He looks at me, then the ground, then goes far enough to gesture that I’m sprawled out on the track like a freaking exercising noob.
“Just getting in a few extra warm-up stretches.”
“But you already did your normal prep work.”
Now it’s my turn to give him a look that has him looking away as I stand up.
Just how long was he watching me? And did he run up here to check on me? Is Kooper being… sweet?
“Stalker much?”
“It’s what I get paid for.”
“And you running up here to see if I was okay after falling? That in the job description too?” I take a step forward and bat my eyelashes at him.
He rolls his head back and around till his eyes land on my hand that I put on his arm. I smirk as I give his bicep a small squeeze. Not sure if it’s a reaction or he did it on purpose, but it flexes, and I squeeze it again just for fun.
“You seem to have a habit of falling down when I’m around. Not sure your daddy wants you to hurt yourself every five seconds. It only increases his insurance bill. And if you’re going to fall for a guy, make it one who’s interested in you and not paid to watch. Unless you’re on a stage, that is.”
I drop my hand and turn around. “Joke’s on you. I’m clumsy, not interested.”
“Says the woman who can run up six flights of stairs in hooker heels.”
I shake my head and get back to my lap. I get ten steps in and feel a shadow.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Some call this running.”
“You can’t do it somewhere else?”
“All the treadmills are taken, and I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s raining outside.”
“Whatever. Don’t let me keep you.” I move to the outside lane and slow my pace, hoping he passes. But the asshole doesn’t.
“Nowwhat are you doing?”
“I find it easier to keep you from falling and hurting yourself if I’m close enough to catch you.”
“Push me down is more like it,” I grumble.
He shrugs. “Only time will tell.”
And then the jerk shuts up and just runs. Right. Beside. Me. The entire time. I go fast; he keeps pace. I slow; again, he’s right there. I try to push myself into a solid ten-mile run, and the guy doesn’t even get sweaty. It’s a freaking joke.
I don’t take the time to stretch after my run, just limp down the stairs, get my stuff from the lockers, and then huff and puff to the front desk to drop off the locker key.
“Damn, sweets, you look horrible.” Jordan’s lip rises as if he smells something foul. And a quick sniff of my shirt lets me know I’m the issue. “Well”—he grins—“no more than usual.”
“Skank.” I swallow and feel sandpaper at the back of my throat. “Got any water?”
“Yup.” He grabs a bottle from below the desk and sets it on the counter. I go to reach for it, but he pulls it back. “Three bucks.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs. “Hubby says I’ve got to stop giving the cow away for free.”
“It’s milk that you give for free. And why are you charging? You never charged before.”
