I huff. ‘My editor.’
‘Well, she’s wrong.’
‘Well, she pays me.’
‘Fair point.’ He shrugs. ‘So, what’s mundane about them?’
He grabs a water bottle from the fridge before chucking one across the marble surface towards me. I catch it one-handed, shocking even myself, before chugging it quicker than I anticipated.
‘The dates are too basic; she says I need to get out there more. Give my column more variety.’
‘And how do you do that?’ He pulls up his own stool.
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?’ I ask.
‘Okay, snarky.’ He smirks.
I mumble an apology. ‘Sorry. It’s just really frustrating.’
It’s hard enough doing all this in your home country, let alone a foreign one where you barely have your bearings to begin with. I feel my body sink, head keeling over until my forehead knocks softly against the counter, arms wrapping around my head to enclose myself in darkness. I let out a groan, soft at first and then louder a second later.
I shiver ever so slightly as Noah’s fingers brush my arm, raising each hair they touch on their way, before reaching around for my hand. He finally locates it, wrapping his fingers around it and giving a firm squeeze. I raise my head and catch his soft gold-flecked eyes staring across at me.
‘You’ve got this,’ he says assuredly. ‘We’vegot this. Come on, we’ll brainstorm ideas and get you back out there in no time.’
‘This isn’t your problem.’
‘Oh, but it is. I am an avid reader of your column. You can’t have the ink go dry on me now.’
I start to chuckle before I can stop myself, the sound running through me until I’m sitting up straight again. It proves to be infectious, prompting Noah’s smile to stretch so far across his cheeks that, for a second, I’m worried they’ll rupture. Our eyes meet again, both with the same spark of hope. Now that I’m partially out of my head, I’m actually able to digest him in his current state.
‘Were you on your way out?’ I ask.
Though sitting comfortably on the stool, he’s clad in a sweat-wicking T-shirt and gym shorts, with trainers on his feet and a water bottle still clutched in his other hand.
‘Oh, yeah, I was. But it’s fine, I can miss it – we have a lot of planning to do. It was only this running club I found. They meet again tomorrow morning...’
He stops abruptly, eyes glowing in sync with the lightbulb that’s just gone off inside his head. My stomach clenches.
‘Nope.’
‘Am, come on!’
‘I don’t run.’ I stare back at him sternly.
‘But they’re so nice and sociable! And beginners are welcome! Andeveryonehooks up at running clubs!’ His eyebrows raise.
‘Really?’ I ask, ears pricked for gossip.
‘My aunt Lisa was part of one back in London and used to tell me somewildstories about the members. It hasn’t happened for me yet, but you’re built different so I have faith. Come on!’
I shake my head. There are beginners and then there’sme, a sweaty, panting disaster with two left feet and an ugly cardio face. I don’t run to socialise and Icertainlydon’t run to date. I wouldn’t trust anyone who looked at me twice while I was running. But Noah keeps pushing and every second I stall is a second that his pleading grows more intense.
‘I didn’t even bring gym clothes,’ I say in protest.
‘You can borrow one of my T-shirts and I’ve seen you in leggings – I know you own some.’
‘Those are my travel leggings,’ I huff.
