Page 18 of Pick-Up
Of course he did.
“Oh, good,” I say. “I’m so glad to hear there were witnesses.”
“I’m only trying to be helpful.”
“Let me confirm that you’re not.”
I sprint farther ahead. I don’t think I’ve ever run this hard. The trees are blurs in my peripheral vision, and yet this annoying man remains in focus. And then, like a miracle, my running app chirps through my earbuds: “Distance: three miles. Split time: eight minutes, fifty-four seconds. Average pace: nine minutes, forty-three seconds per mile.”
I stop short, gasping, and squat to catch my breath.
Ethan overshoots, realizes I’m gone, then turns around and circles back, still jogging in place.
“What happened?” he says from above. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m fine.”
“So, why did you stop?”
“I was done.”
“Done? You finished the loop?”
“Nope. I run three miles. The loop is three and a quarter.”
“Really? But why not just finish? You’re so close.”
I gape at him incredulously. “Because I don’t want to! Oh my God! Why am I having this conversation? Whoareyou?”
I start speed-walking away, my arms swinging. I’m still breathing hard, but it’s an improvement. He stops running and falls in line, walking beside me.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, running a hand through his mussed hair. “I’m making things worse. Sometimes I do that when I’m… awkward.”
“Are you sometimes not awkward?”
“Occasionally.”
“Okay. Well, good luck with that. I’m gonna go.” I turn my back on him.
“Wait.” He reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. His touch is totally gentle, but it sends such a strong shock wave through my body that I startle and step away.
“What?!” I yelp, my body reverberating.
An enormous man in a Yankees cap and tracksuit sitting on a bench nearby shoots me a questioning look:All okay?Like if I needed, he’d take Ethan by the scruff of the neck and toss him over the fence and into the zoo.
I nod. It’s cool. No need for intervention. But good to know that’s an option.
“Sorry!” Ethan says to me again, holding up his palms. “Look”—he sighs, dropping his hands, flexing the one that grazed my shoulderlike he got shocked too—“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about yesterday. About what happened. And your daughter. So, when I saw you, I figured I’d take the opportunity to—”
“Mansplain about how to fix my running stance?”
“Um, no. Apologize. And explain. If you’re open to it.”
I cross my arms over my chest. I’m trying to maintain my level-orange hatred, but he’s making it difficult. His charming half smile. The crinkle of his eyes. The way he gazes at the ground like a contrite little kid.
Plus, now that we’ve stopped, it’s impossible not to notice his muscular arms and legs, the way his damp T-shirt clings to his lean chest. He’s stupidly handsome and the crookedness of his smile only exacerbates the issue. I smooth my ponytail, catch myself primping and almost groan out loud.Ugh. This guy is every woman’s worst nightmare.
“Okay,” I say, recovering. I will not groom for this man. “Go ahead.”
