“You mean this verbal tennis?” But her heart was beating a little faster and it had nothing to do with the effort of cycling.
“Verbal tennis. Good, I like that.” He slowed down until she came level with him. “Now, this is a narrow path, not really ideal for two cycling side by side. So, whoever gives a better answer gets right of way and the other will have go off-road there.” He pointed to the less packed and slightly wetter earth to the side.
“Deal?” he asked.
She thought about it. Trust a man to turn a conversation into a competition.
“Thinking about your answer is not answering,” he said. “You have to go off-road on either side of the path.” He pointed to the less packed and slightly wetter earth to each side. “And, unless your answer is better than my question, you stay there.”
He grabbed her handlebar and gently turned her, so she veered off the track. The ground was soft and muddy; it made cycling harder. She had no idea what to answer. In fact, she’d forgotten the question.
“That’s not fair, I have to concentrate on not falling.”
“Good, so you have less brain space for coming up with your snappy one-liners.”
Without realising it, he had handed her the perfect break.
“I thought you liked my one-liners. At least, you said so when I first wrote you an impromptu poem.”
He slowed down, his face gone curiously soft, then he turned to the left and went off the road. “Advantage Ms Ashley,” he said in the voice of a tennis umpire.
She came back to the path. Poor Gabriel had to go on the other side. It was much worse than the right side and his wheels threw up a lot of mud which spattered his trouser legs.
“You can’t just watch me get wet and dirty. You have to give me a question so I can answer it.”
She was ready. “You never told me what you were thinking when you were silent a minute ago.”
“Two things.”
“That’s not a good answer.”
He nodded agreement. “Okay. One” — He uncurled one finger from around his handlebar — “I was thinking that three years ago, it was you who did the rescuing.”
It was a good answer, and it warmed her that he still thought about that day in Wales.
“And two,” he continued, “if you do fantasise about being rescued, what is it that you need rescuing from so badly that you’re waiting for this hero on a girly bike?”
It surprised a laugh out of her. It also defused the tension she’d been feeling earlier.
He came back onto the track in front of her. “Advantage Mr Evans.” He held his arms up in the air briefly, cycling with his legs only.
Back on the muddy track, she tried to glare at him. Every time she thought she’d got the better of him, he upped the ante and forced her to think of a better comeback.
She couldn’t, and there were trees with low branches in front of her. She circled around them which took longer and by the time she was back parallel to the path, he was several yards ahead of her.
“I think you like My Chemical Romance.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was wondering what music you liked. Rock ’n Roll? Country and Western to go with your cowboy dreams? You look soft and easy, a classical music kind of guy taking pictures of fairy tales and wild birds on cliffs. But underneath you’re much harder. So, I’m guessing punk rock. My money is on the band My Chemical Romance.”
“You really hate to lose.” He went off to the left, giving up the path to her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“That’s a rubbish comeback, even by your standards. You’ll be covered in mud if you don’t do better.”
