“Bring it, Stratton.” Nathaniel snatched Susanna for a kiss and Stephen glanced away, hiding his envy.
Stephen hadn’t easily warmed to Susanna’s American flavor—she reminded him too much of Corina and what he’d lost—but now he couldn’t imagine the family without her. He glanced round to Corina, catching her eye, smiling.
“Stephen, you’re up, little brother. Show them how it’s done.”
The competition rocked between Nathaniel, Stephen, and Susanna—who was single-handedly defeating the men. With ten balls played, two remaining, Corina crouched for her final turn, spinning the ball in her palm.
“Just like walking the runway . . . it’s a beauty pageant . . . a beauty pageant. Going to sing a song . . . easy-peasy.” She released the ball, gently, and with a slight spin.
The metal piece rolled down the lane at the perfect speed, curved around Nathaniel’s ball, and lightly kissed the jack. Then stopped.
“I did it!” Corina jumped, screaming, gaping at Susanna, who wrapped her in a celebratory hug.
“The beauty pageant queen brought her A game.”
“Love, you did it.” Stephen said, wishing he were free to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her. “I knew you could.”
She tipped her head back, arms wide. “I love boules.”
“Stephen, come on, mate. You’re up.” Nathaniel slapped his back. “We’re still in this. For all the bragging rights.”
“R–right.” But he didn’t want bragging rights. He wanted to see the expression on Corina’s face when the girls won.
As he bent to roll his ball, a comfort he’d not felt in five and a half years coursed through him. He was coming home. The rest of the way around the bend.
Corina knelt on the ground, singing. “Miss it, miss it, now you have to kiss it.”
Susanna laughed. “Oh my gosh, I’ve not heard that in years.”
“It’s the only talent I can bring to this game.”
Stephen peeked at her. Oh, he’d kissitall right.
Mum stood with Susanna near midcourt, watching, while Henry came alongside Nathaniel, cheering. “Come on, lad. For the gents.”
“Don’t you dare go easy on her,” Nathaniel said.
“Never you fear.” Balancing on his good foot, Stephen aimed and rolled his ball with gentle perfection. If he calculated right, his roll should bump Corina’s and stop just shy of the jack.
“Come on, come on.” Nathaniel paced alongside the court with the ball. “For all the bragging rights.”
Stephen watched Corina, yelling at the ball, tussling with Nathaniel, laughing, singing at the ball, “Miss it, miss it.”
She had to win. Stephen sent his own wishes toward the boule.Come on, stop!
The air over the lawn dropped to a whisper. Motions slowed. Sounds were muted. Colors bleached.
Then it happened. Stephen’s boule stopped just shy of Corina’s. He exhaled, falling off his heels onto his back, stretching out on the grass.
Susanna and Corina erupted with shrills and shouts, launching into some sort of wild winning ritual dance—must be an American thing—that had the Queen of Brighton bumping hips with her daughter-in-law. No, herdaughters-in-law.
Nathaniel stood over Stephen, offering his hand. “We gave it our best, say, little brother?”
“Absolutely, our very best.” Stephen stood, his gaze, his heart, every sense in his body fixed on Corina. He had to tell her. Everything. He was sick of hiding, fearing, living for her in his own head. If she hated him, then she hated him.
At least they’d both know the reason why.
TWENTY-THREE
