"Nah," he said, setting his mug on the nightstand. "I always travel with running gear. I've probably run a couple of marathons on hotel treadmills already this year."
I made a face. “That’s depressing.”
He shrugged. “What kind of trail?”
“Mostly flat. Some roots.” I stood up and extended my free hand toward him. “Come on. It’ll be good for you. Fresh air. Trees. The revolutionary concept of running where you actually go somewhere.”
He clasped my hand and laughed, that same full-throated sound I remembered from college, the one that used to make people turn around and stare. I’d forgotten how much I missed being the one who made him do it.
Forty minutes later, we pulled into a small gravel lot at the trailhead. The air was warm with a slight breeze, the type of perfect late-August morning when summer was just starting to think about becoming autumn.
I stretched against the car while Sebastian re-laced his running shoes.
“How far?” he asked.
“Four miles out and back, but we can turn around earlier, if you want.”
He snorted. “I can handle eight miles, Taylor.”
“Just checking.” I stretched my quads, using the roof of my car to balance myself. “Didn’t want you blaming me when your treadmill-soft legs give out.”
“Treadmill-soft,” he repeated, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in exasperation. But I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll see who’s begging for mercy when we’re done.”
We started at a leisurely pace, falling into step beside each other. The trail wound through dense forest, our footfalls muffled on packed dirt that was dappled with sunlight filtering through the canopy.
“Okay, you were right. This is nice,” Sebastian said after ten or so minutes. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Told you.” I couldn’t quite keep the smugness out of my voice as I picked up the pace just enough to make him work for it.
“Don’t gloat.” He tried to elbow me in the side, but I dodged out of the way and sped up.
We were both sweaty and breathing hard when we looped back to the parking lot.
“That was great,” he said, as I pulled my keys from my pocket.
“Told you the treadmill was depressing.” I pressed the button to unlock the door and stretched my arms overhead, feeling the pleasant burn in my muscles. “We should probably hit up the grocery store on the way back. My fridge is pretty empty.”
“Oh, yeah. Good call. Last night was kind of dire.”
The Hannaford closest to my house was quiet at this time of the day, with just a handful of other shoppers parked in the lot. Inside, I grabbed a cart, and Sebastian fell into step beside me, our shoes squeaking on the old linoleum.
“What are we thinking?” he asked, rolling a red bell pepper from one hand to the other.
“Grilling's pretty much the extent of my culinary skills.”
“I can work with that.” He tossed the pepper in the cart, then added two more—a yellow one and a green one. “I can handle the sides. How do you feel about salads?”
“As a side dish, I feel fine about them.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks salads can’t be a full meal.”
I gestured down my torso. “You think lettuce could maintain all this?”
He chuckled, his hand lifting toward my chest as if on instinct, then stopping short. He huffed a quiet laugh andturned to grab a couple of zucchinis instead, glancing back at me with a crooked smile. “Uh, fair point.”
We moved through the produce section together, Sebastian gravitating toward the fresh herbs and fancy lettuces while I grabbed the basics—potatoes, onions, corn, and whatever else looked good.
He held up a container of microgreens. “These okay?”
