn’t thought about Rob the whole time they’d been on the river.
Chloe was slower than John on the pole, so they soon fell behind the other boats and found themselves alone on this stretch of river. The laughter and chatter up ahead faded, leaving only the soft lap of water against wood and the rustle of leaves overhead.
“Were you always this judgy at Oxford?” she asked.
“No. I was too busy writing music for musicals that never happened.”
“I’m so glad I came to this reunion, it’s lovely hearing how awful I was.”
“I didn’t think you were awful, quite the opposite,” he said.
“You could have fooled me,” she said in a singsong voice, but when she shifted her gaze to look at him, she could see he was serious.
“You were one of my favorite people at Oxford,” he said. “I’ve missed you.” She felt a warm flush creep up her chest toward her throat.
“I’ve missed you too,” she said, realizing, as she said it, how much she had. “So what kind of music do you write now?”
“She doesn’t want the big talk. She wants the small talk,” he told Richard, and now her cheeks were starting to ache from smiling. “I write all sorts,” he said, resting his hands behind his head. “Mainly scores for film and TV, but the industry’s only getting tougher now everything’s AI.”
