I wrap my arms around my midsection, leaning against the metal counter as everything I thought I understood about my recent history with this man gets reshuffled.
“You’re not something I like to discuss. When anyone brings you up, I shut them down.” I straighten and reach a hand out, needing to touch him. “Wyatt…”
He steps out of reach. “And I don’t like to talk about this. Or you.” Another step back. “In fact, I don’t know why I’m here at all. I need to be out there, making sure Howard fails so hard he can’t get up again this time.”
He walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Twelve
December, Two Years Ago
Wyatt
* * *
Reese and I may be serious, but I’m not dead.
That’s why, as hard as I’m trying not to notice the woman in front of me at the starting line of the Jingle Bell Trot, it’s proving impossible.
Thick, bitable thighs? Check. A gloriously round ass? Check. Nice tits? Impossible to say since she hasn’t turned around, but my imagination can fill in the blanks just fine. This woman is exactly my type, right down to her swinging ponytail.
I’m about to force my eyes away, out of respect for her and Reese both, when Ms. Exactly-My-Type shuffles back a step and that perfect ass is suddenly making contact with my groin.
“Oh, sorry!” She exclaims, spinning around, and all my floaty, happy thoughts of running behind her for the next thirty minutes implode.
Exactly my type? More like exactly my type of pain in the ass.
“For fuck’s sake,” CJ growls. “Why am I even surprised? Go run someplace else, Wyatt. I was here first.”
I pointedly glance to the left, then to the right, where we’re surrounded by a disorganized mass of humanity in race bibs, running shoes, and an eye-popping collection of festive accessories. From Santa hats to antler headbands to tiny, battery-powered holiday lights wrapped around torsos of various sizes, everyone around us is festive as fuck and ready to run a 5K.
“I don’t think order of arrival matters,” I tell her.
She stomps her Nike-clad foot. “Just go a few rows back!”
I glance behind me, pretend to think about it for a bit, then turn back and say, “Nah.”
“You’re a child,” she snaps, waving her arm and almost clocking the pair of wiry octogenarians in matching snowman sweatshirts who’ve been stretching their hamstrings like they’re going to outrun all of us. “Fine. Looks like I’ll be setting a personal best time just to get away from you.”
Well, that can’t go unanswered. I move to stand next to her, enjoying my height advantage as I peer down at her. “You think you can kick my ass, Parrish?” I roll out the most condescending laugh I can muster, and it has exactly the effect I hoped. CJ actually quivers with rage.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says as she starts to circle me. “And what are you wearing?”
“My sister’s tutu from a ballet recital a few years ago,” I say matter-of-factly. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for weapons.”
I hold my arms straight out, indulging her paranoia. “If I’d known you’d be running next to me today, I’d have packed all of my knives and grenad—hey!”
CJ smirks up at me from where she’s just run her hands along my sides in a full pat-down. She even feels underneath the elastic on the fluffy white skirt digging into my waist.
“Can’t be too careful,” she says. “I’m here without my pepper spray.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to improvise.”
We’re standing chest to chest now, and my blood’s pumping so hard at the challenge in her eyes that I miss the starter pistol. So does she. The crowd around us surges forward, eager to get the race underway, and I have to plant my feet against the onslaught of runners at my back that threaten to knock us around like billiard balls. But I find I can’t move a muscle as CJ blinks up at me and darts out her tongue to wet those soft, pink lips.
“Wyatt?” she whispers.
