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Minutes later, I am indeed running.
I mean, no one is gonna call me Flo-Jo, but this man is quite the motivator.
“Come on, you can do it. I knew you could. You have the perfect form; are you sure you’re not a marathoner?”
“You’re full of shit, you know that, right?” I retort, breath puffing out of me in short bursts. Now is an excellent time to be grateful for small boobies that don’t hurt when I run.
Gunther keeps up the encouragement, and I keep running. I have to if I want to get a good look at that muscled bubble butt bouncing every time his feet hit the pavement. And it is a glorious butt.
Before I know it, I’ve completed a two-mile walk-run around his neighborhood, looping back to his front door.
“I can’t believe you talked me into that,” I huff, out of breath, collapsing on his front lawn. Gunther stretches beside me, also out of breath but not wheezing like I am. His shirt clings to his sweaty stomach, and his cheeks are red from the effort. I lie there and watch him grab his feet one at a time in a quad stretch that makes his defined thigh muscles bulge.
He catches me staring but doesn’t comment. “You did good,” Gunther says.
“Not having a sports bra slowed me down,” I say. “But I guess it wasn’t terrible. If I was bigger than I am, I would have had to walk the whole way. The one and only upside of underdeveloped titties.”
His pink cheeks turn beet red when my comment sends his gaze to my chest. “Nah,” he says. “You’re perfect.”
I go still as I notice his eyes raking over my breasts. They’re small and sensitive, and every damn thing makes my nipples hard and visible unless I wear a thick bra. It’s the one part of my body that makes me self-conscious, and I always cover up with my arms or a cardigan when I notice people staring. It’s part of the reason I like to wear bib overalls.
But when Gunther stares, I don’t mind.
My mouth dries up. “I’m supposed to believe that coming from someone built like Captain America?”
He looks genuinely confused by me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I am not blind. I am aware of the hordes of aesthetically perfect, professional people in and around D.C., You being one of them. Me? Not one of them.”
Gunther scoffs. “You’re dehydrated and talking crazy. Come on.” He reaches out his hand, and I groan, sitting up to take it. He pulls me to my feet so effortlessly that I may float for a week on the illusion of feeling as dainty as a daffodil.
Once inside, Gunther watches as I down not one but two full glasses of water plus a taste of some foul-tasting health shake he makes me.
“Geez. Even the tap water tastes better here,” I say. “Mine tastes musty.”
I help him load the dishwasher as he mutters, “Filters. All the more reason not to let you go back to that place.”
“I’ll have to go back eventually. Once your job of watching me runs its course.”
He closes the dishwasher and presses some buttons, then turns to me, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that pushes out his biceps.
“Huh,” he says.
“What?”
Gunther shakes his head. “I just have a feeling I’ll be looking after you long after your uncle stops paying me.”
“Why?” Does he think I’m that pathetic? Is keeping me out of trouble earning him some type of moral satisfaction?
“I…I don’t know…I like looking after you.”
This should not send a thrill pulsing through my veins. “Sure,” I say, jutting out one hip. “That’ll play real cool when you’re on a date with some K Street boss babe. ‘Oh, excuse me, sweetheart, I just have to check on this lunatic and her rabbit situation. But don’t worry, she’s more like a little sister to me.’” I follow this with a snort-laugh.
But again, Gunther’s not laughing.
“You don’t get me at all, do you?” Gunther says.
“Kinda tough to get you when one minute you’re being nice to me, then the next minute I seem to be driving you up the wall,” I reply.
