There’s a string of reasons why Garrett Marlowe is an inappropriate choice. He’s my brother’s best friend—not to mention his boss—which complicates everything. Even if the thought of him as “forbidden fruit” does pulse a tingle between my legs.
Then there’s Val.
Kayla plucks the bottle out of the little ice bucket from the corner of the table and pours me more champagne. “I understand. I’m taking a break from dating, as well.”
“Is it because you’re here temporarily?” Catherine holds up her glass for a refill.
“Sort of. While I still think Garrett and you should smash, I’m a big believer in protecting your heart. Last year, I had what was supposed to be a casual thing with a doctor from a NGO. He was only in town for a few months before heading to his next assignment in Congo. I caught feelings, and he did not.”
“Oh, Kayla.” I trail my hand along the table to find her forearm and squeeze it.
“We had an understanding. I knew the rules. No feelings. No commitment. I went in with my eyes wide open and still got a broken heart.” She sighs. “Whatever happens or doesn’t happen with Garrett, protect your heart.”
“I will,” I whisper.
12
MILE TWELVE
SEE HER RUN
Ishimmy into a pair of bright pink yoga pants in the stall in the bathroom down from my office. It’s week three of my marathon training, which still blows my mind. Four days a week, I’m up by five-thirty to train before I get ready and head to work. Twice a week, Garrett and I hit the soccer field’s track to continue the base-building phase of my training. Unlike the base-building he’d done the first time he’d trained for a marathon four years ago—thanks to my brother prodding him into it—we have to develop a language.
It's not just him or me on the track. It’s us. Now, talking isn’t as much of an issue since we haven’t jogged yet. Our sessions have been power walking, and we’re up to two miles. Once you toss in panted breath from running and the loudness the other runners describe at the race, our communication will need to be quick and, sometimes, done non-verbally through tugs of the rope that tethers us.
All of this on top of running 26.2 miles. On my solo treadmill sessions, I toggle between power walking and slow jogs, and I’m only up to 2 miles. Though it tips towards power walking most mornings.
Are you allowed to walk a marathon?Oh god, how long will that take!
Frowning, I tug on a hoodie and then scoop up my tote bag with my work clothes and head to my office. Garrett is meeting me there before we head to the track.
It’s almost alarming how comfortable I’m getting with him showing up at the end of the workday. I should go back to taking the bus after work. After three weeks of getting up to work outand stretching—thanks to the little reminder he put in our shared calendar—I’m getting used to the ten fewer minutes of sleep.
I can pretend that the ride is about getting me home sooner, free use of his car’s butt-warmers, and whatever story I’m telling myself to justify prolonged exposure to Garrett beyond our training. The truth is, I like the time we spend together each day. He grumbles about whatever little item I added to our joint calendar for the day. Today was a task toCraft a poem about Ditka. HisSeriously, Jensen?text at 10:09 a.m. confirming his receipt, caused a happy thrill to zing through me.
An hour later, he texted that poem.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I have a cat named Ditka,
Who has smelly poo.
The banshee-like laugh that chortled out of me startled my boss, Andrew. I like it when Garrett lets his goofy side out. It’s not like I’ve never seen it before, but the more time we spend together, the more he’s letting himself out to play.
Our daily walks from my office and ride to my apartment are sprinkled with teasing comments for each other. It’s also full of just chatting about our day, our training, or random stuff. Like the recipe his mom sent for him and his siblings to cook thisSunday, or the reading that Kayla, Catherine, and I are going to at Heartbound Bookshop tomorrow night.
“Hello, Jensen… Or should I say Sporty Spice in that getup?”
I stop at a caramel-smooth English accent. The male version, not Kayla’s lyrical tenor. She and Catherine pop into my office daily now, to whisk me away to grab a latte, ensuring that her voice is imprinted in my auditory catalog.
“Hello, Miles,” I sigh, adjusting the bag on my shoulder and continuing my stride back to my office.
“I see you are still ignoring me, then?” He says, jogging up beside me.
“I just said hello, didn’t I?”
