Fifteen minutes later, I open the large front door—seriously, why is this door so huge?—and walk out to the curved driveway. I’m wearing workout clothes, courtesy of Emma.
Chase is bent, stretching. He looks up at my approach and grins, and there it is again, my heart wobbling.
“Come stretch with me,” he says.
I try to touch my toes but only make it to my knees. This is embarrassing.
“It’s been a while since you worked out, huh?” His grin is so attractive, only half of me wants to smack him.
“I’ll have you know that my fingers are very dexterous.”
“Are they now?” he asks.
“I mean, from writing. Typing. Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr. James.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he retorts, all innocence. “Here, stretch your hamstrings.”
He demonstrates a series of movements, which I’m attentive to, mostly because of the things those stretches do to his muscles.
He’s serious about his fitness, probably because of his job. He’s not quite as buff as Sebastian, but he’s taller, with wider shoulders, and every part of him is lean, hard, and strong. Or at least, every part I can see, and I imagine the parts hidden by clothes as well.
I attempt to copy him, and he adjusts my body with a large hand on my waist. My breath catches, and the slow, steady pressure feels like a prelude to more.
He quickly lets go, but not before he gives me a look. It leaves me thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’s at least a little affected by me, as I am by him.
“Here, like this.” He shows me what I should be doing, and I fix my stance.
We go through the rest of the stretches like that—with him touching me in the most distracting of ways. He’s so close, I can smell the shampoo in his hair, feel the calluses on his fingers. It seems like hours, but it’s probably only been a few minutes.
When we’re done, he steps away. “You should be warm by now.”
“Oh, I’m warm all right,” I mutter.
His mouth quirks up.
“Good,” he says with a bland smile. Maybe I’m just imagining the heat in his eyes. “Let’s get running.”
Shit. While he was doing all that close touching, I almost forgot that the object of this is to run.
He must read my mind because he laughs. “Yes, Olivia, now we run.”
“Do we have to?” I whine. It’s not attractive, I know.
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” he calls, jogging backward faster than I can jog forward.
I follow him with ungainly strides.
Ten thousand years later, I think I’m going to puke. My breath wheezes in and out like bellows. Sweat drips down my forehead. I don’t even bother wiping it away because more sweat instantly takes its place. Nothing exists. Not birdsong or breeze, blue sky or trees. Not even Chase casually running next to me. There’s only the relentless pavement that stretches endlessly and me trying not to die with the dragging lift and pound of each murderous step. I’ve never thought of myself as competitive, but I can’t bear the shame of telling Chase I have to stop because of wimpy lungs and out-of-shape legs that feel like jelly.
He jogs alongside me, commenting on houses we pass and neighborhood features, while I contemplate how to fall down on purpose and break my leg, so I never have to run again.
And he isn’t even out of breath. That’s the worst part. This is a pity jog, the mildest of warm-ups for him. He’ll probably run ten miles after he kills me with this light jog.
I stumble as a wave of dizziness crashes over me, my lungs trying to draw in enough oxygen to keep going. Maybe I’ll get a broken leg after all.
“Hey,” he says, stopping short, catching and steadying me. His touch makes me even dizzier.
He gently bends me over. I inhale beautiful, blessed oxygen in deep gulps. In this position, the sweat pours off the top of my head rather than going into my eyes, which is a nice change.
Chase rubs my back in soothing circles. “Breathe. Slow, deep breaths.”
After a few minutes, my breathing does slow to manageable levels, and my heart rate calms. When the world rights itself, I stand and wipe my face with my soaking T-shirt. I’m a mess. I bet Cassidy Reynolds doesn’t almost pass out from a short run. I bet she glows.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks, his eyebrows drawn together.
I nod, embarrassed. I know my face has to be tomato red from the exertion.
“You need to tell me when to stop, Olivia. We don’t have to run miles on the first day.”