Page 146 of Pick-Up
That’s when I sense someone run up beside me. See? I’m not the only person who prefers the road less traveled!
“Hi,” my new running partner says. Only he doesn’t say it, he pants it.
I turn to face him. And I am confronted with Demon Dad. Only he does not look quite like himself. First of all, instead of running gear, he’s wearing jeans, a PT, a perfect hoodie and a streamlined army-green backpack. Second, all are drenched in sweat. He looks like me after two miles. Which is like him after ten.
But he’s still annoyingly sexy as hell.
For a moment, I am thrilled to see him… until I remember that maybe I’m not. “What is actually happening?” I say with wide eyes, not breaking stride.
“I came,” he huffs, “to find you.”
“To find me?”
He nods vigorously, unable to catch his breath.
“How did you know where I’d be?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t. That’s why I went to your apartment. The supermarket. The café. Now… here. Around the loop. Multiple times.”
He points to the road below our feet. In case I don’t know what “here” means.
I have to admit this makes happiness swell inside me, despite my reservations. But why is he here?
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. No. It depends who you ask. Can we talk?”
“Mm. I’m kind of in the middle of something,” I say. “This isn’t the best time for a talk.” We both know I’d love any excuse to abandon my run. But I’m not stopping everything for anyone who can’t be bothered to do the same.
Not today, sir. Not today.
Not that I reached out either, but where has he been? He has been absent since the festival. He gave up so easily. Didn’t even offer an explanation.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not fear; it’s wisdom that keeps me running.
Although in his defense, it does seem as if maybe he has derailed his day to find me. And possibly ruined his tee. Will that neckline ever be the same? Still. I will not be so easily swayed.
“Fine,” he breathes. “We don’t have to stop or talk. I’ll just keep running with you until you’re done. Until you’re ready.”
If I’m honest, I amready. My Lululemon sports bra is being tested. But I am committed to showing him who’s boss.
Me. That’s who.
I drop my arms intentionally low, my hands dangling down by my thighs. I raise my eyebrows, baiting him. He purses his lips shut. Nope. He will not lecture me. He will not give me an excuse to flee.
“Don’t you want to tell me to hold my hands higher?”
“Not really,” he grunts.
“What about my gait? How’s my gait?” I say, throwing my legs around in the world’s most erratic way.
I watch him suppress a smirk. “It’s perfect.”
That’s when I get my earbuds tangled up on my wrist and, while looking down trying to sort it, trip over—maybe nothing? “Shit!”
I am about to hit the ground, surrendering to a scraped knee and shattered ego, when I am caught around the rib cage by two strong hands. Poking out from a perfect hoodie.
“Whoa!” he says, helping me to standing and ushering me to the side of the loop and onto the grass. “What is wrong with you?”
