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Thankfully, the gym is still unoccupied when I get out. I stow my bag near the treadmill furthest from the door, say a silent prayer that I’ll be allowed to run in peace, and jump on. My pace is higher than I normally start out at, but it’s like all the pent-up emotion of the last forty-eight hours has to go somewhere. It’s not until I’ve finished the first mile that I realize I don’t even have my earbuds in. Totally not my style to run without music, but hey, it’s not my style to scurry away from my dream job without a single plan in mind, either.
When Lizzy suggested yesterday that I go to Colorado to get away from the fallout of discovering my boyfriend was stealing from me, I jumped on it. She said the lakeside Tate resort was peaceful, with opportunities for recreation and sun. Out of the way enough to be alone, but nice enough to feel pampered.
All prerequisites considering that this now ex-boyfriend also works for the Wolves and is the boss’s son.
I’m beginning my third mile when a man walks into the gym. Great. Just what I needed. He’s tall with dark hair and nicely sculpted thighs and calves. He’s pretty much Adonis in every way, physically speaking. And I mean that in a professional, medical way, only.
Except, I’m not a trainer—not anymore. Swallowing downthatlovely pain, I focus on my own running. From the looks of him, he’s probably here to lift weights anyway. I’ll ignore him and if I’m lucky, he’ll ignore me, too.
Nope. No such luck. He’s getting on the treadmill right next to me. Really, dude? There’s another one. A perfectly good one that looks as nice and new as the others, at the end of the row. Why choose this one? He obviously doesn’t understand gym etiquette.
I increase my speed by one-tenth and train my focus on the video of trees that the treadmill is simulating for me. Yeah. Just focus on the trees, not the totally hot but inconsiderate guy running next to you.
It doesn’t take me long to realize his strides are matching my own, and there’s something familiar about him. I hazard a glance in his direction, and it’s like he’d been waiting for me to look over.
“Hey,” he says, bobbing his head once.
I give a slight nod and then focus on my pseudo forest. I don’t say hey back because I’m out of breath. But that doesn’t mean my body isn’t affected by his handsome face and body. His lateral muscles are defined, the jagged edges of his scapula visible under his tight t-shirt.
Again, I’m only noticing because it’s been my job to notice such things—you know, the musculature of athletes. And it’s obvious he’s athletic, and that I’ve seen him before.
“Did you just get here at the resort today?” he asks. “Or have you been here awhile?”
Mr. Chatty Charlie needs to stop. Who even does that? Starts talking to someone who’s clearly in the zone?
I offer a brief, tight smile. “First day.” I feel compelled to return the question. “How about you?” I ask between breaths.
He hesitates. “I’ve been here awhile.”
I nod and then turn the speed up again. Maybe he’ll get the hint that I need him to leave me alone if he sees that I’m trying to go faster.
I don’t miss that he does the same, and one glance at his console tells me he’s matched my speed exactly. The thing is, he’s taller than me by several inches, which means he can match me with little effort.
I give it another few seconds and then turn up my speed again. I’m close to the maximum I’m willing to do and sweat is starting to bead at my forehead. This was supposed to be a run to kill the time, not PR.Come on.I growl internally.
A glance in his direction rewards me because I see the smug grin on his face starting to dissipate. He’s breathing heavily now and sweating, too. For someone as obviously fit as he is, his lung capacity is weirdly low.
And heisfit—an athlete. He’s in good shape, but the way he’s running tells me maybe he’s taken a hiatus from working out recently. His steps are unnaturally labored. And the fact that he’s an athlete sobers me—it reminds me to be careful.
I can’t let the guy beat me, so I notch my speed up a little higher, and he does the same. Who is he and why is he so insecure that he has to be running faster than me?
Oh well. It’s his funeral. I can stay in my lane. I press the button three more times for good measure. I know I can do it. It’s not what I wanted to do, but I’ll survive another few minutes at this pace. It’s a very good thing I haven’t had my chocolate-covered cinnamon bear binge yet.
After a few moments, he’s sucking wind and if I’m being honest, so am I. This is hard. Darn you, you good looking man who I may or may not know from somewhere and who may or may not be a sexist pig trying to one up me because I’m a woman.
At the five-mile mark, my ankle wobbles and for one brief moment, I imagine myself slipping on the treadmill belt and going down hard. Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’ve got to focus here. I press my palm against my head for a few steps to regain control. Sweat trickles down my back and my hair slips from my ponytail.
But focusing doesn’t mean letting down. I may die at the thought of increasing my speed by even one more tenth of a mile, but I can keep going a little longer at this pace. My hamstrings and calves are screaming for relief. I could stop. His run has been way shorter than mine, anyway, so I’ve already won.
Then, why can’t I push the stop button? I know I’m competitive—a trait that has gotten me where I am today. I’m proud of that.
Except, with a dash of pain, I remember that where I am today—like, actually today—unemployed, unboyfriended, and exquisitely unhappy, is nothing to be proud of.
My fingers hover over the big, red STOP button, my lungs are on fire, the lactic acid in my muscles making each cell scream. Just as I reach out to push it, I hear a sleek whistle of belt against metal, a screech of gears, and a thunk, thunk of falling bones and muscles.
To my horror, Chatty Charlie is sprawled on the ground behind me.
Chapter 2
