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“We’ll see,” he calls out the window as he drives past me.
I take a right turn at the end of the street. My feet pound against the pavement as I pick up speed, determined to win this race. Determined to have twenty-four hours of him completely at my mercy to stuff up my sleeve and whip out whenever I feel like it.
And of course, that poses the question of whether it’s twenty-four hours straight or if I can break it up into twelve two-hour segments. Because that could be even more fun.
I take a turn onto a one-way street—the very same street that means at least three minutes will be added onto Tyler’s driving time. The one that takes two minutes running off mine.
He might have wheels where I have legs, but I have the upper hand because I know Seattle. I know the streets, the blocks, and every fucking shortcut.
His block comes into sight after a few minutes, and I sigh. A sharp pain starts in my side. Damn stitch. This is why I shouldn’t go five days without running—my body turns into a lazy pile of crap, unable to cope with a ten-minute run.
I turn the corner to his apartment building and scan the parking lot. Bingo. Sucker.
Grinning to myself, I pull my headphones from my ears, leaving them to dangle around my neck, and walk into the building. The doorman eyes me suspiciously, but I walk straight past him and head for the elevator.
I push the button to take me up to Tyler’s apartment and use the few minutes alone to catch my breath. When I get there, I realize that I can’t get in. I don’t have a key.
Fantastic. I win, but now I have to sit out here like a friggin’ lemon and wait for him to show.
Unless… I give the handle a jiggle. It opens. I raise my eyebrows. Clearly someone needs a lesson in locking his front door…
And cleaning up after himself.
I think I just walked into a teenage boy’s apartment.
There’s a mug on the island in the kitchen. Actually, there’s a mug and three plates. A shirt over the back of his sofa. A glass on the coffee table—the very smudged, dirty coffee table. And I’m pretty damn sure I can see a few socks poking out from the bathroom door.
“You need to learn to lock your door,” I say, hearing him come up behind me. “And how to look after yourself, evidently.”
“Isn’t that what women are for?”
I turn and punch him straight in the gut. “You sexist bastard.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Liv,” he laughs, rubbing his stomach. “Remind me never to get punched by you again.”
I narrow my eyes. “Tyler Stone, you are a twenty-six-year-old, fully grown man. Are you telling me you still need mommy to keep your shit in line?”
“No. I’m just lazy. I like to save my energy for other activities. None of which, by the way, I’ve heard you complain about.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Shut up.”
He laughs again, drawing me close to him. He nudges his nose against mine. “You won.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. I was. Then you punched me and I realized you’re a lot fucking stronger than you look.”
I unfold my arms and hook them around his waist. “I’m just full of adorable little surprises, aren’t I?”
He grins, but it only lasts a moment before he closes his mouth over mine. “You’re all sweaty,” he mutters.
“That happens when you run,” I say sarcastically, pulling away. I look around his apartment and sigh. “Do you have a dishwasher?”
“Do I look like I hand-wash dishes?”
Cocky bastard.
“You don’t look like you wash dishes at all.” I look at him flatly. “Okay, here’s the deal. You make breakfast and I’ll clean your apartment. I can’t eat in this mess.”
