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“You’re really not.”
I shrug.
She studies me, puzzled. “How many girls have you been with?”
“I dunno. Doesn’t seem polite to talk about it.”
“I’m curious. Go on.” She grins at my reluctance. “Do you need a minute to count them all?”
“No. Six.”
Her jaw drops. “Is that all? I’d have thought you’d have had a hundred one-night stands.”
“Nope. Never had one.”
“What? Not one? But you’re so gorgeous! Why?”
“Not my thing.”
“Not even at uni?”
“Nope. The other guys did sometimes. I just went back to my room and studied.” When she gives me a wry look, I add, “I’m not as smart as Mack. It doesn’t come as naturally to me. I’ve had to work hard to keep up with him.”
Her expression holds a touch of wonder. “I thought you were such a playboy. You seem so confident and outgoing.”
“It’s all a front. I’m just an ordinary guy.”
She kisses my nose. “One thing you are not, Lawrence Oates, is ordinary, believe me.” She kisses my lips then, long and lovingly, while the rising sun bathes us in its golden light.
Chapter Fifteen
Titus
Late morning finds me thigh-high in the cool river. I walked with Alan for about ten minutes to a place where the river widened and there aren’t so many overhanging trees to catch your hook on, but it’s still beautiful, the edges of the water tumbling over rocks, and the surface filled with dappled sunlight.
As it’s warm, we don’t need waders, and so I’m wearing a T-shirt and shorts, with a baseball cap and sunglasses to keep the sun out of my eyes.
Alan’s started me with a lighter, eight-foot-long rod with a four-weight class, a tapered leader, and a Pheasant-tail Nymph fly with a barbless hook. It takes me a bit of practice, but soon I’m back in the swing of it, and I spend a few hours casting and reeling. I catch two eight-inch brown trout, while Alan manages to land a ten-inch beauty.
Originally, I assumed Alan had brought me out here to talk business, but I’m pleased to find he’s happy to stay silent while we’re fishing, and it’s only when we stop halfway through and make our way to the two fold-up seats on the bank that he begins to chat.
He’s brought a flask of tea with him, and he pours us both a cup, then offers me a sandwich from a box. “Cheese and pickle,” he says. “I made ’em. Chef was quite disgusted.”
“You’ve been in England too long,” I tease, taking one.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Do you get back to New Zealand much?”
“Not since my parents died. I still have two brothers over there, but we’re not close, and a phone call a few times a year is enough to satisfy us. My life is here now, with the girls and their families.”
I nod, stretching out my legs and having a sip of tea.
“What about you?” he asks. “Are you close to your folks?”
I tip my head from side to side. “They’re good parents. I’ve never wanted for anything. But they’re both lawyers, and they work very hard. I was practically brought up by nannies, and I spent a lot of time with my aunt and uncle and their boys.”
“Your parents must be very proud of you, though.”
