Page 81 of Rookie Recovery

“More than a year,” he confirmed.

“Two years?”

He buried his face in his palm. “More.”

“MORE THAN TWO YEARS?! THREE YEARS?!”

A pause. A deep, dragging sigh. “Maybe more.”

“Oh, my God!” I was on my feet. Why was I on my feet? “Ten years?!”

“Fuck off. Not that long. Four years, okay? It’s been nearly four years since I had sex.”

I dropped to my knees. Nudged my way between his. “Kitty, we need to rectify this immediately.” I climbed over his legs and sat in his lap. Our bodies slotted together perfectly. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. Fiercely and hungrily. Only stopping when I felt the stir of Little Jamie through his sweatpants.

“We’re not rectifying this,” he said, panting breaths between us. “Not right now, anyway. We’ve got an entire afternoon’s worth of exercise to get through.”

“I can think of better exercise. Well, for you. I plan on just lying there. And can’t I at least eat my brownie?”

“No, little winger. Burpees first, and planking, and a four-mile run up the mountainside.”

“Urgh, not fair.” I rolled off him. “One whole mile for every year you’ve been shagless.”

“You can have the brownie as a tasty reward at the end.”

I thought about this offer—threat—I wasn’t sure what it was. Or whether I liked it, so I did the only reasonable thing I could think of. I jumped to my feet, snatched up the little plastic tub with the brownies and took off.

“Bowman!” Jamie yelled, as the sand under my trainers morphed into pine needle strewn dirt. I dodged around tree trunks, over branches, sticking to the main pathway. I was not about to get lost in the woods in America, where there were probably bears and cougars and werewolves.

I spared one glance over my shoulder and, through the trunks and balding branches, I glimpsed Jamie hunched over. Was he … was he folding the blanket and tucking it into the backpack?

“Bowman! Get back here!”

“Come get me, Kitty!” I called, putting even more distance between us.

I ran until the air tore at my lungs. Until my quads screamed at me to stop. Until I thought every atom in my body might expire.

I ran like I was seven, and it was the running race at Bruton Willesbury CofE Primary School sports day. I ran like I was in the Olympic 100m final and stood a chance of beating Usain Bolt.

And when I turned again and clocked Jamie finally giving chase, I ran like there was a monster behind me.

A super hot, but very strict, and now probably pissed off, monster.

I reached a fork in the path and began to slow.

“Go left,” Jamie yelled from behind. His heavy footfalls closed the space. Padded against the soft earth. Deliberate, practiced. This was his wood, I reminded myself.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

His wood.

I veered left and picked up my pace.

And I was the dumb foreigner who thought he could outrun a man half a foot taller than me. More probably. Jamie was an ex pro athlete. With a body he painstakingly kept in peak physical condition. He disappeared the gap between us like he was the fucking T1000.

Thudthudthud.

His breaths were audible now. Twigs snapping so close behind me. I slowed infinitesimally, and as I did, a fist closed on the fabric of my shirt. Pulled me to a stop. Spun me around. And pushed me backward, knocking me into a redwood trunk.

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