“One more mile,” I said.
Britta groaned, a low, guttural sound, but despite her protests, she kept going, which I liked about her. She powered through. Even when she didn’t believe in herself, she believed me. I’d been training people for years. No one had ever made me feel as trusted as Britta did. I, once again, wanted to kick my own ass for screwing it up.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” she panted a few minutes later.
“You can.” I slowed our pace. I’d inadvertently sped up when she groaned. “What about this? If you finish, I will buy you coffee.”
“Oh yeah? Plain black coffee, or are we going for fancy?”
I chuckled. “Whatever you want.” I mentally ran through my checklist of things to do that day, but I had time. Pearl had moved my meetings to later in the morning ever since Britta and I began training on weekdays. I ignored the big flashing light in my head reading Warning! Warning!—I was planning my life around this woman while pretending she was just my friend.
“Well . . . what if we got smoothies instead? I made that recipe you’ve been trying to talk me into.”
“Are you telling me you’ve changed your opinion on kale?”
“I’ll never admit it!” She pulled ahead, surprising me. If I were a better coach, I would first note how her stride was more confident or how her form was excellent as she ran. Instead, I admired her round, full ass in her running shorts, remembering how good she’d felt in my hands. I sprinted to catch up.
We ran another few minutes before the first raindrop hit my lip, then more on my cheek and arm. I glanced at Britta scrunching her nose when fatter drops fell onto her skin.
“Want to grab a Lyft?” I asked, looking around. The sky had turned from overcast to an ominous shade of gray and didn’t look like it would be a wait-it-out passing storm. Thunder rumbled nearby. “Or we’re close to my place if you want to take shelter there.”
“How far?” She shielded her eyes as the rain pelted us.
“Maybe five minutes that way,” I yelled, motioning north.
“Let’s finish, then!” she called back, pushing water off her face.
We darted between people huddled under umbrellas and scurrying for cover. The rain fell in sheets that soaked us both, my shoes getting soggier with every landing on the flooded sidewalks. Britta’s pale pink T-shirt was plastered to the swells of her breasts. Her dark hair, slick with rain, threw off drops of water as she bounced with every step. I longed to take her arm and pull her into an alcove, pressing her slippery body against a wall. I didn’t want to remember how her curves felt against me, under me, but I couldn’t push it from my head.
As we narrowly avoided an elderly couple huddled under a brightly colored golf umbrella, she flashed me a wide grin. Then I didn’t want to pull her into an alcove just to feel her body; I wanted to kiss her and tell her she was perfect. The only options were alleys and crowded bus shelters. And she’s your client. The reminder was short-lived when Britta shot me another smile, water streaming down her face as we reached my building.
“That was awesome!” She wrung out the edge of her shirt and then her ponytail on the sidewalk under the awning. I watched her movements, trying to shake some water off myself, but it was useless to pretend her hard nipples poking against her sports bra didn’t transfix me. The cold didn’t stop my dick from twitching.
I held the door. “C’mon, let’s get inside. I’ll get you a towel.”
Britta leaned against the elevator wall, catching her breath from the sprint and stretching as we rode. Pride suffused me—in February, she didn’t run. Now we were soaking wet after sprinting down Division Street together. Her shorts clung to the curves of her hips, and I imagined easing them down her thighs, remembering how she’d liked my hands against the skin there.
“I must look like a drowned rat,” she said, letting her foot fall back to the ground after stretching her quads.
I bit back the mushy things I wanted to say. “Maybe like a raccoon who fell in a lake.”
She swatted at my stomach—and the subtle brush of her hand against me was a maddening sensation. “That’s worse!” She tried again, this time with a jab, but I blocked her fist as we exited the elevator.
We’d done a few boxing workouts—she loved it, and I liked play sparring with her. It was another excuse to touch her that was within professional boundaries. “A swimming raccoon is worse than a drowned rat?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip and smiled. “I don’t know why, but it is.”
My gaze tripped on her lips, and she landed a soft punch to my stomach. Her expression brightened. “Gotcha!”
“Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“Is it working?” She looked down at her hands, realized she was still touching me, and let them drop.
“You’re terrifying,” I said, turning to unlock the door. I was inviting trouble, because even after turning away, my body buzzed where she’d touched me.
The open space was dim, and the storm spread out before us through the floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows. Lightning streaked the sky, and it looked more like midnight than eight in the morning. “Wow.” She joined me in admiring the view.
I kept the air-conditioning high, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
I ran my hand over my neck to keep from wrapping her in a hug to share our warmth. “You can borrow some dry clothes. Let me get you a towel.”
I looked around at anything besides her, because now she planned to strip down in my house, and my libido screamed how unfair it was that I wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. I rummaged through my drawers and pulled out a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt and handed them to her, pointing her in the direction of the bathroom.
“Thanks!”
After she closed the door, I let out a slow breath. The wedding was the next week, and we hadn’t talked about that or what had happened at her parents’ house, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to face it.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thankful for the waterproof case. I had a few texts waiting from Cord.
Cord: It’s torrential outside and the wireless is out. You might want to work from home. Tornado watch nearby.
Wes: Shit, I might. Things ok there?
Cord: Pearl and I are waiting it out.
Wes: Alone?
Cord: Shut up. See you later.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Britta stepped into my room. My gray T-shirt covered her curvy body. It was a worn and soft shirt from college—my favorite. Athletes got lots of apparel and swag, so it hadn’t been obvious that I couldn’t afford to buy other clothes. The fabric hugged her breasts and belly, and I tried—and failed—to not take in an eyeful. I reminded myself to keep things on a professional level.
She padded toward me in her socks, wet clothes in hand. “I like this shirt. Watch out or I might steal it.”
I chuckled. “Your right hook is getting better. I don’t know if I’d win if you fought me for it. Hey, there are tornado watches. You may want to hold off on leaving.”
She looked out the window in my bedroom, where the sky was still dark, the city blurry as rain streaked down the panes of glass. She cut her eyes between me and the storm and pulled her lip between her teeth. “I should probably get home.”
I nodded, swallowing my disappointment, because she was right. Nothing good would come from staying here together. I nodded toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
I leaned against my kitchen counter while she put her wet shoes back on next to the door. “So, uh, that wedding is next week. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to go with me, or if you’d rather not. It’s okay if it’s too . . . weird now.”