Page 71 of A Shore Thing

“I can’t wait to find out. Make it good.”

Her gaze slid back to Griffith, and she tightened her grip on the handlebars.

“Tallyho,” she whispered, and pushed off.

16

She and Griffith said very little to each other for the first several miles. They rode out of St. Ives, toward Zennor, and continued west on a rutted coastal path that hugged the cliffs, the sheer drop down to the azure water below too dizzying to contemplate. The wind blew strong and fitful, and it snatched at her breath and gave her yet another ceaseless task, apart from the steering and the pedaling: slapping at kitelike flights of her skirt. It was only when the path wound away from the cliffs, through hedged fields, that speech seemed possible. It wasn’t a path anymore but a dirt lane, wide enough for two cyclists to ride abreast, and the air was sweet and still.

“Am I holding you back?” she asked, and he slanted her a look from beneath the brim of his cap.

“No.”

The monosyllable didn’t encourage further dialogue.

“You should catch up if you want.” She tried again. “I know the way, more or less. Due west. If there’s a fork in the road, I’ll point myself at the sun.”

“The sun’s directly overhead.”

“It is now.” Her brows pulled together. She was attempting to consider his preferences, and he was making it difficult. “I assure you the sun will set in the west.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Because of the Earth’s rotation. You’ve mentioned it.”

She glanced over. His profile seemed hard, all ridges, the humorous curve of his lips compressed to a flat line.

“I thought you might mind that the others are so far ahead.”

“I don’t mind.”

“They’re probably gloating.”

“They’re probably bugling.” He shrugged a shoulder, then sat up straighter, removing his hands from the handlebars. “Reason enough to stay out of earshot.”

She had to will her eyes back to the road. He looked indolent, controlling the Rover effortlessly with his legs, arms crossed.

“I can’t go very fast.” Her front tire hit a stone and the impact vibrated from her wrists to her elbows to her teeth. She clenched her jaw.

Was she being considerate, urging him to ride ahead? Or cowardly?

“It’s quite all right. I’m not in top form today.” He paused. “Long night.”

That was an understatement. It was also an opening.

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

“You know?” Finally, some feeling in his voice. “You know what?”

“That you had a long night.” Her blood began to rush through her veins, faster than her pedaling warranted. “I rode to your house.”

“When?”

“Right after dinner. And then I…waited a bit.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him reach out slowly and wrap his fingers around his handlebars.

“And why’s that?” he asked softly.

“I wanted to talk.” She swallowed. The hedges had fallen away, and they were in open country, unbroken green scattered with rock formations, gray and strange against the horizon.