A minute into the run, I was silently cursing everyone and everything.
Fuck you. Fuck running. Fuck the beautiful sun. Fuck those chirping birds. Fuck that lady pushing her kid in the stroller. It should be me in that fucking stroller.
I looked up from the ground and found Thatch smiling down at me, his long legs running at a slow and easy rhythm and not an ounce of discomfort on his face. He paused briefly to pick up a squealing Phil and adjust him in his arms like a baby, and I took that moment to scratch the side of my face with my middle finger pointed directly in his direction.
He caught it and his smile grew wider. “You okay, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I bit out between panting breaths. “Never been better.”
I refused to let him know my body was practically screaming for me to stop.
But ten minutes after that I could no longer keep quiet.
“For fuck’s sake!” I shouted, and the runners in front of me shot glares over their shoulders. “I can’t go any longer, Thatch,” I gasped and jogged off to the side of the path. My feet stayed firmly planted by a bench as I leaned forward and rested my hands on my knees. “I’m done. I’m fucking done. Why do people do this? This is so fucking stupid. Why would anyone want to run unless they were actually being chased or Prada was having a going-out-of-business sale?” I rambled through shallow breaths.
Thatch sat Phil down on the bench, and before I could stop him, he gripped my hips, lifted me over his head, and set me on his shoulders.
“Whoa! What the hell?” I cried. My head spun from the abrupt change in altitude.
“I’m really proud of you, Crazy,” he said and picked Phil up from the bench. “For someone who’s never run before, you kicked ass for the first mile and a half.” He glanced up at me and winked. “So now, just sit back, relax, and hold on tight to Phil. I’ll take it from here.”
He lifted our little piggy above his head and put him into my arms.
Phil squealed in protest, but I slipped him inside the front of my shirt and held on tight to comfort him. “It’s okay,” I soothed. “I’ve got ya, little buddy.”
Eventually, his squeals stopped, and he peeked his little head out above my neckline. He sniffed the air a few times and snorted his content, inside the warmth and safety of my shirt.
“That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Thatch said as he held his phone in front of us, catching all three of our faces in the shot. His gaze met mine in the screen and those chocolate eyes of his glimmered with affection. “Smile, honey,” he said as his lips curled into a handsome smile.
I smiled.
Phil snorted.
Snap. And just like that, our happy little moment had been recorded.
Forever unchanged. Just like your growing feelings for this beautiful, charming, perfect-for-you man…well, five minutes ago you would have thought perfect-for-you asshole.
“All right,” Thatch announced as he moved back toward the path and held my thighs tightly to his shoulders. “Let’s hit it.”
With pep in his step and occasional grinning glances in mine and Phil’s direction, Thatch finished the last two miles of the race just like that—me on his shoulders and our teacup pig in my T-shirt. And beyond that, he did it with ease. The second he crossed the finish line, he pulled me off his shoulders and put his lips to mine. His breathing wasn’t even labored.
Fuck, that man had some serious stamina.
An hour later, we were stuffed full of waffles and settled on a park bench—Phil asleep on my chest, while my legs were stretched out and rested in Thatch’s lap. I watched him watch the people meandering by, his eyes following their Saturday paths with nothing but mild curiosity.
He untied my laces and slipped off my shoes and socks, leaving my feet bare beneath the late morning sun. His fingers kneaded into my soles and started their talented course of finding all of the sensitive spots that ached from the run.
A soft moan fell from my lips, and his gaze met mine.
“Feel good?”
“So good.”
He grinned.
“You know, you’re a really good boyfriend,” I admitted. Even though our relationship had an undertone of pranks and jokes and relentless teasing, Thatch was a good boyfriend. I knew I wasn’t an expert by any means when it came to relationships, but beneath that wicked sense of humor, he was thoughtful and caring and sweet. So fucking sweet sometimes I wondered if I’d get a stomachache from sugar overload.
His brow rose in question.
“I mean, look at you,” I said, nodding toward his hands on my feet. “You’re rubbing my gross feet after I just ran like fifty miles.”
“You’re feet aren’t gross.” He plucked one of my hot-pink painted toes with his index finger and thumb. “They’re cute.”
I wiggled my toes. He chuckled.
“And you only ran a mile. Mile and a half, tops,” he added with an amused grin. “I ran more than half of the race with you and Phil on my shoulders.”