9781405965828

Oar Than Friends

Lulu Moore is the creator of The New York Players Series and The Tuesday Club Series. Lulu is currently navigating her way through Romance Land one HEA at a time and trying to figure out the latest social media platform she needs to post to.

Oar Than Friends

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I’m dedicating this book to my twenty-one-year-old self. It’s not realistic to have all the answers, or your life mapped out, so stop trying.

Glossary

Blue Boat – The number one boat for each of the Oxford and Cambridge University men’s and women’s crews

Goldie – The Cambridge number two men’s boat

Blondie – The Cambridge number two women’s boat

Isis – The Oxford number two men’s boat

Osiris – The Oxford number two women’s boat

The Cam – The river flowing through Cambridge

The Isis –  The stretch of the River Thames flowing through Oxford

The Thames –  The longest river in England, the main river flowing through London

The Tideway –  The stretch of the River Thames in London, which is subject to tides. The Championship Course is situated on the Tideway.

The Championship Course –  the Boat Race course. Four miles of the river starting at Putney Bridge and finishing at Chiswick Bridge/Mortlake

Middlesex Station – The north side of the Championship Course

Surrey Station –  The south side of the Championship Course

O.U.B.C. – Oxford University Boat Club

C.U.B.C. – Cambridge University Boat Club

O.U.W.B.C. – Oxford University Women’s Boat Club

C.U.W.B.C. – Cambridge University Women’s Boat Club

1. Arthur

(Auditioning for the intelligence services)

‘Charlie, can you keep your bloody voice down?!’ I hissed for the seventeenth time, wondering why we’d brought him along.

Then I remembered we had to, plus he was the only one who owned a collapsible ladder.

Don’t ask.

‘Sorry, Oz,’ he whispered, leaning said ladder against the wall of the Cambridge University Boat House before turning to me.

I pressed down on the speaker in my earpiece, ‘Are we all clear?’

‘Clear,’ replied Bitters, our five, from behind the bush where he was standing fifty metres up the River Cam to the left.

‘Clear,’ echoed Drake, our Canadian number four, who was in a similar spot to the right.

We were good to go.

I glanced over to Charlie, who was silently – for once –  waiting for me to give the signal to begin what was considered our second most important mission for the upcoming school year; behind winning the Boat Race.

And what exactly was this mission which had eight of my Oxford crewmates and me exclusively dressed headto-toe in black, and standing outside a place we had no

business standing at any time, let alone at eleven p.m. on a Saturday night in late September?

One word, plain and simple.

Rivalry.

And before you mistake that term for a little friendly competition, stop. When it comes to this particular rivalry, I’m talking about something so deeply rooted in history it wraps itself around your bones like a boa constrictor squeezing until you’re gasping for release. It’s a battle of wits brought to life through generations of competitiveness flowing through our dark- and light-blue blood.

It all began nearly 200 years ago when Charles Merivale, from the University of Cambridge, challenged his old mate, Charles Wordsworth, studying three counties over at Oxford, to a race. Naturally Cambridge lost, and so began the annual rematch.

A few years after that first attempt, a wealthy parent of a winning Cambridge boy (likely down to the shock of finally winning) gifted the Cambridge University Boat Club a pair of golden oars. The originals, made of solid gold, were deemed too valuable – not to mention heavy –  to be hanging in public and were promptly swept off to be housed somewhere safer; currently behind bullet-proof glass in the university archives like they’re the Magna Carta or something.

In their place a pair of exceptionally less valuable, but equally important, wooden oars, painted in gold leaf, were hung above the entrance, to remind all rowers who entered the hallowed walls of the clubhouse that they would soon be part of greatness. The Cambridge crew was rightly

proud of their golden oars, and word soon travelled along the meandering rowing grapevine that they existed.

There they stayed, glinting in the sunlight, until the legendary Oxford rower, Sir Henry Billingsworth –  who at that point in his life was just plain old Henry – thought it would be amusing to steal them. Actually, steal is too strong a word; ‘borrow for the period of one rowing season’ would be a better description. According to fable, Henry set off with eight of his crewmates on an expedition across Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire and Bedfordshire and returned two weeks later, golden oars in tow.

In response, the Cambridge crew packed themselves up on their horse and wagon, or whatever the transport was in those days, and headed over the same roads and grassy terrain Henry had taken until they reached their destination and stole the oars right back, along with the prized Oxford University Boat Club crown. It was modelled on the crown in the Oxford University coat of arms, and kept in a case on top of the shelves of the boathouse and worn only by the president on the day he’s named. Suffice to say, it was important enough to the boys that it was quite a hullabaloo to have it stolen.

Thus began the somewhat-less-famous Oxford and Cambridge University Mascot War.

Over the years, both teams became exceptionally good at making the mascot as difficult as possible to steal, just as they’d all become equally adept at out-foiling the other. In fact, if any of us decided the career direction we were heading was no longer desirable, we would all ace a job in the intelligence services.

There have only been a few years when the plans have

gone disastrously wrong, such as the great clubhouse fire of 1904; which we’re still not supposed to talk about lest it bring us all bad rowing luck for the year.

Or the time the Oxford boys decided to booby trap the crown in 1973, only they didn’t calculate the force of the explosives properly. It was supposed to have been akin to a loud bang, followed by the large cloud of a flour balloon popping. Instead, James Fentimen, the Cambridge number two, became disorientated by the sack full of strong white flour fogging the air around him, walked straight into a wooden column holding up the boathouse, and knocked himself out cold. He was unable to compete in races for two weeks.

At this point, both universities and the rowing federation which oversees all competition stepped in. While we would be allowed to continue with the heists, because ‘it encouraged healthy competition and deepened the desire for all-round victory’, we now had to follow a set of rules.

The rules read as follows:

1. A heist must be undertaken without any knowledge of the team being ‘stolen’ from. If capture takes place, mascot must remain in situ and the next race of the season is forfeited.

2. A note must be left in the empty space, so as not to be confused with a legitimate theft.

3. Any mascot not already taken back by the rightful owners must be returned no later than twenty-four hours after the Boat Race has been completed.

4. No outsiders can be involved in the heist. Rowers only, including the coxswain.

5. Only the mascot can be removed, and must be done without damage to property.

6. No booby traps.

The rules now hang in both clubhouses in full view of all rowers in the unlikely chance they might forget.

Anyway, back to the task at hand.

‘Charlie, go for it.’ I nodded, watching from the shadows as he shimmied up the ladder to the boathouse balcony and vaulted over the railings.

He was closely followed by Hugo Brooks, my housemate and number six, who was so tall he probably didn’t need the ladder.

They each whipped out a cordless drill from their backpacks and got to work. The high-pitched screeching immediately made me wince, and I scanned the area around us for the thousandth time, searching for any sign that we were about to get caught. I moved my torch across the water, the bright yellow light bouncing back over the inky black glass, but I saw nothing except the thick bush of a fox’s red tail as it darted away along the bank. The drill seemed so much louder than when we’d practised it, and I made a mental note to ask Charlie to invent a soundless one by next year. Because, rule four.

Thank God, he was a physics genius.

‘Shit,’ hissed Charlie, before he came in louder over the earpiece, ‘Oz, they’ve chained the oars to the balcony railings.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve chained the oars. They’re not just bolted into the plaque.’

‘Hang on.’ I sprinted over to the ladder, the bottom of which was being manned by Johnny Fellows and Indra Joshi, our numbers two and three respectively, and took the rungs two at a time.

Sure enough a thick black chain was wrapped around and around the spot at which the oars crossed over each other. Something Charlie wasn’t happy about, given the way he was currently looking at me.

‘Did we bring bolt cutters?’

Brooks nodded, ‘Yeah, but what about rule five?’

‘Fuck that, this is against rule six!’ snapped Charlie, holding his hand up in apology before I could tell him to keep his voice down, again.

‘I agree. They should have moved them, not chained them in place. How long will it take to cut through?’

Brooks reached behind him and pulled out a long pair of cutters, so big I wondered equally how they’d fitted in his bag, and how I hadn’t noticed them already.

‘A couple of minutes, I reckon.’

‘Cool, go for it.’ I slid back down the ladder as they got to work, and glanced at my watch. According to our practice runs, we had five minutes to go before we were out of here. We needed our getaway ready.

‘Frank?’ I asked down the intercom to our bow, who was more officially known as Vicomte François de Richelieu. ‘Can you bring the boat around?’

‘Oui, on the way now,’ his response crackled down the line.

‘Oz, what do you want us to do with the chain?’ asked Joshi, who was trying to take it from Brooks as carefully as possible, while Fellows was now halfway up the ladder

with his hand out to catch the bolts holding the oars in place which Charlie was now unscrewing. Finally.

‘Leave it on the floor. I don’t think we can use it.’

‘Okay, they’re loose. Are you ready?’

‘Ready.’ Joshi held his hands up for Fellows to pass down the first golden oar.

He took it as carefully as he could, gently laying it into the protective oar bags we’d brought with us before taking possession of the second one.

This time when he stood up, he was holding a different set of oars; a pair of Oxford University Boat Club oars we’d had made for this moment –  navy with little pink hearts scattered over them. They were passed up to Brooks and Charlie, who deftly secured them in the exact spot the golden oars had hung a minute prior. As the last bolt tightened in place I caught the soft lapping of fresh waves on the dock from the corner of my eye, and pressed down on the intercom.

‘Boys, we’re done. Frank’s here with our ride.’

An echo of ‘on the way’ came over the radio.

Joshi zipped up the oar bag and carried the precious cargo over to Frank, who placed it on the floor of the large dinghy we’d brought with us, and stepped in to take his position. Bitters and Drake followed, with Fellows close behind. I waited until Brooks and Charlie were safely at the bottom of the ladder, then pulled the navy envelope addressed to Will Norris, Cambridge University Boat Club President, from my inside breast pocket.

The soft click of the ladder retracting told me it was time. I stuck the letter to the pale-blue boat club doors, and grinned into the darkness picturing Will’s face when he saw it.

‘Oz, hurry up.’

I jogged to the boat, turning just before I stepped inside so I could snap a picture of our victory.

‘Everyone here? Bitters, Charlie, Drake, Joshi, Brooks, Fellows, Frank?’ Each of the guys raised their hand as I called them. ‘Right, let’s go.’

We picked up the dinghy oars and powered the eight of us through the dark Cam waters. We’d rowed together so long we moved on instinct, balancing out the boat to make us as streamlined as possible, and soon we’d travelled around the bend in the river so the club house was no longer in sight. I felt the collective sigh of relief from each of us, colliding with the buzz of adrenaline still coursing through my body.

Charlie clung onto his ladder from where he was sitting behind Brooks, ‘They’re going to be sick we got there first. Knobheads.’

I smirked, ‘Yeah. They are. But we’re going for the double this year, boys.’

There were seven quiet scoffs of agreement.

The double; an additional challenge I’d set myself as this year’s president.

So named, because the season was considered a double if the winning crew still maintained possession of the opposition’s mascot by the Boat Race. And not that I was counting –  okay, I was –  but in two hundred years, it had only been achieved thirty-four times, and not since 2017 when Duke Harper, an American PhD student, led Oxford to triumph.

Additionally, after the devastating loss of last year, I was more determined than ever to bring home a win. As

far as I was concerned, we would not be losing either under any circumstances, which was why I’d had the boys training for the heist all month long.

A third, slightly more selfish reason was that after experiencing the worst summer in the history of summers, I needed to get back to the normality of student life and figure out how to put off the inevitability of my future without my father murdering me in my bed.

Another minute of silent rowing and I hit the intercom for the final, most crucial element of this evening’s achievements: alerting Pete Sackville-Marsh, our coxswain/getaway driver, that we were on the approach to where he was currently sitting in our plain black mini-bus, under the bridge, ready to whisk us back to Oxford. Or whisk the eight of them away.

I had other plans.

‘Marshy, we’re three minutes out.’

‘Copy,’ came his response.

I grabbed my phone and shot off a text to my best friend.

Oz: See you for beers in twenty minutes.

Olly: Let yourself in, slight change of plans. Just about to enjoy some quality time with a lady I met earlier this evening. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

I rolled my eyes, slipping my phone back into my pocket, unsure why I’d expected him to respond any differently. It was more of a surprise he’d responded at all. Oliver Greenwood was a ladies’ man, through and through. He had been since the year we turned thirteen, and Eton held its first school social with Cheltenham Ladies College,

and fifty per cent of the girls had promptly fallen in love with him. Unfortunately for them, he’d only had eyes for Victoria Medley, a girl two years above us.

They’d spent the school year writing letters to each other and meeting up during the holidays; that was until he met someone else while visiting his eldest sister who was on a gap year travelling through Europe. And so began his journey into becoming the certified heartbreaker he is today.

Friends since boarding school, Olly is the only person in the world who knew I’d wanted to attend Cambridge to read English, instead of Oxford to read economics just like my father, and my father’s father and his father’s father. As it was, the only form of rebellion I could muster was shunning economics for classics, so at least I could find some refuge with the ancient Roman and Greek heroes who’d managed to topple their overbearing fathers while I still figured out how to deal with mine.

‘Marshy’s in place,’ whispered Brooks, just as I spotted the Morse code flash of a torch in the darkness ahead of us.

The dinghy slowly bore to the left until the slight silhouette of our coxswain solidified.

‘Hello, chaps,’ Pete grinned, his straight white teeth glinting in what little light there was as he waded into the shallow waters and tugged on the rope Charlie threw him. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

The eight of us jumped out, working together to pull the dinghy into shore. I grabbed the oars case and placed it in the mini-bus, then switched my wet sneakers and socks for dry ones while the others got to work rapidly deflating the dinghy with a contraption Charlie had

adapted from a household vacuum cleaner. Something else he needed to make quieter by next year. It was hard enough to keep incognito with eight guys all over six foot three, without the additional noise pollution on top.

I closed the back door as softly as I could, and rubbed my hands together. ‘Nice work tonight, boys. I’m feeling good about this year. Feeling very good.’

‘Yeah,’ Bitters nodded, ducking his head as he climbed into the bus, ‘and we should be back by just after one. Might even catch last orders at the pub if we’re lucky.’

I grinned, ‘Make sure those oars are put away safely before you start drinking.’

‘Aye-aye, Mr President.’

‘Oz, you not getting in with us?’

I shook my head, ‘No, I’ll see you back at the house tomorrow. I’m going to catch up with Olly.’

‘Cool. Tell him he still owes me a pint.’

‘Arthur Osbourne-Cloud, it’s been a pleasure serving under you this evening,’ saluted Charlie dramatically as he jumped into the passenger seat.

I snorted as a wry smile curled up my lip, ‘Get going, don’t want you hanging around here with stolen property.’

I waited for the engine to start, watching until it drove off out of sight, because I half expected the Cambridge crew to lynch us as we left, but there was no one around. Not even the loud toot-toot of the mini-bus horn could break the grin I was currently sporting.

I turned and took off up the hill, jogging across the common until I was far away from the scene of the crime.

Win one for Oxford.

2. Kate

(Colin Firth wouldn’t have spoken to me like that)

I stifled the yawn, though not well enough given the nudge I received in my ribs.

‘Sorry,’ I smiled sheepishly at the group of girls I was sitting with, particularly Imogen whose elbow I could still feel against my side, ‘jet lag.’

I wasn’t about to admit the two glasses of wine I’d drunk tonight had immediately gone to my head and were making me feel much less alert than I had when I’d sat down. Even the charm and cuteness of this movie-setstyle British pub, with its thick beams and wooden bar top so shiny you could see your face in it, wasn’t enough to keep me awake. But that’s what happened when you were fresh over from the United States where it was still illegal for you to be consuming any alcohol at all. Not that this was the first time I’d ever drunk, it just wasn’t as easily accessible without my cousins buying it for me, or a fake ID ; something I had never had the inclination nor interest to make. I was not about to risk putting my scholarship in jeopardy.

I’d touched down at Heathrow two days ago, then proceeded to get incredibly lost trying to find the exit, and the Heathrow Express. The instructions I’d meticulously written down and pored over for the entirety of the week before, as well as the seven hours I’d been awake on the

flight from Boston, had been for nothing. I was a somewhat intelligent woman, on her way to Cambridge University to study medicine, but how anyone navigated themselves around the London Underground network without being a member of Mensa was beyond me.

By the time I’d arrived at Downing College, my home for the next six years, I was a weary, dishevelled mess. It had taken a hot shower, twelve hours of sleep, an apple I’d rescued from the bottom of my backpack, and a deep breath of fresh English air as I’d opened my window the next morning to feel somewhat human again.

Further pep had been added to my step when I made my way past the thick green striped lawns of the quadrangle, passing by more of the ancient, butter-coloured brick university buildings and down to the Downing College boathouse, where I met with Matthew Prendergast, the coxswains’ representative, a third-year student I’d been emailing with for a month.

I looked around at the small group of girls Matthew had introduced me to after we’d returned from a short session on the river. All six of them were members of the boat club and I’d soon discovered that, like me, they had spent years on the river before joining Cambridge.

Our friendship was too fresh, however, for me to ascertain what brought them to the water. For me it was the peace, the stillness and the escapism from reality. Not to mention the rowing scholarship I’d been offered on top of my medical scholarship as an added incentive to cross the Atlantic, instead of staying at my local state college. There was also the vast difference in affordability between the two to consider.

Even with all the empty bottles and glasses scattered on the table in front of us, we’d only discussed what everyone was studying –  English, law, medicine and physics – and who was going to try out for the Cambridge University Boat Club –  all of us –  because while rowing for our individual colleges was great, rowing for the university was the end game and meant we were in with a chance to compete in the Boat Race. This led on to the topic of why the Oxford team was the ‘absolute worst and must be beaten on all accounts’, but the majority of the conversation had revolved around the new ‘super hot, but next level arrogant’ Oxford University President, and the fact that the Cambridge boys were currently plotting how to steal the Oxford mascot. I couldn’t be certain, but I didn’t think even Yale and Harvard went to these lengths.

‘Did you guys hear there’s more space on the crew this year because of what happened last year?’ asked Imogen. ‘We might all be in with a good chance of making the squad.’

‘What happened last year?’ I asked.

‘According to my sister, two of the girls were kicked off the crew for fraternizing with the Oxford boys. Mary Heston lodged a complaint.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘She’s just been made women’s president, and takes her duties very seriously. She’d probably have you kicked out of the university for so much as looking at one of the Oxford boys.’

My eyes widened. ‘Seriously?’

‘Don’t get on her bad side,’ Ivy muttered from her seat at the end of the table.

It soon became harder to keep up with the conversation flying around the table, which is when the yawning occurred.

‘Ugh, poor you,’ replied Imogen sympathetically, ‘I hate jet lag. It’s much worse when you’re flying from west to east too, the overnight is a killer.’

I nodded, though I had nothing to base that nod on seeing as the first time I’d flown anywhere was two days ago.

I was unable to stifle the next yawn, ‘I think I’m going to go back. I’m pretty beat, but this has been awesome. Let me know if you want to go down to the river in the morning.’

Imogen stood up and wrapped me in a warm, friendly hug, ‘I’ll knock on your door tomorrow. Sleep well, Kate.’

Imogen’s hug was followed by Hannah’s who, unlike Imogen and me, wasn’t studying medicine, she was studying physics, then Sarah, the two Annas and Ivy. The hugging took almost as long as it did to order another round of drinks, which arrived just as I left. I was certain I’d never been hugged so much in my life by people I barely knew, though I could also admit that I kind of liked it. A lot.

I pushed my way out through a throng of revelling students who’d returned from their vacations glowing with rest and summer tans, into the still-warm, late-September air. Making my way up the cobbled street, lit with the kind of tall ornate lamps you saw in Charles Dickens movies, I pulled my phone out and hit speed-dial on the one person I knew would want to hear my voice, trying hard to swallow down the lump of homesickness in my throat as she answered.

‘Hi, Mom.’

‘Baby, hi, I was just thinking about you. How was your first day?’ she sing-songed, like I wasn’t 3,000 miles away and she hadn’t said I could only attend Cambridge if I promised to call home a minimum of once a day.

‘It was good, I met some girls from the boat club, and we went to the pub.’

‘The pub? Oh, you’re sounding English already. Has Mr Darcy whisked you off your feet yet?’

She didn’t see my eye roll, but she heard the soft laugh I let out. ‘Not yet, Mom. Don’t hold your breath either. Between study and rowing, I’m not sure there’s time for Mr Darcy. It’s going to be busy.’

‘There’s always time, Katey, my girl. Romance makes time.’

I waited for a bicycle to pass by, then hurried across the road and along the passageway leading past the Business School and up toward Downing.

‘How’s your day? How’s Dad?’

My mom paused, and I braced myself for the worst. ‘He’s okay, he had a rough day today. It’s quieter around here now you’re both gone.’

I stopped walking, waiting for the searing pain in my chest to subside as I tried to swallow down a new lump which had appeared in my throat. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine; it wasn’t helping the guilt or the control I usually had over my emotions when it came to my big brother.

‘I know he can’t wait to hear about how you’re doing, he’s so proud of you, Katey. We both are. Jake would be too. It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing, everyone thinks so.

I was down at the bakery yesterday and they were all talking about it.’

‘Thanks, Mom.’ I pinched the end of my nose, trying to hold in the sniff I desperately needed to make.

I wanted her words to make me feel better, but they didn’t. Cambridge was a stupid idea. I should have stayed home, I should have gone to UC onn and studied there. Travelling this far away was selfish when they needed me.

Then I remembered why I’d come here in the first place, and the pain twisted so hard it was near excruciating.

‘Mom, I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Okay, baby. I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ I managed to choke out before I hung up. Whatever had been stuck in my throat barrelled up with the force of a freight train, culminating in a loud, rasping sob which had me doubled over and falling back against the wall I’d stopped next to.

It had been three years and I still hadn’t gotten a lid on my emotions; the profound emptiness I felt whenever I thought about Jake and the unexpected heart attack which had taken him from us at nineteen years old.

Jake was why I was here in Cambridge.

Jake was why I was studying medicine.

Jake was why I spent any spare minute I had in the stern of a shell.

I stood up, wiping my sleeve under my nose, then wiped my eyes as I tried to remember the way back. Crying over Jake would not be the reason I’d get lost in a new city.

‘Left, left, right, left,’ I muttered as I turned the corner and found myself once more staring at the wide expanse of lawn in front of the majestic Downing College. It was

a moonless night, only the stars lighting the way, and the pale stone of the building looked eerie in the faint lamps lining the gravel path.

It was still hard to believe that I was really here. That I would be . . .

‘Ahhhhhhh!’ My yelp echoed around the quadrangle as I jumped up from the grass I’d suddenly found myself falling almost face first onto, and spun around to see what exactly had cushioned my fall.

‘Arrrrgggh . . . my . . . fucking . . . balls . . . arrrggh . . . what the fuck?!’ grunted the lump rolling around by my feet, making a noise that was more reminiscent of a wounded animal than a human.

Yet, on closer inspection, it was indeed a human. A human man, in fact. A very large human man dressed entirely in black.

I forgot my shock and stared, unblinking, at the sight in front of me.

After leaning across to tap his shoulder, I stood up with clenched fists because something had stopped me before I reached out and actually touched him.

‘Um . . . are you okay?’ I asked, and rolled my eyes at my stupidity because it was clear he wasn’t.

Another minute of him curling into the foetal position wheezing deeply and it was becoming a little old. Mr Darcy wouldn’t have made such a fuss.

Then I remembered I was a med student and should show a little more concern and compassion.

‘Excuse me, can I get you help? Is there anything I can do?’

‘You’ve done enough, I’d say,’ he grunted from the

ground where he was now on all fours, his clipped English accent adding an unnecessary bluntness to his words. ‘Jesus Christ, you need to ask a man before you punch him in the balls.’

‘I’m so sorry . . . it was an accident. I didn’t see you.’

‘Well, you should be more careful and pay attention to where you’re going,’ he snapped.

Two glasses of wine coupled with homesickness and the emotions I hadn’t had time to bury, which were still bubbling directly under the surface of my skin, had my usual endless patience snapping like a piece of candy cane.

‘What did you expect? It’s not my fault you were lying in the dark, dressed entirely in black, on a lawn you’re not supposed to be walking on!’ I pointed aggressively to the sign-post on the path instructing exactly that.

‘Then why are you walking on it if you know you’re not supposed to?’

I opened my mouth to argue back, then closed it. There was a reason I hadn’t taken law, and it was my inability to construct a valid argument.

‘Okay, well . . . um . . . you’re obviously okay. I’m going to get going.’ I thumbed behind me, not that he saw as he was yet to look at me.

‘That’s right, debilitate me and take off.’

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ I stropped.

‘Did you just stamp your foot?’

It was at this point that he turned his head to face me, a curl of dark hair flopping to one side as he did, and for the first time I had a good look at him, a really good look, and was rendered speechless. I scowled down at my chest as it gave a little flutter.

I wasn’t sure if it was due to the dim light, but his eyes –  as pale turquoise as the Cambridge colours – glistened like stars in a clear night sky. His ruler-straight jaw line had unclenched slightly, but I could still see it twitching under the thick stubble coating his skin and doing nothing to disguise the rest of his face – sharp cheekbones, a full, luscious mouth, and a wide Roman nose as though he had arrived here direct from the studios of Michelangelo, chiselled by the master himself.

Woah.

I could confidently say he was easily the best-looking, scratch that, most beautiful man, nope, scratch again, the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen.

Captivating, hypnotizing and altogether entirely unsettling.

It was so unsettling that I failed to notice he was looking at me with exactly the same expression.

He cleared his throat and rolled into a sitting position, lengthening out his legs and resting back on his elbows. From the way his eyes travelled up my body, he may as well have taken a blow torch to my skin for how it was burning under his gaze.

‘Tell me a story while my reproductive organs stop throbbing. What are you doing here so far away from home?’

I blinked at him, altogether confused at this sudden change in direction. His voice had gone from an irritated snap to almost a purr, coating my skin like thick molasses.

‘What?’

‘Your accent. American, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I frowned, ‘I’m from America.’

He sat up enough to wave one arm around, ‘And what, exactly, brought you to this esteemed and hallowed centre of education?’

Esteemed and hallowed centre of education? Jeez.

Did all Brits speak like him? But then I noticed the bottle of gin lying by his side. His eyes followed mine and he picked it up, unscrewing the cap before holding it in the air to me.

‘Come on, Yankee Doodle. Sit down, have a drink.’

I’d never crossed my arms so quickly over my chest.

‘What did you call me?’

‘Yankee Doodle.’ He grinned, either not noticing or not caring that I was still frowning at him. ‘Now sit down, you owe me.’

‘For what?’

‘Rendering me infertile, for one.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I scoffed with all the confidence of a first-year student who was yet to start her medical degree.

His response was to simply wave the bottle at me.

‘Fine.’ I snatched it and took a large gulp before I had a chance to think any further about what I was doing.

The gin burned all the way to my belly, and I sat down in front of him with a thud while he continued to stare at me with a curious smirk tipping his lip. I couldn’t be certain it was the gin that had my insides flip-flopping.

‘Come on then,’ he said finally, pushing long fingers through his hair.

‘What?’

‘Why are you here? America has universities, does it not? Good ones if I recall.’ He brought the bottle to his mouth and swigged it, the shadows of his dark stubble

highlighting the sharp line of his jaw as his neck tipped back.

‘Okay. I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you’re lying out here dressed like you’re auditioning for the CIA .’

‘A question for a question.’ He scratched at his beard. ‘Okay, you’re on.’

I took another sip of gin before I could stop myself, ‘I got a scholarship to study medicine, so here I am about to start my first year. Now your turn.’

‘Medicine, eh? Am I going to be able to provide children in my future?’

‘Is that your question?’ I raised my eyebrow, only for him to do the same, ‘I think you’ll be fine.’

He crossed his legs. I wasn’t sure if his wince was for dramatic effect but I chose to ignore it anyway.

‘What was your question again?’ he asked.

I waved my hand along the length of his body. ‘Why are you lying out here with a bottle of gin, dressed like a spy? Are you sure you’re okay?’

His deep laugh rippled across me like a breeze over still waters. ‘I’m fine, current injury notwithstanding. I’m waiting for my friend to come back. Now, I wanted to know why you came to Cambridge, instead of attending an American university, which I suspect you knew.’

I grinned back at him; he wasn’t just a pretty face.

But then I hesitated, because I’d already let my emotions spill over once this evening. Even with the distraction of this current situation playing out, the call with my mom was still far too close to the surface for me to divulge ‘why Cambridge?’ to a stranger.

I couldn’t tell if he’d noticed my unease, but he shifted

forward and loudly cracked his knuckles, ‘Okay, let’s start with an easy one. What’s your name?’

I smiled softly, ‘Kate. Kate Astley.’

‘Well, Kate Astley. It’s good to meet you.’

I grinned, waiting for the tell as I studied his face, expecting another quip about me ruining his chances to procreate, but nothing. ‘I can’t even tell if you’re lying.’

He picked up the gin, holding it to his lips while he held my gaze, ‘I don’t lie.’

As he tipped the bottle back, I rubbed away the odd fluttering sensation taking place in my chest. Or tried to. It didn’t seem to want to move.

‘Now my dick doesn’t feel like it’s about to fall off, I can genuinely say it’s good to meet you. I’m Oz.’

‘Like the Wizard of?’

‘Ha, maybe. I like that.’ He barked out a laugh. ‘Want to take a ride down my Yellow Brick Road?’

From the casual curl of his lip it was clear he was trying to get a rise out of me, but it didn’t stop the heat flushing through my body, or the highly inappropriate and thoroughly distracting images of him flickering in my brain.

‘No,’ I scoffed, lifting the gin bottle to my lips and praying he didn’t notice my shaking hand.

A cool breeze whipped across the quadrangle, rustling through the trees around us, and had me rubbing away the goosebumps along my arms. Not that it helped, especially when Oz reached behind his head to pull his sweater off, and hand it to me. I tried to look away as his t- shirt rode up, revealing a taut stretch of deeply bronzed skin and what I had no doubt was an impressive set of abs.

Suddenly I was no longer cold. Where was a bottle of water when you needed one?

I shook my head, ‘No, I can’t take that. I’m fine. It’s just a little cool air, and I’m jet lagged and tired. I should probably head home.’

Yes, that was definitely the sensible plan. Go home. Go to bed. Not stay here in my borderline drunk state with a stranger, even if I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

‘It’s fine, I run hot. Put it on, then you can stay until Olly gets here.’

‘Who’s Olly?’

‘A friend.’ He pointed to the sweater I was now holding. ‘Put it on, Kate Astley. Do as you’re told.’

I snorted, but did as ordered and my senses were immediately assaulted by the most hedonistic, earthy man scent twined with the softest cashmere brushing against my bare arms. I could wear this sweater for the rest of my life, and I’d die happy.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured, ‘I’m sorry about hurting you.’

‘I’m sorry I was lying in your path.’ He grinned back, his wide mouth spreading across his face, showing off straight white teeth.

Once more I found myself thinking that he was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.

He lay back on the grass and patted the space next to him. ‘Come and join me down here.’

Suddenly the weariness I’d felt back in the bar vanished in the breeze still moving through the air, and I felt more alert than I had in a long time. Longer than I could remember. I also wasn’t entirely sure what I thought I was doing.

I should be going to bed. I had work to do tomorrow. I’d arranged to meet my new friends down at the boat club. Not to mention it was past midnight. I didn’t think I’d seen midnight since I was old enough to realize Santa wasn’t real and didn’t have to wait up for him anymore.

But for the second time in as many minutes I did as I was told.

‘I’m reading classics. Third year,’ he said, once I’d laid my head on the soft ground.

‘You’re studying classics?’

‘Yes. You know, the fall of Rome and analyzing Ancient Greek literature in my spare time. Veni, vedi, vici and so forth.’

I frowned into the darkness. ‘Huh.’

‘That’s all you have to say?’

I shrugged to myself; he was not what came to mind when you thought of a classics student. I lumped classics students with those studying geography and history, wearing tweed with elbow patches while swirling brandy around a glass and talking about how great they were. No classics student I’d ever imagined looked like the one lying next to me.

The one who could easily pass as a quarterback for any NFL team, having fallen directly out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

‘What made you want to study classics?’

He paused, moving his hands underneath his head, his elbow brushing against my shoulder as he did. ‘Have you ever felt like you’re living your life to the beat of someone else’s drum? Like someone else has the strings and you’re just along for the ride? I guess I wanted to beat my own drum for once.’

I lay there in silence, absorbing his cryptic words, letting them really sink in and work their way through my body.

Since my brother had died suddenly, my life had taken itself on an unplanned trajectory –  one I was only too happy to go along with at the time, because I wanted to do whatever I could to help my parents through their grief, make them proud. But recently I’d felt displaced, the equilibrium had been off, and I’d put it down to leaving home and travelling to a new country.

Except in the back of my head, I knew that hadn’t been it. That it wasn’t the explanation I’d been searching for.

Now this stranger next to me had summed up in thirty seconds what I’d been trying to figure out for the best part of the last few months.

It was like he was reading my mind, my heart and most likely my soul. Perhaps he knew exactly how I was feeling. Because he felt it, too.

Oz shot up like a rocket as I sniffed into the darkness. ‘Hey, Kate Astley, why are you crying?’

I shook my head, unable to form the words while he reached out, and with the soft pad of his thumb brushed away an errant tear escaping down my cheek.

‘My brother died a couple of years ago. He went to bed on the Wednesday and never woke up. He’d gone into cardiac arrest, and no one had been around to help him. Jake . . . that’s his name . . . he’s . . . he was so smart, the brains of the family, and the day before he died he’d been offered a full scholarship to study here. My parents were so proud of him.’ I sat up, it was becoming harder to talk with the backlog of tears blocking my airways, and found myself almost face to face with Oz.

I took a deep breath. ‘In the autopsy they discovered his heart hadn’t been beating properly, and it faltered. I was sixteen, I didn’t know what to do. My big brother had died, my parents were grieving, and I was starting my sophomore year of high school. I found myself changing my courses to follow what Jake was going to do. I’d planned to stay in the States and study, because I never thought I’d ever get accepted here, plus it’s about ten times the cost. But I worked my butt off for three years, and somehow was awarded a scholarship, and now I’m here . . .’ my voice trailed off into the dark.

I wiped my sleeve across my face, then remembered the sleeve didn’t belong to me and offered an apologetic smile to Oz, who just looked sorrowful. The amused, borderline arrogant quirk of his lip which had been on permanent display since I’d met him was gone.

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine how that must feel. Can I ask you a question?’

I chuckled quietly, ‘A question for a question, right?’

‘If he hadn’t died would you have still come here to study medicine?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘What would you have done instead?’

My face screwed up in an obvious cringe, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘Nothing’s dumb, but now you have to tell me.’

I looked down at the half-empty bottle of gin. I could always blame my loose tongue on that, though I knew the alcohol had nothing to do with spilling my secrets to a stranger, or maybe only a little.

‘Okay, but don’t judge.’

He held his palms out to me, ‘I swear.’

A small grin made an appearance as I thought about it. ‘I’m from the east coast, a little village up the northern Connecticut shoreline. My dad is a fisherman, he has a business fishing for oysters and lobsters. I had planned to study business, then open a restaurant in the harbour which sold them. I wanted to make the best lobster rolls in the state.’

Oz stared at me until I was almost shrinking under his scrutiny.

‘I told you it was dumb.’

Then his bright blue eyes widened. ‘Are you kidding! It’s the best idea! I fucking love lobster, and oysters! There’s a place I go with my family in Cornwall. I’ll have to take you some time, I bet it’s like Connecticut.’

I laughed, ‘Where’s Cornwall?’

He waved his hand dismissively, ‘Right down at the very bottom of England. Miles away. But I’ll take you.’

He sounded so determined, it was easy to believe every word which passed his perfect lips. I wanted to know more about him, where this determination and certainty came from. It wasn’t arrogance, it was the confidence of knowing he could achieve whatever he set his mind to. Jake had been like that.

‘Isn’t it a bit early to start planning dates? Not to mention, we’re both going to be very busy studying.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Save for the fact we’ve only known each other an hour.’

‘Nothing’s too early when it comes to planning your dreams,’ he grinned.

‘What about your dream?’

‘My dream?’

‘Yes, the classics dream. What are you going to do with it?’

He shuffled about, uncurling his legs and stretching them back out so they were almost surrounding me. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.’

‘A teacher? Like, in a school?’

He nodded, his mouth rolling into a straight line, ‘Yep.’

I frowned, that seemed simple enough. ‘Why can’t you?’

‘Ahhh,’ he took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck, easing whatever tension had just made a home there, ‘because of the expectation of family tradition.’

I stared, my eyebrow raised until he understood that he needed to elaborate on his answer.

‘I come from a long line of politicians, and I’m expected to follow.’

‘And you don’t want to?’

‘I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out.’

I tipped my head back with a loud laugh, until I saw that he wasn’t joking. Like, really wasn’t joking. ‘Oh no, Oz, I’m sorry. Is there nothing you can do?’

He shook his head, ‘Nope. I’m planning to study for as long as I can – the longer I’m here the less opportunity to force me into politics. If I can’t teach, I’ll end up as Britain’s best-known classicist with any luck.’

‘That really sucks.’ I put my hand over his, then whipped it away just as quickly.

‘It does.’ Oz picked my hand back up and held it firm.

This time he laughed with me, his eyes boring into mine as he did, and it became impossible to look away. Out of nowhere, the cool air became hot and sticky. Cloying.

A bead of sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades.

He glanced at his thumb brushing back and forth along mine, and when our eyes met again I swear I saw a fire blazing behind his.

‘Did you know that according to Greek mythology, humans were born with two heads and four arms and legs? Zeus, sitting on his throne in Olympus, became worried that humans were going to be strong enough to overpower the Gods, and so split them down the middle. Ever since, humans have searched the earth for their other half. Their soulmate.’

I think I stopped breathing. I was absolutely certain he was much closer to me than he had been when he’d started talking about soulmates, at least his face was. His mouth was.

I definitely didn’t breathe when he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, running his thumb over my cheek as his fingers curled around the nape of my neck. The gold of the ring on his pinky cooled a tiny patch of my burning skin.

‘I thought my night was good before you came along but now I realize that it was simply average, bordering on mundane.’ If it was possible, his voice had dropped an octave; deep and rumbly and hitting me straight in my core.

I could barely manage a whisper.

‘And now?’

‘Now it’s the best fucking night of my life, or it will be when I kiss you.’

‘You’re going to kiss me?’

‘Yes, I am. So if you don’t want me to, I’d say you have about a second and a half to get going.’

I didn’t move a muscle. Not a single one.

He was so close to me I could almost breathe in the carbon dioxide he was expelling, and my heart was banging so hard I wondered if my ribs were still intact. Then his lips, his soft, perfect lips, the ones I’d found myself staring at for the past hour, pressed against mine.

‘There you fucking are!’ a voice boomed to our left. ‘I’ve been calling you!’

The groan Oz let out was not the good type of groan, and he muttered something I didn’t catch. I was so caught up in the haze of lust and the feel of Oz’s lips against mine that it took me a second to realize there was someone standing over us.

I’d have scooched back further if Oz didn’t still have an iron-tight grip on my hand.

‘Impeccable timing as always, Oliver.’

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’

Oz got to his feet, offering me his other hand, and pulled me to standing. ‘Yes.’

I looked up at our interruption. Not as tall as Oz, nor as broad; with light brown hair and a round face, but with the same, almost lazily carefree expression as he peered over at me.

‘Oliver Greenwood, this is Kate Astley, my new American friend. Say hello, Oliver.’

‘Hello, Oliver,’ he replied with the type of grin I’d imagine got him out of a lot of trouble, or into it.

‘Kate, this is Oliver. Please don’t fall in love with him.’

My head snapped up to Oz, and I was about to start

laughing except he was looking at me with utmost seriousness, ‘What?’

‘All girls fall in love with him. I’m asking you not to.’

My brow furrowed as I glanced at this other man standing in front of me, wondering how anyone would or could possibly notice anything else when Oz was in the vicinity.

Oliver’s grin widened as he looked between the two of us. ‘Clearly not all girls, Osbourne.’

‘I’m just saying, you interrupted our first kiss; I’d like to at least have a chance for Kate to fall in love with me before you swoop in. Though if you do, I’m afraid I’d have to break your face.’

I pointed behind me. ‘Okay, while you boys make decisions for me, I’m going to bed.’

‘Alone?’ snorted Oliver, earning himself a punch in the shoulder.

‘No, you don’t have to leave.’ Oz squeezed my hand, which was still in his.

‘I should. I’m tired.’

‘Let me walk you to your dorm.’

I shook my head, firmly. ‘I’m fine, honestly. Go with your friend. You’ve been waiting all night for him.’

‘I think, perhaps, I was waiting for someone else,’ he whispered, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell and offer it to me. ‘Give me your number.’

Without hesitation I punched it in and placed the phone back on his open palm.

Oz looked over to Oliver, who had the decency to step away, then bent down and brushed his lips all too briefly over mine. ‘To be continued.’