He lobbed a trainer vaguely in Prom’s direction. It landed nowhere near him. Kieran sighed.
‘Maybe moving here was a mistake. I’ve demolished more of the cottage than I’ve fixed, my app is appalling, and now I’m developing feelings for someone I barely know.’
He paused. ‘And I’m talking to myself. Classic sign of madness. Or loneliness. Take your pick.’
He needed to clear his head. A run, that was it. Get the blood moving, burn off the mental static. He pictured himself in glorious slow motion – aChariots of Firemoment, Vangelis swelling in the background, sea breeze ruffling his hair.
Reality: he hadn’t run since sprinting for a bus in Edinburgh last year.
Still, he laced up his trainers, stretched half-heartedly, and headed out. With no beach in sight, he settled for the country lanes looping around Cranley.
The first few minutes were glorious. His stride smooth, breathing steady, arms pumping in something resembling rhythm. Then came the chest burn. His lungs shrieked in protest. By the ten-minute mark, his legs felt like overcooked spaghetti.
He slowed to a walk, pretending to admire the hedgerows so anyone watching wouldn’t think he was dying.
‘Morning!’
He looked up. Alison from the boutique, immaculately put-together, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel trotting ahead like canine royalty.
‘Training for a marathon?’ she asked, all cheerful curiosity.
‘Something like that,’ he wheezed. ‘More of a short film than a feature-length effort.’
She smiled. ‘Well, keep at it. It’s a warm day, so make sure you hydrate.’
The dog gave him a pitying glance before they continued on their way.
‘Cheers,’ Kieran muttered, jogging on out of sheer pride.
By the time he reached the pub, several people were already outside, enjoying drinks in the sun. Desperate not to be spotted gasping like a landed fish, he tried to jog past with forced nonchalance.
‘Steady on!’
He swerved just in time to avoid colliding with the sandwich board outsideA Bit of Crumpet. Jo, the café owner, was watching him with a blend of amusement and concern.
‘Hey, Kieran! Everything all right?’
‘Peachy,’ he panted. ‘Just out for a quick 5K.’
Jo’s eyebrows lifted. ‘In jeans?’
‘Experimental training technique,’ he said, and carried on before she could reply.
By the time he stumbled to the edge of the village, his T-shirt clung to him and his legs screamed betrayal. The track curved down towards a stream, shaded by oaks and lined with wildflowers. He slowed, grateful for an excuse to stop.
And then he saw her.
Beth stood on the little wooden bridge, a basket over one arm, leaning on the rail and watching the water slide beneath. Sunlight caught her hair, turning it copper bright. She looked so still, so quietly intent, that for a moment he forgot to breathe.
Of all the people to bump into when he looked like he’d lost a fight with a treadmill.
He considered sneaking away. Too late: she’d seen him. Her face lit up. ‘Kieran! I didn’t know you were a runner.’
‘I’m not,’ he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow and trying for nonchalance. ‘Just clearing the cobwebs.’
‘Looks like they’re putting up a good fight,’ she said, laughing, and the sound hit him right in the chest. It had warmth, and a lightness he hadn’t heard since the barbecue.
‘Yeah, well. I’m not built for speed. Or stamina. Or self-respect, apparently.’
