I quirk a brow and follow.
Lance is waiting on the porch, arms crossed, looking like some kind of smug Greek statue.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Disappointment, probably, from having to see your face.”
A slow grin spreads across it and a tiny flip of something sparks in my chest.
“You’re late,” he says. “I said ten minutes.”
“Didn’t realize we had a date.”
“Trust me, Half-Pint, if we were on a date, you’d know it.”
He turns and jogs off, and I stare after him. He stops and glances over his shoulder. “You coming?”
I swear under my breath and run after him, each step fueled by spite.
Cavall bounds alongside us, darting into the trees and back again, his tongue lolling like this is the greatest adventure of his life. Meanwhile, we’re about five minutes in and I’m wheezing like I swallowed sandpaper.
Lance, who’s been ahead of me this entire time, slows and runs in place, turning just enough to watch me struggle toward him. Sweat slicks his skin, catching the early-morning light as it filters through the trees in gold and green. The sun breaks through the canopy, striking him dead-on, and I resent the fact he looks like he belongs out here. Like nature is his habitat, and I’m the outsider who wandered into it.
When I finally catch up, he eases into a jog beside me.
“Your breathing’s terrible,” he says.
“Your personality’s terrible.”
He chuckles and picks up the pace. “Come on, there’s a place I want to show you.”
I swear under my breath and follow, because I have no idea where we are, and as much as I resent being dragged around by Lance Calloway, the only thing worse would be getting lostalone in these woods. Last time that happened, it didn’t go well.
By minute ten, my muscles feel like overcooked noodles, and by minute who-the-hell-knows, I consider faking a stroke.
Eventually,mercifully, he stops. I skid to a halt, my legs wobbling like those of a newborn deer, and brace my hands on my thighs, sucking in air.
“Good,” he says. “Thought you might quit.”
“If I…quit…I can’t…murder…you.”
I glare up at him, still bent over, wondering if I’m about to throw up or pass out.
He produces a water bottle from somewhere and I don’t question it, because my mouth is so dry my tongue feels glued in place. I snatch it from him and drink greedily.
“Easy,” Lance says, his voice softer. “If you chug it, you’ll get sick.”
I lower the bottle just long enough to glare at him, then lift it again and finish it off out of spite, smiling sweetly when I’m done.
He sighs, hands settling on his hips.
A few seconds later, nausea rolls through me in a slow, vicious wave. I clamp my mouth shut and turn away from him, bracing my hands on my knees while my stomach lurches.
He doesn’t say a word. Just steps forward and holds my hair back while I lose the protein bar and all the water I just chugged into the bushes.
When it’s over, I straighten, wiping my mouth, refusing to look at him.
“I hate you,” I croak.
