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Authors: Dawn Ius

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BOOK: Anne & Henry
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With just weeks before the fall regatta, we can't afford to mess up.

My heart packs an unsteady wallop—too fast, too uneven, too loud. A heavy roar in my eardrums. And buried deep, yet not fully out of reach, the seductive whisper of Anne's voice:
You can do better.

As if on cue, Catherine's house emerges into view. It's not the largest mansion along the shore, but from an architectural standpoint, it's one of the most impressive. A single light shines on the lefthand side of the second floor. Catherine's.

The oar slips from my grip.

Too late I reach for it, hold on so tight my fingers dig into my palms. The boat jerks out of rhythm.

John curses.

“Christ, Henry, get in the game,” he says, his tone sharp and annoyed. “That's the second slip since we left shore. Where's your fucking head at?”

The oar digs into the water and almost slips from my hand. “Let it go,” I say.

“His donger's all twisted over the new girl,” Charles says.
He laughs like he's lightened the mood, but tension spreads across my chest and pulls my intestines into a knot.

“Mind your own business, dickhead,” I snap.

Charles is new too, less than a year in Medina, his family having transferred to the U.S. from Australia. He's got that surfer look about him—the perma tan, shaggy hair, laid-back, don't-give-a-shit—
shite?
—attitude. I haven't decided where he fits yet, but he certainly hasn't earned the right to just throw that out there.

He tosses me a bottle of water. I catch it one-handed, twist off the cap, and take a swig. Mercer Island looms in my side vision, an elongated patch of land lined with massive homes and trees so green they look like AstroTurf. We've got about a two-mile stretch to cover before we hit our morning target, then a full three miles back. School starts in just over an hour. Most days the time crunch wouldn't faze me.

“He's joking, right?” Rick says.

I don't bother turning around to answer.

“I mean, she's sexy,” Wyatt says, and Rick chimes in with a low, “Oh yeah.” Wyatt clears his throat. “But she's not the kind of girl you bring home to mom.”

“Especially not
your
mom,” Rick says with a dry chuckle.

“And she's definitely not First Lady material,” Wyatt pipes in.

Because they're seated behind me, I can't tell if they're joking around, just giving me a hard time, if they're smirking,
smiling, or on the verge of laughing. Doesn't matter. I'm not in the mood. I blot my damp hands on the knees of my sweats and grunt. Rising frustration gnaws on my insides.

“It's a serious question, bro,” John says. “Something you want to share?”

I turn my head slowly to meet John's gaze. Eyes wide, jaw slack. It's obvious he's more worried than shocked. Why does he even care? He's not into dating—unless it involves a keg, a drunk girl, and the backseat of his car. Anne's not even his type.

“I'm with Catherine,” I say with a finality that comes off forced and insincere.

The lines across John's forehead relax, and I can't help wondering if his relief has less to do with
my
reputation than his own desire. Shame washes over me as I recognize the signs of jealousy. No matter how much I try to dismiss it, tell myself I'm being ridiculous, I can't explain the dull ache pulsing in my chest, the sharp spike of adrenaline surging through my veins. I don't like the way John looks at Anne.

I grip the oar with both hands, resisting the urge to warn my best friend to back off and leave her alone.

Focus.

John picks up his oar, hovers it over the water. I catch him studying me.

My jaw tenses. “What?”

“You'd have to be blind not to see the way you two were
acting the other night,” he says. “I'm all for checking out the menu, but you don't want to go from caviar to mac and cheese, if you catch my drift.”

My blood flows hot. I let go of the oar, twist the cap off the water, take a drink. My teeth grind together. “It was just a poker game,” I say, forcing the lie down with another long swig, working to control my temper. Truthfully, I've spent the past two days fantasizing about what Anne had on under that Sex Pistols tank top. I wipe the back of my mouth and toss the empty bottle to the front of the boat. “She's got a great poker face.”

John scowls. “Yeah, she's got bluffing down to a science.”

I don't respond, understanding him well enough to know he's still stinging from Anne's slight at the charity gala. He's not the most charming prince in our group, but this kind of reaction is over the top, even for his inflated ego—and it's wearing thin.

“Oh, come now, mates, she's a bit
bodgy
maybe, but she's no
dero
,” Charles says. At our combined silence, he chuckles. “She's got a nice arse.”

“That's debatable,” John mutters.

“She deserves a fair go,” Charles says, and looks away. “It's not easy fitting in around here.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess you'd know, right?”

“The key is persistence,” Charles says, amused. “And an accent.”

He's only part kidding. Family wealth and some mad rowing skills gave him a reluctant in with the guys, and white chicks pretty much throw their panties when they hear his voice. After a year in the U.S., the accent has faded, but every once in a while an unfamiliar word slips in, a reminder that he hasn't always been one of us, hasn't always fit in.

A little like Anne.

I shake my head. No, nothing like Anne. She doesn't come from money, isn't polished or refined, can't lean on an accent. She's hard, rebellious, and—

Hot.

Christ, she's hot.

My mind wanders back to that tank, the way the strap slid off her pale shoulder, further blurring the lines I'm already having a hard time seeing. I take a breath, pick up the oar, and stare straight ahead.

“Thanks for the concern, boys,” I say with sarcasm, trying to regain control. “But it's not me who's spent the past five minutes talking about Anne Boleyn. Let's get back in the game.”

As we take our first synchronized stroke and the boat lunges forward, I focus on steadying my breathing. On keeping a featherlight grip on the oar. On guiding the boat through the water. I focus on the silence, my surroundings, the burn of my muscles with each strong, deliberate stroke.

I focus on anything.

Except Anne.

CHAPTER TEN
Anne

S
am's fingers wrap around my biceps, tighten so hard I'm sure the muscle will—

“Shit, Sam! That kinda hurts.”

She drops her voice to a whisper. “Incoming.”

I scan the hallway, squint into the Friday afternoon crowds bulldozing their way to the front doors of the school. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She opens her mouth, snaps it shut. A sheepish, ridiculous grin spreads across her face. I follow her gaze to—

Charles?

His tall, lanky body stands in front of us, blocking our way. Locks of sun-bleached hair sweep over one ocean-blue eye. When he smiles, his white teeth glow against the dark brown of his deep tan.

“G'day, Anne,” he says, Aussie accent slipping through his practiced English.

Sam's posture straightens, her body tenses. Holy shit—she's got a thing for Charles. He's so not her type, or at least what I think of as her type, and the devil on my shoulder whispers for me to have a little fun. But Sam is my first, maybe only, real friend in Medina and I don't want to piss her off.

In truth, I'm surprised to see Charles. Sure, he's one of the nice ones, the only guy besides Henry who hasn't leered or sneered in my direction—but he's still a friend of Henry's. Of Catherine's.

“What did I do?” I say, smirking a little, positive the only reason he wants to talk to me is to relay some kind of message, another warning to stay away from Henry.

“Nothing yet,” Charles says. He winks at Sam, though it's more of an afterthought. I imagine her pooling at my feet in a puddle of desire. “But if you're feeling adventurous, there's this thingy tomorrow . . .”

“No thanks.”

Charles's smile broadens, a dimple appears in his cheek, and for a second, I can't help but stare. Maybe I can see a little of what Sam sees.

“Hang on, now. You don't even know what it is.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Or who's going.”

I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for elaboration.

“The party's at Catherine's.”

“Definitely not,” I say, my gut twisting at the mere mention of her name. It's one thing to accept an invitation from
Henry's mother, to hang out at
his
house—another entirely to willingly step into the lioness's den without explicit consent. Her sweet smile may fool most of the school, but I've had a close-up view of her inner bitch.

“It's a murder mystery,” Charles says, like he hasn't heard me. “You know, the kind where everyone dresses up and tries to figure out who the killer is. Just come. If you don't like what you see, no worries. You can bugger off.”

Okay, so now I'm a little intrigued. I'm always up for a good mystery.

Sam shifts, nudging my hip with hers, a reminder to stay away from Henry and Catherine and keep a low profile. It's harder than I thought. “Can Sam come?” I say. If she's with me, I can't get in trouble, right?

But Sam shakes her head. “Sorry, no can do.” Her voice is small and shy. Sincere. If she was free, or could make up any excuse to
get
free, she'd jump at the chance to spend time with Charles.

Charles fishes his cell out of his pocket and opens a new contact page. Punches in my name. “Phone number and e-mail,” he says. “That way Catherine can send you directions and your costume requirements.”

Or the coordinates to hell.

“I think I'd better sit this one out,” I say, reverting to gut instinct. I have a strong suspicion Catherine has no clue Charles has invited me to her party.

“You don't strike me as chicken,” he says.

It's clear he's egging me on, and I'm too smart to fall for the trick. But then—

Something catches my eye and before I can look away, I'm staring at Henry. He stands across the hall chatting up some girl, his leather bomber jacket proudly flashing the Medina Greyhounds colors. He sees me.

My toes curl inside my boots with longing. My pulse races. Maybe I should worry about Catherine's reaction, consider the consequences of my actions, but as I tear my gaze from Henry's, I'm already saying “Yes.” Sam's elbow jabs into my rib cage.

“Good on ya,” Charles says. He enters my information into his smartphone. As he exits the contact screen, a picture emerges as the background, a group shot, maybe from the rowing team, Henry at the center, grinning, posing, making eyes at the camera. A lump forms in my throat. “See you there?” Charles says.

“Why do I get the sense I'm being set up?” I say.

“They'll give you a chance eventually,” he says, all serious and sweet. “Take it from me, just keep working at it.”

I bite my lower lip, dare to trust. Somehow I think Charles has some leverage on the whole fitting-in thing. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He doesn't have to make an effort, doesn't have to care. Beneath those surfer-dude looks, I sense that he does.

Charles shrugs. “I know what it's like to be new,” he says. “This isn't the easiest town to fit into.”

As he saunters away, Sam blows out a breath like she's been holding it for as long as Charles has lived. I relate to the feeling and, despite my better judgment, try not to think about Henry.

“He's bloody amazing,” she says.

“Careful,” I say, and rest my hand on her shoulder. Look her straight in the eyes. “The janitors are going to need another bucket to mop your melted ass up off the floor.”

She drops her head as though in shame. “We all have our weaknesses.”

Which I guess is why I'm going to Catherine's murder mystery party, even if there's a strong chance I'll end up the victim.

“Catherine isn't going to like this,” she says.

That's a serious understatement.

We walk through the exit and out into the bright sunlight. The scent of exhaust breathes into the air as the line of expensive cars rumbles up to leave the parking lot. A single yellow bus idles at the end of the lane.

“You want a ride?” Sam says. “Maybe I can convince you that going to that party is a terrible idea.”

My cell phone chimes an incoming text. Catherine.

Shit, that was quick.

I click on the message and the attachment, read the
invitation and the directions to her guest mansion in the woods. A shiver of unease runs along my spine. There's nothing personal about the text, but as I scan my assigned role and the suggested costume accessories, it's clear Catherine has something malicious in mind.

BOOK: Anne & Henry
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