“Try to look ahead instead of at other people,” he instructed, interrupting my thoughts, as we neared minute ten.
“Thirty more seconds?” I huffed, pumping my arms and looking down at my watch.
“Let’s go a little longer.”
“What?” I panted, giving him an incredulous stare. “I can’t.”
“You can. You’re overthinking it,” he said, not at all winded from our little jaunt. “Even with a hundred other runners, this is just you. Focus on how your feet hit the pavement.” His voice lowered, like what he was telling me was a special secret. “Look straight ahead and focus. No one else matters.”
“I don’t think—” Despite his instruction, I glanced his way, and my words paused when I saw him.
“You trust me, right?” He motioned ahead. “I’ll tell you when we can slow to a walk.”
“You’re going to”—I sucked in a quick breath—“kill me!”
“C’mon. You got this.”
When we’d started out on this run, I’d been a compact race car with careful movements and precise German engineering. After the interminable minutes of running by his side, I felt like an aged dump truck lumbering along the interstate. Sweat ran down my back, between my breasts, and in sheets across my forehead.
“Almost?” I huffed. I had no sense of how much time had passed, and it killed me to not glance at my watch. I tried to count the trees we passed, but it was no use. Had I run for another ten minutes, or had it only been thirty seconds?
“Just a little farther. You feel like you can’t, but you’re strong. You can.” Wes’s playful voice was gone. He was in coaching mode, using his encouraging, take-charge tone, the one that made me follow his direction in the gym and that filled many fantasies when I was alone in bed. “One more minute, okay, Britta?”
“I hate you,” I panted, willing my tired legs forward.
He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing his forearms. I wasn’t too focused on the run to pay attention to the smattering of hair or how his tan skin showcased the outline of veins visible on the firm muscle. “Dig deep.”
The trees in the distance felt like goalposts, and my shoes hit the pavement with heavy, desperate steps.
“Thirty more seconds, c’mon, Britta. Let’s finish strong.” He sped up, and I groaned, trying to keep up. “Ten seconds.” We weren’t jogging anymore, we were running, the score in my head swelling to a dramatic crescendo.
When he said “time” and we slowed to a walk, I bent in half to press my hands to my thighs, gulping air. “How . . . long?”
He didn’t answer, so I looked up, curious about his smug grin. “What? Twelve? Fifteen?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Seriously?” I wheezed. “Really?”
He nodded, the smug grin giving way to a real smile, the one that revealed his dimple.
I ran for over twenty minutes. I couldn’t believe it, and my exhaustion immediately morphed into feeling like I’d grown ten feet taller. “I used to get winded walking up three flights of stairs!” I wanted to post about it on Instagram and call my dad and email the high school gym teacher who gave me a D. Instead, I lunged at Wes, wrapping my arms tight around his neck. My limbs were extensions of this coiled energy.
It took a second—a long second where I wished I could rewind time—but just as I was about to step back, his defined arms fell around me. His low, rumbling voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I knew you could do it.” His lips were close to my ear. “I’m proud of you.”
I pulled back, but Wes didn’t let me go immediately. His hands inched down my back, and our eyes met. His hazel to my brown, and I silenced the silly idea he was about to kiss me, but, damn, it felt like that with his hands on me and his intense stare pushing the rest of the world aside.
“On your left!” A cyclist flew past, and Wes jerked his hands away, sidestepping the bike and then avoiding my gaze. “C’mon. We’ll walk for five or six minutes and then go again.”
I realized I’d hugged him while soaked with sweat. Still, my stomach fluttered with the memory of his whispered words in my ear, and I wasn’t embarrassed, because he’d seen me sweaty more times than he’d seen me in makeup. He’d actually never seen me in makeup or dressed nicely. There was something a little freeing in that.
As we started walking again, my body protested, but my mind did celebratory high kicks. “I don’t actually hate you,” I said as my breath returned. I hoped to break the tension I felt after that hug.