“I prefer to allow time for unforeseen delays.”
Her gaze moved toward the windows. The streets outside were nearly empty.
“Traffic can be unpredictable,” I added.
“At five twenty-seven?”
“Statistically less unpredictable, but not impossible.”
She handed me a small plastic tag. “You’re all checked in. Blake will find you before your consultation. You can use the cardio floor if you want to warm up.”
“I reserved a treadmill.”
“Perfect. They’re upstairs.”
She pointed toward a broad staircase. I thanked her and moved away before she could ask why a person with no running experience had reserved a treadmill before meeting her marathon coach. Preparation prevented surprises by converting unfamiliar situations into manageable tasks. This one required five steps: arrive thirty minutes early, change shoes, walk for five minutes, run easily for ten, cool down.
Then I could meet the trainer without appearing incapable of basic cardiovascular activity. The fact that I had never run continuously for ten minutes was a detail the plan did not need to emphasize. I climbed the stairs and entered the cardio area. Two rows of treadmills faced the windows. Stationary bikes and elliptical machines occupied the space behind them. A few people moved through quiet early workouts, all of them wearing clothing that suggested they had been born understanding technical fabric.
Sunday’s research had produced a black fitted top, black leggings, white running shoes, and a dark blue jacket. Tessa had asked whether I was working out or conducting surveillance. The clothes made me conscious of parts of my body I normally allowed to exist without formal review.
I checked the number on my reservation. Treadmill six. A woman was running on it. I stopped. The machine beside herdisplayed an empty belt. So did three others in the row. She had selected the one treadmill I had reserved. The screen showed my initials in the corner. A.P. Five thirty-two, according to my watch. My reservation had begun two minutes ago. The woman did not appear close to finishing.
She ran with an easy, controlled rhythm, dark ponytail swinging behind her. Her warm brown skin shone beneath the overhead lights. She wore black shorts, a deep red sports bra, and a sleeveless gray shirt that exposed strong shoulders and a small compass tattoo on her left forearm. She was also, inconveniently, very attractive. Attraction was irrelevant. The relevant fact was that she was using my treadmill. I moved into her line of sight. She continued running. I stepped closer.
Nothing. I raised one hand. Her gaze shifted toward me. She tapped the control panel, slowing the belt enough to remove one earbud.
“Everything okay?”
“I reserved this treadmill.”
She looked at the number displayed on the side.
“Six?”
“Yes.”
“Good choice.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
She smiled. It was a slow, amused smile that produced an entirely unreasonable effect on my concentration.
“I’m almost done,” she said.
“My reservation began almost four minutes ago.”
She checked the wall clock. “You’re right. This is becoming serious.”
“It is straightforward.”
“Those are the dangerous ones.”
“I planned a specific warm-up before my six o’clock appointment.”
“You still have twenty-four minutes.”
“That is not how reservations work.”
