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Coming out of the wooded area of mile five, I round Morehead Hall, where all the English classes are held, mine included, and I see two guys running ahead of me. They’re slow, like me, their teal shirts soaked with sweat over their short shorts. I’m a little taken aback. I haven’t seen anyone on this track since I started running here, and believe me, I would have noticed these two. The hammies on the guy on the right, who is wearing a black and teal hat, are downright mouthwatering. His shorts are so damn short, I’m curious how he keeps his dick in there. The other guy, no hat, is a little skinny, but he has great shoulders. They’re talking, pointing toward the left, but since I have headphones on, I can’t hear what they’re saying before the guy on the left runs off the track, heading toward the Starbucks, while the other guy keeps running.
I stay far behind him, no intention of running ahead since my shorts are up my ass at this particular moment. Since I haven’t seen anyone on the track in months, I don’t really dress for company, I dress for comfort. While I don’t mind watching this guy, I’m hoping he doesn’t see me.
But I sure see him.
Man.
As Lorde sings about homemade dynamite, I admire the guy’s shoulders and his arms. He runs very fluidly. As someone who has spent her whole life in a gym, I admire a good-looking body. But I’m pretty sure he’s one of those guys who likes to run.
I don’t trust those guys.
Shit, who am I kidding? I don’t trust any guys.
A smirk tugs at my lips as I drink him in. But when he pulls at the bottom of his tee before lifting it up and over his chest, my tongue promptly falls out of my mouth. I’m surprised I don’t misstep and fall to my death, because now I can see everything the shirt was hiding. The muscles in his back are criminal, thick and hard, moving with his body as he runs. His shoulders are so wide and are made for someone to dig their nails into like they do in those historical romance novels my mom keeps on her bedside table. But that isn’t what has me squinting or running a little faster to get closer. He has a tattoo on his shoulder that I’m having a hard time reading. Because I’m ridiculous, I have to know what it says.
With each step I take, the distance between us gets shorter and shorter, and soon the seven letters are clear.
Justice.
And this time, I do make a misstep.
The toe of one of my shoes hits the back of my other sneaker, and as I fall, a blood-curdling cry leaves my lips. I hit the pavement hard. Pain radiates up my legs, and I realize I’ve been lusting over Ryan Justice. Which goes completely against staying very, very clear of him. It all happens so fast, but then, much to my dismay, he is towering over me, bending down to help. His giant hands come toward me while his eyes fill with such beautiful concern.
Yup, this is not staying clear.
Not in the least.
He’s talking, but I can’t hear him. Knocking out my earbuds, I hiss out a breath as I roll to my back, moving very tentatively.
“Go slow. I heard your fall all the way up there.”
I want to yell. Scream. Tell him to go away, but instead, I say, “Was it my body hitting the ground or my battle cry?”
“Totally the battle cry,” he says, his lips curving, but then his smile drops when I hiss out another breath. “Shit, are you okay?”
“I think so,” I say, trying to assess the damage. “I think I just scraped myself up good.”
“Yeah, you did,” he says, using his shirt to wipe up the blood that is dripping from my knee. “Damn, that’s a gnarly scar.”
I look where he has just finished wiping, but I don’t really need to. I know the scar that’s visible there. It’s been my buddy for many years. “Yeah, tore my ACL and then broke my knee six months later.”
“Fuck.” He draws up, patting my knee to make the bleeding stop. “I’ve only torn mine.”
“You were probably smarter than me and didn’t try to land a double tuck backflip with three full twists as soon as the doctor said you can ‘ease’ back into the gym.”
He holds out his other hand, his lips pressing together. This close, I can see that his bottom lip is thicker, like a bee stung it—but in a sexy way, not like an allergic reaction or something.
What the hell?
“No, I only went for a tuck and one twist. Should have pushed myself.”
My lips curve, and then I’m giggling as he stands up, holding his hand out to me. “The Bullies’ house is right up here. We have a first aid kit in the kitchen. Want me to carry you?” I give him a look, and he laughs. “Who am I kidding? You could have broken your leg, and you’d drag it to the house.”
I nod. “Or I’d call an ambulance.”
He points to me. “And you say I’m smarter than you.”
Fighting back my grin, I do take his hands though, probably against my better judgment, and he pulls me up with ease. Like I weigh nothing. I know how much I weigh; I throw my body around. I’m not light as a feather, but he didn’t even grimace.
He’s just grinning.
And boy, is it breathtaking.
“Come on, I’ll get you cleaned up. I’m good at it. Nursed my own injuries and Amelia’s, along with our cousins’.”
He walks slowly beside me, his hand out behind me but not touching me. The pain isn’t bad. I’ve had worse, but it is annoying. He puts his hand on my arm. “Wait, blood is going everywhere.”
I pause, and he bends down, wrapping his shirt around my knee. When he stands, he nods at his handiwork. “Not the first time you’ve done that?” I ask.
He shakes his head, laughter leaving his lips. “No. One time, we were camping, and my crazy cousin Quinn jumped off this rock and landed funky as hell. Snapped his leg. I made a splint out of sticks. Thank you, Boy Scouts.”
“Boy Scouts, huh?”
He flashes me a grin. “Yeah, but don’t be impressed. I’ve forgotten how to survive in the wild. Can’t start a fire for shit, and I sure as hell would die if I was thirsty ’cause I’m not waiting to boil water. Wow, maybe I shouldn’t advertise the Boy Scout thing. Hi, I play hockey.”
I’m grinning. Like a fool. Damn it. “I know.”
“But I can bandage people up.”
