Page 18 of Hers By Summer’s End

“I accept,” he replied, pinning her with his gaze. “Though we will not be losing.”

“Not if you listen to directions.”

“You assume I’ll be the problem?”

“Experience suggests as such.”

He released a long, slow breath. “Get in the rowboat, Cecelia.”

“Gladly!” She stalked past him, chin high. “The sooner this is over with, the better.”

Somehow, Drew managed to climb into the rowboat without tipping it over, hurling an oar into the lake, or throttling anyone in the tittering crowd. He braced the oar against the dock and shoved them farther out into the lake. They floated to the starting line just as the race director raised a white flag overhead. Every rower leaned forward in anticipation.

The flag dropped.

“Row,” Cecelia barked. “Row.”

As though he'd planned to do anything else.

Drew buried his oar in the water, channeling every ounce of frustration into the stroke. Unfortunately, so did Cecelia—to an entirely different rhythm.

“One, two,” he called. “One, two⁠— ”

“Bear left, you big ox!” she shouted over her shoulder. “We're drifting out of the lane.”

“We're drifting because you won't keep time.”

Their oars struck together with a sharp crack. The boat lurched sideways, then spun in a slow circle. Laughter rippled across the lakeshore.

“Oh, marvelous,” Cecelia muttered. “Now we're really entertaining them.”

“That’s the point.”

Determined to recover, he dug harder. The bow shot forward, only for Cecelia to steer them sharply left. Every time he thought they were finally finding a rhythm, they lost it. He compensated. She corrected. The boat zigzagged across the lake like a drunken duck, surrendering precious yards to every other crew.

Then he heard a muffled snort.

He leaned forward and peered over Cecelia’s shoulder. She clamped her lips together, but another snort betrayed her. Giggles burst from her in short fits until she was laughing openly.

“This,” she gasped between breaths, “is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done.”

He stared around them. “We've rowed all of twelve feet.”

“And at least three of them were backward!”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Then the other. A chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

Cecelia pointed triumphantly. “There! I knew you had a sense of humor.”

Within seconds, they were both helpless, the boat rocking beneath them as the other competitors pulled steadily ahead.

“At least it can’t possibly get worse,” she said, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

But he looked past her toward the leaders slicing cleanly across the water. “Cecelia, I don’t finish last. Ever.”

Cecelia studied him for a long moment before nodding once. “All right. Let’s try again.”

He blinked the sweat from his eyes. “Move backward six inches. Oar to the left.” She adjusted without argument. “Easy strokes.” Again, she matched him. “Now dig.”