‘Leggings are leggings, they’ll do. Chuck ’em in the wash!’
I press on. ‘I don’t think you understand. I can’t do cardio. I’ll be sweaty and out of breath instantly.’
His lip curls. ‘Lots of people are into that sort of thing.’
‘Not the way I do it, I can promise you that.’
‘Well now I have to see it,’ he says.
‘No, you don’t!’
‘I promise it will be fun!’
I scoff. ‘You can’t promise me that.’
‘Yes, I can.Everything’smore fun with you there. Come on, Amorie!’
And looking at his bright, hopeful eyes, I know that he means it. But that’s because he’s never seen me exercise. If he knew any better, he’d ensure that he never did.
He leans further across the table, eyes sparkling with temptation as they lock onto my own.
‘What’s it gonna take to get you to come with me?’ he asks slowly.
‘One million pounds and your firstborn child,’ I reply bluntly.
He tilts his head to the side, putting on his best performance as he pretends to consider it.
‘Tempting, for sure. But I have a counter-offer. We order pizza for dinner, on me?’
I feel my stomach rumble at the mere mention of greasy carbs. Clearly a doughnut and a coffee are not enough to sustain a person all day. But is a free lazy meal enough to justify embarrassing myself in the streets of Prague? I am broke, yes, but am Ithatdesperate?
‘I want extra cheese,’ I say. ‘Onions, mushrooms, peppers, jalapeños...’
He nods. ‘Sweetcorn?’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t insult me. And any form of doughball or garlic knot they have. A mozzarella stick too – any cheesy side, really.’
He stifles a laugh. ‘Anything else?’
‘Do you think they’ll have onion rings?’ I ask.
His laugh seeps all the way through this time.
‘I’ll find a place and get back to you,’ he says. ‘And while I do that, you can prep your outfit for the morning.’
. . .a shortcut
It wasn’t worth a pizza. It wasn’t worthtwopizzas, even with the extra cheese and loaded toppings, and garlic knots on the side.Nothingis worth getting up at five in the morning to meet a bunch of strangers in the Old Town and go for a run.
‘You talking to me yet?’
Noah sidles up to me, the hair on his calf brushing against my skin as he stretches. I don’t dare look his way. I’m too angry. The sun isbarelyup! Why on earth shouldIbe?
‘Can’t talk. Shouldn’t even be awake,’ I huff.
He lets out a warm laugh. ‘Well, you’re going to have to talk eventually. First to forgive me, then to meet lucky date number nine.’
I scour the crowd of bright and alert presumed-sociopaths, all stretching around us in their skintight athleisure sets. They’re all gorgeous, put together, with lean, athletic builds and the kind of smiles that radiate utter contentment. It makes my stomach sink and my shoulders hunch further into the billowed sleeves of the baggy gym shirt Noah let me borrow. I did my best with what I had, knotting it at the front and fashioning a vaguely stylish attempt at a crop top, but even my slither of stomach doesn’t save me from sticking out from this crowd like a sore, and soon to be sweaty, thumb.
