Tor had planned to let her win until halfway through their race. That was when he realized there was no “letting”—he didn’t have a prayer. They flew past aspens, their spindly branches bare and ghost white. He pumped his arms, his heavy breaths fogging the wintry air, while she skipped along like frigging Bambi in the meadow for the first time. She looked up and smile lines creased the corners of her eyes.
“Hanging in there? I can dial back the pace if it’s too much.”
“Fine,” he gasped. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because there’s no harm in stopping. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We could pull over. Let you rest and catch your breath.”
“Angel,” he snapped. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Stay away from any bright lights.” She wiggled her hips, jogging in place. “I really want to win that coffee. I forgot my wallet.”
“What’s your average-pace mile?”
“Seven thirty.” She didn’t even pause before answering.
Jesus.“That’s fast.”
She heaved her shoulders in a told-you-so shrug. “I tried warning you.”
“You run marathons?”
“Not yet but I’d like to start. You?”
“No.”
“Sorry, can you repeat that? It’s a little hard to hear you through the panting.”
He tried to snort but it came out a wet gasp. “Pace yourself. We’re almost at the end. That was a three-quarter-mile mark.”
“You’re slowing.”
He was. By a lot. “Just saving something for the finish.”
“Admit defeat. You can’t catch me.” Her legs pumped faster. “TTFN! See you on the flip side.”
He pushed hard, but he couldn’t catch her. Once the realization sank in, his frustration was replaced by admiration, and a little ogling of her Lycra-clad ass. He slowed, sucking in greedy gulps of air.
Here was a woman who could kick his ass into next week, and he’d keep coming back for more.
She blew past the mile marker and turned, throwing her arms up like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her victory whoop rose into the crisp air, cut off by a thrashing from the undergrowth lining the river.
“Neve!” Tor shouted, lunging forward as a male moose emerged. “Don’t move.”
A few weeks ago, while lifting at the gym, one of the televisions had showed a feature on dangerous animals. Near the top of the list was the moose, right after the grizzly bear.
Neve’s muffled swearing was audible, but the animal blocked any view of her face. The moose stood in the middle of the trail, head raised, ears alert. It was still technically autumn. Had mating season ended? The animal could be merely on the lookout for breakfast or succumbing to raging hormones.
One second went by. Two. Three.
No movement. They were having a moose-off.
“Um... Tor?”
The bull grunted at Neve’s hesitant call. Its powerful hooves churned gravel on the trail. Deep nostrils flared.
Big Boy didn’t look happy. Tor cracked his neck and went into game mode. Shut out panic. Shut out the snow beginning to fall in thicker, heavier flakes. Ignored the physiological sensations currently amping his body, the shortness of breath, tingling limbs, racing heart. He’d coach Neve out of this situation.
“Tor, I’m freaking out. Nature is great and all, but this is too much.”
