She’s got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn’t she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.
Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn’t clue me in (real runners don’t care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it’s obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that’s just slightly off that she’s new at this.
Already my brain is racing with pointers. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?
At first I think she doesn’t see me. There’s no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she’s almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.
My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.
But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she’d better get used to seeing me. I’d better get used to her seeing me.
She doesn’t look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn’t really seem to care about those either. Then again, it’s still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can’t really see their ugliness. Which reminds me…
“You shouldn’t go running alone in the dark,” I growl.
She frowns almost imperceptibly, just the finest line between her dark blond eyebrows. “Why not?”
“You go running through the streets of New York City at the crack of dawn?”
“How do you know I’m from New York City?”
I remain silent, not wanting to have to explain that I spent most of the night studying the limited information my dad had sent over on Olivia. Nothing interesting. NYU dropout. Manhattan resident. Short of a crash course in CPR, no actual experience in taking care of anyone. She turned twenty-two just days before arriving in Maine.
But the file didn’t answer any of the things I wanted to know. Like whether she enjoyed that kiss yesterday or was just pretending. Whether she likes guys to hold her face or her hips when they kiss her. Whether she has a boyfriend. And, most important…what the fuck is she doing in Maine?
“Don’t go running alone here,” I say. I don’t bother to explain all the dangers of a woman running alone in the dark. Bar Harbor is safe enough, but all it takes is one sick fuck lurking in the bushes to destroy a life.
“Okay,” she says, surprising me.
I narrow my eyes and wait for it.
She squirms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ve never known a female to acquiesce that easily without a catch. How about you hit me with it now and get it over with.”
Olivia shrugs. “Fine. I was going to say that I won’t run alone if you promise to go with me.”
“No,” I say, almost before she’s finished her sentence.
“Why not?”
I rap my cane once against the ground. “Well, for starters, despite the fact that there are tortoises that could surpass your sorry excuse for a jog, I’m in no shape to accompany even the most pathetic of runners.”
“What a handy skill you have of overloading a sentence with insults,” she says as she reaches up to adjust her ponytail. “That must be helpful, what with your thriving social life and all.”
I thump my cane against the ground again, studying her. “Must be nice, picking on the cripple.”