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Brandon scoffed and shook his head. “Of course. I’d be upset if you didn’t.”
And with a firm but brief kiss, he brought his plate to the sink, then grabbed his phone to text David to bring the car around.
“Five minutes, gorgeous,” he said with another stamp to my mouth. “Let’s get dressed. And put your coat on. I don’t want anyone else seeing you in that dress but me.”
* * *
It endedup being a day where I found out more about Brandon’s interests than he’d initially wanted. After stopping by my apartment for some clothes and some odds and ends, we ended up messing around Cambridge for the rest of the morning simply because of Brandon’s stubborn resolve not to choose any activity we did, despite the fact that all I wanted to do was something he wanted. Out of revenge, I decided to take him puttering around Harvard Square.
Brandon, as I fully suspected, didn’t putter.
“Oh, good,” he said sarcastically as I stopped outside one of my favorite shops. “Anotherused bookstore. I wonder what’s inside.”
“Do you have somewhere else you’d rather be?” I asked in the most saccharine-sweet voice I could muster. “I thought you cleared your day, Mr. Sterling.”
I nodded at the bookstore clerk as we walked toward the back of the store, where I knew they kept their music section. Hunting for vintage music arrangements was one of my favorite pastimes, and the old bookstores in Cambridge often had the best caches. Brandon followed me with a loud harrumph. He had been game for the first three shops, happy to peruse the science fiction and engineering sections, even purchasing a few books. But after two hours, he had met his limit.
“Red,” Brandon said as he came beside me, leaning against the bin of sheet music as if in pain. “You’ve made your point. My turn, okay?”
I turned triumphantly. “Ha! Okay, but you’renotallowed to choose something you think I’d like. I just dragged you through every bookshop in Harvard Square, so now you have to take me somewhere equally selfish.”
“Thank God,” he breathed, grabbing my hand.
Once we were back on the street, Brandon called David, who promptly drove around the corner to pick us up.
“You packed your running stuff, right?” Brandon asked as we slid into the back of the Mercedes.
I nodded. I figured I’d jog at his place on Sunday instead of swimming my normal two thousand meters.
“Good,” he said. “David, can you take us down to the river?”
Ten minutes later, I made my second important discovery about Brandon that day: he wasn’t just in good shape. He was an exercise junkie.
After changing in the car, we ended up on a popular jogging trail along the edge of the Charles River, from Watertown all the way to downtown Boston. We both wore thin workout gear that wasn’t particularly suited to the chilly February air, although I wore Brandon’s sweatshirt over my sports tank and leggings. Brandon jogged in place to keep warm, given the fact that it was a clear thirty-one degrees outside, and he had only a t-shirt and track pants.
“This is supposed to be fun?” I asked doubtfully, flapping the sweatshirt sleeves that hung over my hands like limp penguin wings. The hem fell to just above my knees. Even with the added layer, I was freezing, and Brandon’s face was starting to resemble a cherry popsicle.
“Nothing feels better than endorphins, gorgeous. Well, except maybe you,” Brandon said with a leer as he picked his knees up again and again. “All right, how far can you go? Two miles okay?”
I didn’t run much, but my swimming habit meant I had better endurance than most. I smirked. “How about this: first man down owes the other a foot massage when we get back to your house.”
“Ooh, a challenge, Ms. Crosby? You sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“You’ve got the legs, babe, but I’ve got the lungs,” I smarted. “We’ll see how long you last.”
Forty minutes later, I was on my back again on the sheepskin rug, but this time in a decidedly less seductive fashion. I gasped for breath, waiting for the world to stop spinning while Brandon chuckled from the couch. He removed his shoes before he knelt to help with mine.
“You all right down there, Red?” he asked good-naturedly, all sign of his early surliness gone in his current endorphin-fueled state. Plus, he had won the bet.
“Why?” I asked less sharply than I had intended due to the fact that I was still sucking air like a wind fan.
“Well, you just fell over like one of the Three Stooges, and you’re the color of a tomato. I’m just checking in.”
“I’m a redhead,” I snapped from my place on the ground. “Yes, I flush when I’m exerted. Ha fucking ha.”
Brandon held his hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right. You seem like you’ve got it under control. You want water or something? Maybe a B-12 shot? A physical therapist?”
Now that the ache in my side had started to subside, I managed to prop myself up on my elbows to glare at him. “I’m actually in decent shape, you know.”
