I watch them pass, their faces twisted in varying degrees of pain, and shake my head. Why? Just… why?
Voluntarily waking up before dawn to be miserable? That’s not fitness. That’s masochism.
I step off the path, heading toward the quieter part of the park, where the old oak trees line the pond and the world feels a little less suffocating.
That’s when I see him.
He’s jogging toward me, dressed in loose black joggers and a sweat-damp shirt clinging to his chest, hair tousled by the wind. It’s annoyingly unfair. Even mid-run, flushed and breathless, he still looks like trouble wrapped in temptation. Those joggers? Definitely doing things they shouldn’t.
God. I hate him.
I consider turning around, pretending I didn’t see him. I could blend into the trees. Become one with the ducks. Reclaim my anonymity.
But he spots me first. Slows to a walk and smirks. Because of course he does.
“Well, well,” he drawls, wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt, just enough to flash a hint of toned stomach. “Didn’t take you for an early riser, Lila.”
I scowl. “Didn’t take you for a runner. You strike me more as the kind of guy who pays someone to do cardio for him.”
His grin is wicked. “Tempting. But some things are better when you do them yourself.”
He pauses, eyes flicking over me. “Though, I’ve heard cardio’s a lot more fun with a partner.”
He winks. “Keeps the stamina up.”
My face lights up like a furnace.
Nope. Absolutely not entertaining that thought.
I clear my throat, folding my arms and throwing him a glare. “What are you even doing here?”
“Running,” he says innocently, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I shoot him a deadpan look. “Yes, I gathered. But here? In my park?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your park?”
“You know what I mean.”
He steps closer, gaze flicking over me. “What about you? Couldn’t sleep?”
I hate that he knows me well enough to guess.
“Not your business,” I mutter, shifting my weight. “I just needed fresh air before—”
I stop myself before the words slip.
Before I remind him that later tonight, I have to endure an evening of forced domesticity with him.
His smirk deepens. “Before our date?”
I choke. “It’s not a date.”
Ben tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know, Lila. There’s baking. Flowers. Maybe a candle or two.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
He grins, slow and lazy. “Already there, sweetheart.”
