Page 27 of Get Me to the Starting Line

“I’ll have you know—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not safe.”

That pulls me up short. “What?”

“Y-You might draw too much attention.”

Is he ... worried about me? That cannot be right.

“I think the heavy breathing and big-ass stroller help with that.”

He’s already shaking his head. “You’re easy to remember, even without the colours.”

My brows shoot to my hairline. Dealing with this man is testing my already-limitedpatience.

“Because I stick out like a sore thumb?” I’m trying not to get offended at every word he says, but he’s making it so damn difficult.

“Yes.”

Breathe, Leah, breathe.

“Well, shit.”

“Shit.” Levi’s voice comes from the stroller. I sigh.

I’m never going to live that one down. To my surprise, Julien bursts out laughing. I’ve never heard him laugh. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time with him, but I’ve never even seen him smile.

The sound is low and rough, and the smile transforms his usual scowl. He was handsome before, but now? Damn.

I think I’m in real trouble now. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Assholes are my type.

Aswearwordcomingout of the little toddler’s mouth takes me by surprise. The only word he said the other day was mama, and I haven’t heard him say anything else today.

So when each sound of the word “shit” was pronounced to perfection, including an imitation of his mom’s inflection, I can’t help but laugh.

I have to wipe a tear from my eye because it was so damn funny. Leah regards me warily, making my smile falter, and the feeling of self-consciousness creeps up the sides of my neck.

“Are you blushing?” she asks, eyes going wide.

“N-No.”

“Liar.” The word has no bite to it, so I don’t take it personally like I would have if she was serious.

There’s a lightness in her face that wasn’t there a moment ago. I’m not sure where it came from—probably her son swearing—but I like it. Almost as much as I’ve come to enjoy her anger. I want to make a comment about the night of the engagement party, whenshe told me to watch my language in front of her kid. But I have common sense, and I know that probably wouldn’t go over well.

There’s a bit of a pause before we begin our slow run. I don’t know what to say. I failed so miserably last time, and I don’t want to make things worse.

“You don’t have to run with me,” she says, breaking the silence.

“I know.”

We last three minutes before she needs to stop. She’s making great progress. I should tell her that.

“You lasted three minutes,” I tell her. Was that kind enough?

“Probably longer than you’d last,” she mutters.

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