Page 87 of Loaded

“I mean, it is for sure, but also, I really do ditch himevery time I can. I told him to tie his shoes and then took off.”

Easton’s able to keep up admirably well, though it should be pretty easy. With as short as I am, most guys could sort of saunter at my jogging pace.

“Why do you like ditching him?” Easton asks. “We could just go earlier next time, before he’s even awake.”

“He hears me getting ready,” I say. “That’s why it’s funny. Jake’s not even a runner. He just has such a horrible case of FOMO that he cannot help himself. When he’s home, if I go running, he has to come along. It’s like he’s a tiny dog—not really interested in running, but he can’t help but long to go.”

“So ditching him?”

As if on cue, Jake comes huffing up behind us. “Really? You shouldn’t do this with guests.” He’s wheezing.

“I thought movie stars were all in amazing shape,” Easton says, speaking easily. “But you seem. . .remarkably unfit.”

Predictably, Jake whips his shirt off, knotting it around a belt loop on his shorts. “Six pack and perfectly sculpted abdomen.” He’s wheezing like a smoker running the mile at school, but he looks like a Greek statue.

“You’re a remarkable combination of bizarrely conflicting values, Jacob Priest,” I say.

“Shut up, Hornet,” he rasps. “Or I’ll saran wrap the toilet again.”

How he ever thought he was in love with me, I will never know. “Do it,” I say. “You had to clean it up.”

Easton’s eyes are traveling back and forth between us like a tennis spectator. “You two are. . .a lot.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’s leaving soon. He has amovie—actually, will you be gone before Sunday? Because I’m taking Easton home with me. It would be nice to have a friendly face cheering for us.”

“I mean, you’ll have Elizabeth,” Jake says. “But I’ll be gone by the first family dinner.”

“Will you really? When do you leave?” I ask.

“Next Wednesday,” Jake says.

“I’m confused,” Easton says. “The dinner’s Sunday, right? And today’s Wednesday.”

“But this Sunday’s Uncle Bentley and Aunt Barbara’s wedding,” Jake says.

“No way,” I say. “They’re doing a fall wedding theme—it’s not until. . .” I freeze, swearing under my breath. “Wait.” I stop running. “It’sthisSunday? How self-centered am I?”

Jake jogs in a circle around me, grinning. “This is a fine moment for me. You’re always so on the ball.”

“I don’t even have a gift yet,” I say. “And I never took my dress to get it taken in.”

“Your dress?” Easton asks.

“I’m a bridesmaid.” I groan. “Shoot. How could I lose track of when the wedding is?”

“Too self-centered, I guess.” Jake’s smiling, probably because he’s the most selfish person I know, and yet he remembered. What does that say about me?

The next mile or so, I come up with several ideas for gifts, but Jake shoots them all down.

“You could try their registry,” Easton says. “Isn’t that what people usually do?”

“Like Bentley would register,” Jake says.

But I’m already poking around on my phone, desperately checking the usual places. “Nothing at Target.”

“Multi-millionaires don’t register at Target,” Jake says.

I shove him. Hard.

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