My mental battle wages until footsteps behind me make my pulse jump.
They’re heavy and fast, getting louder and louder.
Dammit. Any one of Dad’s enemies could have followed us from the reception, lurking, biding their time until I ventured out by myself. I’m the head of the DiMicheli family now, how could I have been so clueless and careless to think that I’d be safe at four o’clock in the morning? In the freaking dark with zero protection? Criminals don’t have bedtimes, for Pete’s sake.
My legs burn as I try to put as much distance between me and the menacing footsteps. Memories of the gala attack chill me. Bullets pop between my temples, my vision stained red with my father’s blood.
I need to run faster… to find some place to hide… to call?—
“You know,” Lochlan's voice cuts through the dark, “most people just count sheep.”
I stop short and turn, my throat tight. He jogs toward me in a Red Sox baseball cap, shorts, and a hoodie, already looking like he regrets the decision to come after me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my jaw nearly hitting the sidewalk.
“Following you.” He stops beside me. “Obviously.”
“I don't need a babysitter,” I say, ignoring the funny little tingles in my belly at the sight of him in a baseball cap. I bite down on my lower lip.
No, I’m not even going to think it.
“Good. I'm not offering to change your diapers.” He glances at me. “But I'm also not letting you run around Boston alone at four in the morning while there's an active threat on your family. I’m surprised at you. As a CEO, shouldn’t you be better at assessing risks?”
My lips part, but no words find their way out. I want to argue. I want to tell him this is mine… the running, the silence, the private space to think. I've been doing this for years without anyone's permission.
But he's not wrong about the threat. And I'm too tired to fight about it.
“Fine,” I finally say. “But I'm not slowing down for you.”
“Didn't ask you to.”
I narrow my eyes and then take off. Every time I pick up the pace, he matches it.
We run in silence for a few blocks. The city is peaceful at this hour, just streetlights and shadows, the occasional cab passing. My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, just like my breathing. In, out. In, out. The only things I can control.
Running is how I survive. It always has been.
In college, when the pressure of being Francesco DiMicheli's daughter threatened to crush me, I ran. When I was building my company and everyone told me I'd fail, I ran. When relationships ended and deals fell through, and especially when the world felt like it was closing in… I ran.
It's the one time when my brain finally shuts up. When I'm not calculating angles or managing perceptions or holding everything together through sheer force of will. I'm just a body in motion. Simple physics. Period. And there’s nobody else in the world but me.
Except now there's a six-foot-something wall of muscle invading my sacred space.
I push harder and will my legs to cooperate.
Lochlan keeps up with me. His breathing is more labored now and his stride is slightly off. His feet hit the ground with power, but he’s struggling. He's built for bursts of strength, not endurance. All that muscle is working against him.
I keep my eyes focused forward, trying like hell to ignore how he moves. But my periphery gives me away and I notice everything. The way his shoulders roll with each stride. The way his cheeks flush, making his eyes pop against his skin. The way his jaw sets with determination when he loses steam.
I hate myself for noticing.
I take a sharp turn onto Commonwealth Avenue. This is my territory. I've run this route a hundred times, I know every crack in the sidewalk to avoid, every tree root waiting to trip the unaware.
His footsteps falter for a second next to me. Then he recovers.
“You always run like you're being chased?” he asks. His voice is tighter now. Less casual. Raspier.
“I run like I have things to think about.”
