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So I smiled. Narrowed my eyes. And said, “You’re on.”
And with a smile from him that told me he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, he said, “Good.”
I turned for the driveway, not bothering to speak over my shoulder. “Lessons start in two hours. Wear something that can get dirty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the gravel crunched and his pace picked up, he ran back in the direction of town, and I snuck one more glance just to see if the back of him was as cut as the rest. He was looking right at me with a knowing smirk that had me rolling my eyes.
But not before I found out the answer was yes.
8
Masochism As A Sport
GRANT
Water sluiced down my back, hitting the bottom of the clawfoot tub with a slap.
Absently, I wondered how many showers I’d take today. If Jo had her way, three wouldn’t be enough.
I smiled to myself, reaching for a bar of soap, considering the roaring hellcat, living her life offended by my presence while somehow managing to send me signals she’d deny until she was in the dirt. But I saw her. I saw it in the look on her face, in the roaming of her eyes, in the way I’d caught her sneaking a final glimpse of my ass as I ran away.
Now all I had to do was let her torture me.
Smiling wider, I wondered what she’d put me through first and decided I’d rather not know.
When I’d washed the layer of Texas sweat off of me, I turned the squeaky faucet until it closed and reached for a towel.
I hadn’t realized that I was in front of her place until she spoke. I’d been running blind, so deep in my thoughts that I wasn’t sure I was even still piloting my body. The heat, the tearing of my lungs, the burn of my muscles—it’d all been dim and distant until she called out to me. Had the tables been turned, I’d have assumed she’d done it on purpose too. And it would have been a great plan, if I’d intended to accidentally run into her.
Instead, it was an honest accident, though no less effective.
Once dry, I padded into my room, digging around in my suitcase for the few articles of clothing I owned that didn’t get hung in my closet. Other than exercise and sleep clothes, the most casual thing I had were chinos. Rummaging through my workout clothes, I fought to find something suitable. My running shorts all had a three-inch inseam—a dubious choice, depending on what she had in store for me. The chances of me needing to cover my legs were high, so I picked out the best I had.
A pair of gray sweatpants.
Hopefully she didn’t ask me how much they cost.
I stepped into them with a vague sense of warning. I was going to pass out from heatstroke wearing sweatpants. This was a first—I’d never had to get dirty to win a contract—so I hadn’t considered bringing anything more casual. But without any better options, all I could do was go with it.
A knock rapped at the door, and I strode across the room to answer it.
When I whipped it open, Jo’s fist was raised like she was about to knock again. Her face shot open like a firecracker had just gone off in her hand, and that hand pressed the words Get The Frack Out into her breastbone.
“Jesus,” she said. “Who’d you think that I was, the police?”
“Are you always this dramatic?” I asked, turning into the house with the assumption she’d follow.
“Without question.” She paused. “You’re going to die of heatstroke in those sweatpants.”
“I was only expecting to pass out. Should I call the funeral home and make arrangements?”
“Ha, ha. Don’t you have anything else to wear?”
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, a shirt, for one.”
I shot her a smile over my shoulder. “You don’t really want me to wear a shirt.”
“Does that bullshit really work on girls where you’re from?”
“Every time.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t own a pair of jeans, do you?”
“Not one. It’s either this or running shorts.”
I couldn’t see her from the dresser in my room as I dug up an old Cornell T-shirt and grabbed my running shoes. The bed squeaked when I sat on the end to get my shoes on.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.”
“A bad surprise.” I guessed.
“Probably.”
I could hear her smiling, which put a smile on my own face.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I’m just happy for a chance to prove you wrong, that’s all.”
“You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“That’s the key to success,” I informed her. “It’s fifty percent being sure of yourself.”
“And the other fifty percent?”
“Self-loathing. Every successful human lives by that ratio. Unless they’re a sociopath.”
“Hm. And I was so sure you were the latter.”
Once my last shoe was tied, I made my way back to her, pulling on my shirt as an experiment. When my head was out of the neck, I found success—Jo’s thirsty eyes slid down my body like they’d slipped on a banana.
