When I round the next bend, a smile spreads across my lips as I spot the distinctive redhead walking a few yards in front of me. Stevie is pounding the sidewalks, moving at an energetic pace, her long legs striding easily as her arms swing at her sides. Wearing a sleeveless running top and tiny little running shorts, she is a vision for my tired eyes. Damn, her ass looks good in those shorts, and my dick wholeheartedly approves.
I jog faster to catch up to her, noticing the ink on her neck for the first time as her ponytail swishes side to side. Slowing my pace, I walk the last few steps toward her so she hears me and isn’t surprised. But I didn’t realize she’s got AirPods in.
Stevie jumps and emits a startled scream when I appear alongside her. Stumbling, she almost trips over her feet, and I hold her elbow to steady her.
Tugging the pods from her ears, she rubs a hand across her chest. It takes considerable effort not to lower my eyes. I’ve noticed she’s got a killer rack, and her chest is heaving from exertion, so not peeking is monumentally difficult. But I don’t ever want to objectify her or make her think what we have is purely physical. My attraction to her is way deeper than how she looks or the electrifying chemistry we share.
Everything about Stevie Colson enchants me.
“Fucking hell, Garrick. You almost gave me a coronary.” She thumps my upper arm. “You can’t go creeping up on people like that.”
“I wasn’t creeping. I stopped running so you’d hear me walking up. I didn’t realize you were listening to music.”
“I’m listening to a podcast actually.” Her eyes skim over my training top and shorts as we walk at a brisk pace. Her tongue pokes out between her lips, and her eyes widen when she notices my hair is tied back in a man bun. I fucking hate that term. The only time I rock this look is when I’m exercising and I need to keep my hair out of my eyes so I don’t trip and crack my skull or drop a weight on my foot.
“Which one?” I inquire.
“It’s a true crime podcast. I listen to a bunch of different ones. If I’m not listening to music when I run, I am usually listening to this.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “How are you here? This feels semi-stalkerish.”
I laugh. “If I’m going to do something, I go all in. If I was stalking you, you wouldn’t know it. I’d be all about the stealth.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“It’s the truth. I usually run at the park, but I need to be on campus early today, so I decided to run locally.”
“So, it’s just a coincidence we bumped into one another then?” Her expression conveys her continued wariness.
“You call it coincidence. I call it—”
She blocks her ears with her hands and starts singing, “La, la, la.”
Warmth spreads across my chest as I chuckle. She’s too fucking cute. I wait until she stops singing and lowers her hands. “Fate, but we’re not labeling shit, so pretend I said nothing.” After our heart-to-heart on Monday night, we agreed to not put any labels on anything and to just hang out.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You get what you see.” I gesture toward myself, pleased when her eyes drink me in like a cold refreshing drink on a hot Texas day.
“I didn’t know you had ink,” I say, purposely changing the subject. “What is it?”
She slams to a halt and turns around. “See for yourself.” Lifting her ponytail, she bends her head so I can see the small design.
The artwork is sublime, and whoever tattooed it is clearly talented and master level. Encased in a black circle is a triple spiral symbol in a rotational pattern. Gold and silver are entwined with the black to create a stunning visual. “It’s beautiful.” I sweep my fingers over it. “Is it a Celtic symbol?”
“Yes.” Her one-word reply comes out in a throaty whisper.
“What does it mean?” I ask, removing my hand and freeing her ponytail from between her fingers.
She turns to face me. “It’s called a triskelion or triskele, and it’s a complex ancient Celtic symbol that can mean many things like life, death, rebirth. Father, mother, child. Past, present, future. Power, intellect, love. My dad was of Irish ancestry. That was something he divulged to Mom that night.”
I want to ask her about him. To understand why he’s not in her life. But it’s a bit too heavy for six thirty a.m., so I dampen my natural curiosity.
“I wanted to get a tattoo of something that would represent my father,” she continues, “so I had a piece of him with me but also something that had deeper meaning for me. It’s an emblem of resilience and determination in the Celtic culture, and I knew this was what I wanted when I found it.”
“It’s perfect for you, and it’s a stunning tattoo. Why hide it where no one can see?” I hadn’t seen it at The End Zone or the country club, and she was wearing her hair in a ponytail on both occasions. But her hair is thick, and the ink is small, so it’s well hidden from prying eyes. I am guessing that’s probably the point.
