Page 52 of The Midnight Princess
“Hello,” I say, crossing to the treadmill. “I thought you were studying.”
“I thought you were with your fiancé.”
I appreciate the reminder. Pietor will keep me from throwing myself at Jacob.
Jacob tosses his shirt aside, unselfconscious, and wanders closer, hooking his hands over a pull-up bar, watching me power up the machine. I keep my face averted, but the wholeflamengym is made of mirrors, and his chest is like one of those paintings where the eyes follow you around the room.
“You lift weights?” I ask. My eyes flick to his face but catch on the muscle outlining his shoulder.
“Among other things.”
I tap the buttons of the treadmill, increasing the speed to something that demands my attention.
“You’re a runner,” he says.
“Guilty.”
This is good. It reminds me that Jacob and I are nothing alike. It won’t be hard to forget him when he’s gone. I’ll run all the time.
“Does he run with you? Your fiancé?”
“Sometimes,” I say. Pietor tried to run with me once. He threw up and claimed it was food poisoning.
Jacob swings lightly on the bar, wrists close together. I want to push my fingers through his unruly hair, so I train my eyes on a bright orange yoga ball.
“Did you miss him?” he asks.
I never missed him a day. I take a squirt of water and swallow.
“He was doing charity work.”
15
Clean Shaven
JACOB
Alma’s stride lengthens. Her gym clothes, a loose wicking tank top and pair of cropped shorts, are those of a serious athlete. Her shoulders are strong, her legs are long. I catch myself looking and jerk my eyes to her face.
My mother didn’t raise a gym creeper.
“Charity work is great. I asked if you missed him.”
She scowls and my chest tightens. Her polite, royal demeanor chips off around me like bad plasterwork. I want to slide a finger under the ragged edge and hurry along the destruction. Some days, I want to start an earthquake.
“If a person doesn’t answer a question, you should find a better one.” She maintains her form even as she delivers the lesson.
“Not the boss of me,” I mutter.
“What?” she asks.
I lift my voice. “I have to agree.”
She nods but gives me a side-eye. I pull my hair back, raking my fingers through the roots until it’s secured in a band. I move to the treadmill, flick a towel over the handrail, and return to the puzzle which drove me down to the gym at this hour.
Alma didn’t miss her fiancé.
I know what I saw. She was in my arms, the memory of that midnight kiss crowding us together. When Pietor spoke her name—barked it like a foreman halting a workplace safety violation—her expression withdrew, packed up as neatly as a toolbox.
