Finally, my gaze met his. He stood there, hip cocked against the fence, mesh running shorts outlining his muscular legs, a plain white T-shirt tight across his chest.
“Actually, a good day. My students are happy to have me back.” My feet brought me closer to him. There was the faintest hint of stubble over his jaw. I stilled my hand from reaching or stroking.
“One student in particular. Abbiewith an ie…” The last bit lodged in my throat, making its way out on a croak.
“Hey, I’m about to go for a run. Want to come?” He said it as if he asked that all the time, his tone easy, his eyes warm and inviting.
Trying to prevent my brow from furrowing, confused at his casual interruption, I felt my lips form, “Okay. Let me change,” before I could think about it.
“Smitty and I’ll wait right here.”
Leaving my clothes in a pile at the edge of my bathroom, I slipped into running shorts and a tank, shoved my hair up, swiped off my makeup, and grabbed my shoes and Smitty’s leash. The breath rushed out of my lungs. This was the most spontaneous I’d been in years.
“Here.” Aiken grabbed the leash as I laced my shoes on the back stoop.
“Hope you can keep up with me,” I said as we neared the end of the driveway.
“You better set the pace, then. Right or left?”
“Left.” And off we set on a run.
“Are you a talker or not?”
I eyed him up, once, twice.
“When you’re running. Lord, what were you thinking? Get your thoughts out of the gutter.” He emphasized the wordLord, drawing it out with his tongue, making my belly swirl with warm fuzzies. It had been a while, but they felt invigorating.
“I haven’t run with a partner since grad school when Mary and I would go for miles, burning off steam and trying to work off all the coffee and pastries.”
“I could take or leave the talking, so it’s your call. You want to talk? Then I’m cool. If not, I’ll just run.”
“Um, was it a good day for you?”
I hadn’t made small talk in a decade. I might as well have asked about the weather.
“Yeah, picked up a new client. Dairy farmer close-by. Needs a website revamp, custom email, interactive kind of stuff for their site. Bright lights, big city, babe.”
“So that’s what you do?”
He nodded. “Always had a knack for computers and programming. Was pretty much the outcast on the farm growing up. When I wasn’t doing my chores or playing football.”
“Football, of course,” I mumbled.
“I’m ignoring that comment,” he said with a smile, barely breathless from our pace.
“A lot of times, my pops would find me in my room, taking apart some piece of used electronic equipment, making YouTube videos, or some shit like that. My dad didn’t know what to do with me. Then, for my senior project, I created a website and all the social media stuff for our farm.”
He ran and kept talking, while my legs were on fire, my lungs working overtime.
No way I’d give in, though.
“And?”
“And my teacher called my dad in and said he knew he wanted me to work the farm, but there was an associate program nearby, and I should do it. Showed him some of the intricacies of my work. Said I was too good to let this go.”
“Look at you now. Your dad must be proud.”
He shook his head but didn’t answer. “He’d be happier if I came home. I make good money, but at home, I can still come around the farm. He says it’s my legacy.”
