Can't Help Falling by Kara Isaac

and body odor hit Peter like a wall. Why anyone would put themselves on a path that led to getting locked in here more than once was beyond him.
    In the end cell, his brother lay on the rudimentary bed, hands tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling. He looked as relaxed as if he were enjoying an afternoon on a lounge chair in the Bahamas.
    Mark gave the bars a shake. “Time to go, sunshine.”
    Victor rolled over, his expression revealing nothing when he saw the two of them. Pushing himself up, he stood and waited for Mark to unlock the door and swing it open. “Excellent hospitality as always, Sergeant. See you next time.”
    â€œThere isn’t going to be a next time.” Peter quashed the desire to push his brother behind the bars and tell Mark to lock him back up.
    Victor cocked an eyebrow at Peter. “Says who? The fun police?”
    â€œYou are such a pillock.”
    â€œLook, little brother. No one made you come here to get me. Lord knows I certainly didn’t ask to see your smug, sanctimonious mug. If you want me to grovel with gratitude foryour liberating me again, then like I’ve already told you, you’re going to be waiting a long time.”
    â€œYou’ve got five seconds to get out of my cells or I’ll arrest you myself.” Mark intervened before Peter lost his cool and did something that would put him where Victor had just been.
    â€œSorry, officer.” Victor gave Mark a mock salute.
    Striding out of the cells, past the station traffic, Mark led them back out into the main entryway. And closed the gate behind them
    â€œNo lecture this time?” Victor tossed the question at Mark.
    The bobby crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’m done lecturing. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Let’s be clear, Victor. I don’t care what our family connections are. I will arrest you if you keep on this track. That will give our mothers something to talk about at bridge.”
    For a second, Peter saw something flicker across Victor’s face that cut through his insolent, smug expression. But then it was gone, and the usual mask fell back into place before he could work out what that expression even was.
    â€œOh, look at that.” Victor checked his watch. “Perfect timing. I’ve got to check in with the professor at two. She’s always happy to see me.”
    Only Victor could manage to be a full-time drunkard, genius scholar, and top-level rower. Peter should’ve just left him in jail. Let him see what it felt like to be on the losing side for once.

Thirteen
    T HE DAY OF THE B OAT Race. You’d have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind if you were within five miles of the Thames and didn’t know about the famous rowing race.
    Emelia tugged her Oxford-dark-blue sweater down and peered at her fitted jeans tucked into her brown leather boots. She’d spent a decent chunk of the morning trying to work out what one wore to a rowing race. In London. And had landed on this. Only to show up at the river’s edge and discover that it really didn’t matter. The entire spectrum was there, from men in suits to women in yoga gear.
    â€œYou cannot be serious!” Emelia turned to where Allie was pointing a finger at Jackson. Who, at some point, without either of them noticing, had draped his neck with a scarf in Cambridge light blue.
    Jackson smirked at his fiancée as she tugged at her opposing dark blue scarf. “It’s a win-win. No matter what happens, at least one of us will be victorious.”
    â€œIf Cambridge wins, I’ll choke you with it.” Emelia raised an eyebrow. For someone who had been at Oxford all of six months, Allie had certainly drunk the Kool-Aid.
    So much, in fact, that they had been there hours early tostake out a prime spot on the Thames bank by the finish line. At least England had finally gotten into the swing of spring and the skies were blue and the sun