The Hot One

That’s new, and it’s most interesting.

I pencil in a new item on my mental to-do list. Find out how much she likes spanking. I never spanked her in college—just wasn’t part of the repertoire. But judging from her response now, I’m more determined than ever to find out everything she likes in and out of bed.

For the first minute of our run, we’re quiet as we find our pace.

A fast one, to be sure. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to beat me. The woman possesses some serious speed. I like it. Keeping up with her is yet another way she challenges me. As that thought takes shape, I realize that’s a key part of why I’m so into her. She always kept me on my toes.

We round the first bend, curving past a cluster of tall maple trees that canopy the path. “So, Delaney. It’s your turn to spill the beans.”

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What beans?”

I hold up my hands like I’m kneading dough. “How the hell did you become the woman with magic hands? I had a seriously sore neck from reading contracts, and you worked some wonders on me the other morning,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

She shoots me a warm smile. “I’m glad you felt better. Do you get tightness there a lot?”

“Yes,” I say, but before I go into more detail, I realize she’s deflecting. She’s dancing around my question. I don’t follow her lead. “How did it happen?”

She waggles her hands as we jog. “The magic in my hands? Simple. I wished upon a star when I was a little girl. And voilà.”

I roll my eyes, and swat her backside lightly once more. She pretends to yelp.

“Permission to treat opposing counsel as hostile,” I say playfully.

“Objection. I’m not hostile. Just making you work hard.”

“You definitely make me . . .” I let my eyes drift downward, and Delaney follows my gaze as we keep a steady pace, and I finish the thought, “. . . hard.”

“I noticed when you showed up.” She winks.

And I’m about to just slide right into the repartee when I remind myself that I can’t let the naughty banter distract me from my mission—to get to know her again. Delaney’s the type of person who keeps her feelings close to the vest. She takes her time to open up. Once she does, it’s a glorious thing, but sometimes the process is like questioning a reluctant witness, and you’ve got to stay on it. Good thing I’m a tenacious bastard. “Let’s get back to the question, sexy angel.” I pause a moment, realizing I like sexy angel better than sweet girl. It suits her now. “How’d you ditch law school and become a masseuse?”

She sighs then fixes her eyes ahead of her, narrowly sidestepping a twig in the middle of the path. “My story is quite simple. Remember the debate competition?”

How could I forget? The Elite was the last time I saw her. Professor Blair found a way for me to pair up with someone else in the competition, and when I did, we went full throttle. I prepped my ass off, treating the competition like a goddamn national debate. We took no prisoners while winning, and winning soundly.

Which also meant I beat Delaney, even though she was sharp that day.

“I remember it,” I say as we run past a group of gray-haired men likely training together for a marathon or race. “We were supposed to partner together.”

“But you wound up with some other partner, and we faced off against each other. There was some prize money that was to be used for law school,” she says, and I nearly stumble on the hard dirt path.

I feel like I’ve been clobbered, like her words smacked my chest with a bag of bricks. Why didn’t I see it before? That money must have been her path to law school. I didn’t know going in that there was a prize—it was announced at the end. Did I take her chance at law school away from her when I won?

“Right,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Were you counting on that money?”

She looks at me as I regain my steady footing. “It would have helped defray some of the costs. But truth be told, the competition itself—the debate itself—was the eye-opener. Especially the way I felt arguing with you.”

A darkness seems to cross her eyes. Maybe sadness. I’m not sure, but I cringe as I recall the way I devoured the competition that day. I kicked unholy ass, and won a three-thousand-dollar award at the end. Three thousand dollars hardly makes a dent in law school. But for Delaney, maybe it would have paved the way.

“Was it the money?” I ask, holding my breath in hope that she says no, because I will fucking kick myself in the jaw with a steel-toed boot if she says yes.

“Honestly, no,” she says, and reflexively I run a hand over my jaw, glad I won’t be bashing in that part of my facial structure. “Sure, the money would have been nice if I still had wanted to go. But the debate itself was my . . .” She slows and looks up at the peach streaks of the sun showing above the horizon. “My tipping point. It made me realize once and for all that law was not for me.”

That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not only did I break up with her, but what if I broke her fucking spirit in the debate? What if my approach, guns blazing, did her in? Jesus Christ. Could I have been a bigger dick?

“That debate made you reconsider all your graduate school plans?” I ask, because for some strange reason, I feel like she’s not telling me something. I don’t mean some dreaded big secret like a baby or a sickness. I mean something emotional about her decision. Something personal—Delaney was like that—she didn’t always share right away, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to the story.

A strand of hair slips from her ponytail as we run, and she tucks it over her ear. “Yes. The debate was a tough one.”

“It sure was. You were tough, Delaney,” I say, remembering how focused she was at the podium, making her points. “A ferocious competitor.”

She nods a quick thank-you. “There was a lot riding on it for me. It forced me to look long and hard at what I wanted to do in life. Like you, I once felt that justice was my calling. That I could fight for it and deliver on it.”

I wince as I ask the next question. “And one debate turned all that around for you?”

“Well,” she says, laughing, “not entirely. But it was pretty illuminating.”

“What did it illuminate?” A stone lodges in my chest.

She darts away from me, and I turn quickly to follow her. She stops, bends to pick up a discarded soda cup, and resumes running. “Litter. One of my pet peeves.”

I grab the cup from her and toss it in the nearest recycling bin, shooting it like a basketball.

“Two points,” she says, as we keep running. “And to answer your question, the debate made it easy for me to turn down all my law school acceptances.”

“Whoa. You turned down everything?” I can’t even imagine doing that.