I pick it up the box. A quick shake confirms it: definitely shoes. But not oh-so-sexy Louboutins. These are running shoes. Plain, ugly white sneakers.
A sticky note sits on top of them. On it, written in messy, guyish scrawl, is: Since you refuse to actually be fitted by the experts, I did my best to find shoes for your gait. Sorry I couldn’t find any pink ones.
Is it ridiculous that I feel all mushy inside because a guy bought me the world’s ugliest shoes? It is. I know it is.
But that doesn’t do anything to get rid of the goofy grin on my face.
A glance at the clock tells me I’ll be late for our run. He won’t be surprised—I’m always late. But I dress in a hurry anyway. Not all of my workout stuff is pink, but I go out of my way to ensure that every item I don today is, from the sports bra to the pants and right down to the socks.
I put on the shoes, which are exactly my size. The boy must have done some creeping.
The new shoes seem to fit pretty much the same as my cute pink ones, but maybe I’ll feel a difference after a couple of miles in them. Paul is always squawking about the importance of injury prevention, and supposedly the right shoes will keep me from shin splits, stress fractures, and “all sorts of other bullshit.”
As expected, Paul’s waiting, his back to me as he stares out at the predawn darkness toward the water. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt and matching workout pants. He looks like a fit twentysomething ex-Marine who should take off at a run any second.
And then there’s a cane. A cane I’m still not entirely sure he needs. Still, one thing is certain: This is not a guy who’s about to start running.
“Hey,” I say softly.
I’m braced for him to be at his worst. After his stupid, clichéd “What’d you think of Kali?” move last night, I’m fully prepared for him to do whatever he can to push me away.
He turns. He’s not smiling—shocker—but his eyes are warm. And they grow warmer when they drift down my body, lingering on the right spots before settling on my feet.
“How are they?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the new shoes.
Okay, then—guess we’re not going to talk about the kiss. But at least he’s not being a dick, which is more than I expected given the fact that the man’s emotional armor is thick.
“They’re hideous, exactly as you planned.”
“They’ll keep your feet from rolling in. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”
I choke out a little laugh. “Gosh, that’s romantic.”
His face goes blank, and I realize my mistake immediately. He can exercise with his caregiver, read with his caregiver, even flirt with and kiss the caregiver…but there’s no room for romance. Not with us.
And although I didn’t mean anything by it, words like romance are lethal to a guy like Paul.
To a girl like me too. I once had all the romance in the world with Ethan, and I managed to screw it all up. Maybe some people just aren’t meant for relationships.
Paul’s expression goes from wary to bemused. “Okay then.”
“What?”
He gives a little smile, and my heart twists when I see a flash of sadness. “I was about to put up all sorts of warning signs about how I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” he says ruefully. “But judging from the look of disgust on your face, I don’t have to.”
“No!” I burst out. God, he thinks my disgust is directed at him? I ache to tell him that whatever issues he has, he’s a good deal less toxic on the inside than I am. But I lack the guts. “I just—do you really want to talk about this?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.
He studies me for a second before glancing down at where his hand rests on the cane. “I don’t.”
I force a smile. “So…is there any trick I should know about these shoes? Do I need to mutter a secret code, or do they just work their magic by themselves?”