Page 28 of Bad Boy Neighbor

Her eyes crack wide open, and in a mad dash, she pulls the robe around her chest in an attempt to cover what I have so gladly pointed out.

“Argh, what are you doing here, anyway?”

“Our run.”

“Our what?”

“Run. If you don’t run today, you’ll pay for it tomorrow. Your body will be in enormous pain. So, I’m saving you the girly rant tomorrow and doing you a favor.”

“You’re doing me a favor by making me run with you again?” she questions, raising her perfectly sculpted brow.

“Yes. Now, can I come in, or should I wait for you to come up with some poor excuse as to why you’re doing something better?”

Gabriella doesn’t say anything, unlocking the screen door. I follow her inside, watching her bare feet drag against the dark wooden floors. She heads toward the kitchen as if on autopilot, turns the coffee machine on, and then quickly checks her robe again.

“Coffee?”

“I’m good, thanks.” I lean against the countertop watching her move around. “What’s with the hair, Gabs?”

“Please don’t call me that so early in the morning,” she mutters. “I had a rough sleep.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Her cheeks turn a bright red against her gorgeous skin. Perhaps I’m not the only one taunted by wicked dreams. How delightful.

“Um… no. Why would you ask?”

“Because insomnia is my best friend. We go way back. I had a rough night too.”

“Oh, I see. Anything I can help with?” she asks, mimicking me.

A broad smile consumes me, much to my pleasure. “Oh, sweetheart, you can always help me in that department. In fact, your braless attempt at answering the door is a great help.”

She grunts, moving her mug to the counter. “Asshole.”

“Have your coffee, grumpy pants, then we’re hitting the pavement.”

“I’m dying. I’m officially dying.”

I stop as Gabriella stands still, hands on her knees and breathless. She’s cute in her little white shorts, pink tank, and skin covered in sweat.

“You’re not dying. Now hurry up, you’re slowing me down.”

“I’m… I’m… slowing you down?” She’s barely able to get out her words. “How much longer do you want to go?”

I roll my eyes at her—running for thirty minutes is hardly a trophy-worthy exercise. “Fine, we can take a break.”

“Uh, no break. I’m ready to catch an Uber back home. I seriously cannot feel my legs.”

“You cannot feel your legs?”

“No, they’re dead,” she exaggerates, again.

I move toward her and scoop her up in my arms. She weighs practically nothing. Squiggling, she attempts to fight out of my tight grip.

“Put me down. Are you crazy?”

“Apparently, you can’t feel your legs, so I thought you might need some assistance.”

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