“Here, like this.” He shows me what I should be doing, and I fix my stance.
We go through the rest of the stretches like that—with him touching me in the most distracting of ways. He’s so close, I can smell the shampoo in his hair, feel the calluses on his fingers. It seems like hours, but it’s probably only been a few minutes.
When we’re done, he steps away. “You should be warm by now.”
“Oh, I’m warm all right,” I mutter.
His mouth quirks up.
“Good,” he says with a bland smile. Maybe I’m just imagining the heat in his eyes. “Let’s get running.”
Shit. While he was doing all that close touching, I almost forgot that the object of this is to run.
He must read my mind because he laughs. “Yes, Olivia, now we run.”
“Do we have to?” I whine. It’s not attractive, I know.
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” he calls, jogging backward faster than I can jog forward.
I follow him with ungainly strides.
Ten thousand years later, I think I’m going to puke. My breath wheezes in and out like bellows. Sweat drips down my forehead. I don’t even bother wiping it away because more sweat instantly takes its place. Nothing exists. Not birdsong or breeze, blue sky or trees. Not even Chase casually running next to me. There’s only the relentless pavement that stretches endlessly and me trying not to die with the dragging lift and pound of each murderous step. I’ve never thought of myself as competitive, but I can’t bear the shame of telling Chase I have to stop because of wimpy lungs and out-of-shape legs that feel like jelly.
He jogs alongside me, commenting on houses we pass and neighborhood features, while I contemplate how to fall down on purpose and break my leg, so I never have to run again.
And he isn’t even out of breath. That’s the worst part. This is a pity jog, the mildest of warm-ups for him. He’ll probably run ten miles after he kills me with this light jog.
I stumble as a wave of dizziness crashes over me, my lungs trying to draw in enough oxygen to keep going. Maybe I’ll get a broken leg after all.
“Hey,” he says, stopping short, catching and steadying me. His touch makes me even dizzier.
He gently bends me over. I inhale beautiful, blessed oxygen in deep gulps. In this position, the sweat pours off the top of my head rather than going into my eyes, which is a nice change.
Chase rubs my back in soothing circles. “Breathe. Slow, deep breaths.”
After a few minutes, my breathing does slow to manageable levels, and my heart rate calms. When the world rights itself, I stand and wipe my face with my soaking T-shirt. I’m a mess. I bet Cassidy Reynolds doesn’t almost pass out from a short run. I bet she glows.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks, his eyebrows drawn together.
I nod, embarrassed. I know my face has to be tomato red from the exertion.
“You need to tell me when to stop, Olivia. We don’t have to run miles on the first day.”
“I’m embarrassed,” I mumble. “I just wanted to keep up. I’m ridiculously out of shape.”
His gaze drags up and down my body. It leaves a path of warm tingling.
“You look good to me.”
I gulp back a laugh and kick out one leg, wincing as I do because…running. “These legs are pasty and have no muscle tone.”
His eyes are hot on me. He grazes my thigh with his finger, burning a path where he touches. “Your legs are smooth—pale, not pasty—and the perfect, curvy shape. I’m glad you want to get more exercise because it’s healthy and good for you. But your body couldn’t be more perfect, Olivia.”
I clear my throat. Our faces are close. His hand falls away from my leg, and he takes a tight breath before stepping away. I blink at the loss of him.
“Ready to go back?” he asks smoothly.
His words chill me.
“Run back?” I whimper.
He throws his head back and laughs. “You should see your face right now. You look horrified. No, we can walk. You’ve done a mile, which is great.”
“One mile? Are you sure? It felt like at least five.”
He grins. “Positive. But that’s awesome for your first time. You should be proud of yourself. We’ll go a little farther each day.”
I ignore his assumption that we’ll do this again. That’s insanity. But now that I can breathe again, I am beginning to appreciate my accomplishment. I’m also supremely grateful that I don’t have to run anymore today.
We walk in silence for a while. The neighborhood feels like an oasis. The houses are mansions, but they are older, with lush gardens.
A patch of wild flowers grows beneath a large shade tree at the edge of one property.
Chase leans down and picks a few daisies. He places two in my hands and turns me to face him, gently sliding one behind my ear.
“Thank you,” I say. “Daisies are my favorite flowers.” My eyes sting at the unexpected sweetness of the gesture.
“I know,” he says. “I-I mean, I’m not surprised.”
We keep walking while I twirl the pretty but unassuming flower. “Nanna believed that the secret to happiness is appreciating the mundane pleasures of life, like picking wild flowers or reading in a park on a sunny day.” I tilt my head to him, a quizzical smile on my face. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I used to read in the park all the time whenever I ran away from my foster homes, because I had nowhere else to go. Sometimes it’s funny to think that in a lot of ways, I had more freedom back then.”
“But when you’re in a new city, don’t you explore? You know, sight-see?”
“Not really. If I’m there for an event or to make a movie, it’s big news. My hotel is usually surrounded. It’s amazing, really, how little you ever have to interact with the real world when you’re famous.”
“Are you happy living this way?” I suspect he’s not. Just like when I watched the video of him surrounded by paparazzi, I feel sad for him. For all his wealth and success, he’s more trapped by circumstances than I am.
He shrugs. “It’s just the way it is. Most people have far bigger problems than mine.”
“But maybe you can do those things, regular things,” I urge.
“I can, if I don’t mind ending up on TMZ.”
“But things have changed now, Chase. You’re not new to this anymore.”
“Life is about trade-offs. I’m rich enough that I never have to worry about money again, and I have a job I enjoy. I’d have to be a real asshole to complain about velvet ropes in clubs and parties in Cannes.”
“True,” I say. “I guess most people would prefer A-list parties and international holidays over reading in the park.”
“But you wouldn’t like that life?” he asks, his eyes sharp on me in a way that feels raw. “The jet-setting, the parties?”
I bite my lip, thinking about his question. “I wouldn’t mind traveling. But I’m happier reading a book in front of the fire than partying all night. I’d be completely useless as an A-lister.”
Our eyes connect. “And what if I say that your kind of day sounds better to me than mine?”
“I’d say it means you have discerning taste.”
He laughs, his expression lightening. “Come on, slowpoke. We’re not far from the house. We can run the rest of the way,” he teases.
“Noooo,” I say. “You go. I’ll just lie down in that soft-looking patch of grass.”
He pulls me along. His palm is warm and strong enveloping mine. And he doesn’t let go for the rest of the walk home.
I hobble out of my bedroom an hour earlier the next day, wanting to get fully caffeinated before I’m tortured by the hottest man alive again. Every muscle in my body hurts from yesterday’s run, but maybe the pain means itty-bitty muscles are being formed, and that’s not such a bad thing. So I’ve heard. Allegedly. As I reach up to grab a coffee cup from the white cabinet, I wince as my body protests the movement. Maybe I should have just stayed in bed. All day.
“What’s wrong with you?”