Page 13 of Loaded

I definitely don’t dream of him sitting on the couch next to me, stuffing his face with popcorn and then offering me some, like he’s my boyfriend.

Because I don’t like Easton Moorland.

Not one bit.

But when I lace up my shoes and set the activity onmy watch to “run,” his stupidly handsome facedoesflash through my mind. I smack the side of my head once to clear it, but all I get for that is a headache. I doggedly turn my playlist on and head for the door.

“Hey, wait.”

I’ve barely made it six steps when Jake’s plaintive voice penetrates the singing of Tim McGraw. I grit my teeth and stop, turning to look over my shoulder. “What?”

I must have spoken too loud, because he motions for me to take out my earphones.

I groan, but I do it. “What?”

“Wait two minutes and I’ll come with. I just have to lace up my shoes.”

I shove my earphones back in and take off.

I hear him swearing behind me, but that just widens my smile. It’s hilarious, annoying Jake, one of my favorite things to do. I speed up a little.

By the time he catches up to me, he’s really puffing. His shoelaces aren’t tied, and he’s scowling. Anyone else would have fallen on their face, but the sheen of sweat just amplifies his ridiculous good looks. It’s obnoxious.

So of course I pretend that I don’t see him.

“Bea,” he shouts like I’m hard of hearing. “Slow up.”

I speed up a little more, which is really silly, because my legs are short and his are long. There’s no way I can outpace him once he’s caught me, no matter how hard I try.

“What’s going on with you?” Jake grabs my arm.

I shake him off.

The second time he grabs me, I spin around and glare. “You want me to mace you? I’ll do it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Who lit a fire under you?”

Who? Why’s he askingwho? “What did you hear?”

His jaw drops. “Wait, no way.” He shakes his head. “Is there. . .a guy?”

I take off jogging again.

“You have got to tell me what happened.”

“I do not,” I mutter, bumping the volume on my music up a little higher. Long-term hearing loss is a problem for tomorrow-me.

Unfortunately, Jake’s well equipped to outrun me. He runs way more, firstly, and also, he’s six-foot-three, so his strides decimate mine. After we reach the park, I finally surrender, collapsing on a bench.

“Six miles.” Jake whistles. “Whoever upset youreallyupset you.”

The park is three point two miles from our apartment. He always calls it a six-mile run. To me, that’s seven miles. I round up with physical activity, always. “No one upset me.” I lean back and close my eyes, tucking my headphones in my pocket. “Except you.”

“Oh, come on, Hornet. I haven’t really upset you.” He bumps me with his shoulder. “If I had, you’d have stung.” He’s always called me that—he thinks it’s hilarious that my name, Bea, is so close to bee. But there’s no way to highlight the connection because they sound the exact same.

Hence, hornet.

“Who was it? I’ve been doing a lot of boxing to get ready for the next Miller film. I’ll go pay them a visit.” He does that weird head toss thing guys do when they’re saying hello to another male.

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