“Well, good luck,” she says, her tone reassuring, like I’m some charity case to be pitied.
I narrow my eyes at her back as she flounces out, thinking of the old platitude:The couple that preys together stays together.Those two deserve each other.
I’m still smarting from her low blows when I head into the gym—and immediately spot Ben running on one of the treadmills lining the back wall.I cannot win today.His back is to me, but I still jerk my gaze away when I realize I’m checking out his ass.
What?I’m a feminist, not blind.
I should avoid him, I know I should, but it’s like I have a devil on my shoulder today. I need to regain some ground and the pull to antagonize him is too strong.
I walk right up and take the treadmill next to his, surreptitiously peeking at his machine’s display as I climb on—8.0.
I set mine for 8.1.
I know he sees me, but neither of us acknowledges the other as we run in silence for a minute—until I hear a couple of beeps and slide my eyes over.
He’s upped his speed to 8.2.
I increase mine to 8.5.
“It’s so cute how desperate you are to beat me.”
I swivel my head toward him, frowning at his stupid smirk.Cute?
“IknowI can beat you. I’m a sprinter.”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out. I just broke my own cardinal rule: Do not reveal any personal information he can use against me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he excavates my old high school running records just to taunt me.
“A sprinter, huh? You like to finish fast?” He laughs at his double entendre.
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“Things must be going well on Donkey Date, then?”
“Donkey Date?”
“You know, the app for people who refuse to date outside their own echo chambers.”
My blood pressure spikes. The sudden rush of adrenaline causes my stride to falter, and for the next few seconds my brain is wholly focused on not flying off the treadmill.
Don’t let him see you sweat, Kate.
“Forget it. You’re not worth it.”
“You know, a dry spell is nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to the best of us.”
I clench my jaw so hard I nearly crack a crown. To prevent myself from committing murder in a federal building filled with security cameras, I increase my speed again and focus on leaving Ben in the proverbial dust.
He takes the hint, and for the next couple of minutes the only sounds are the pounding of our feet on the whirring belts and our panting breaths. We’re silent in our quest to best each other. My lungs are burning and white spots dance in my vision, but I’d rather die on this treadmill than slow down.
Eventually I hear a chuckle, followed by a rapid-fire set of beeps. “Don’t hurt yourself, Goldilocks. I was already on my warm-down.”
I smother my reaction to this new nickname as he rolls to a stop, guzzling from a water bottle as he steps off the treadmill to leave. I can’t resist.
“You should get used to losing to me,” I call as he walks away.
He stops. Pivots. Saunters back to my machine, casually draping his arms over the handrail. I glance at them and they’re so massive they crowd my field of vision—ropy mounds of skin and sinew, each curve revealing yet another heavy muscle. I wonder idly if I could fit both my hands around one of his biceps. I doubt it.
“Losing, huh? Those are fighting words.”
