Page 57 of Not Safe for Work

A feral noise tears from my throat, and I increase my speed again.

But this is hardly fair. Rafe descended from giants and has legs like a giraffe. Of course he’s faster, but I can’t let him win. Not again. Today, Daddy’s connections won’t help him.

He increases his speed, and I match him with a glare, daring him to do his worst.

That wins me the twist of a smile that would make the Joker look like Mary Poppins. With fifteen minutes left on my clock, sweat is pouring off me in rivulets. It slides down my face and down my back. My chest is tight, and I really want to stop. This is brutal. But I can’t.

We keep running, paces matched, my breath practically fogging the air. A stitch forms in my side, stabbing me with fiery lashes. I press my hand against it, willing myself through the pain.

With a few minutes left, I up my speed one more time. Who needs lungs, anyway? This is the home stretch, and wings sprout from my ankles as I ascend to the plateau of the runner’s high.

Rafe maintains his pace, watching me before he turns forward again.

My smile is smug as I keep running, my heart about to liquefy in my chest. I’m this close to collapsing when a miracle parts the heavens, and my treadmill suddenly slows, easing me into the cooldown. I want to melt into a puddle, but I take a deep breath and plant my hands on my hips for balance. A knifing ache stitches in my side, but I resist the urge to massage it as the treadmill slows to a stop.

I uncap my water and drink half the bottle as Rafe continues his pace. With an eyebrow raised, I give him my most withering smile before I hop off the machine, making my way for the changing rooms.

As soon as the door closes, I collapse against the wall, bending over as I gasp for air and clutch at my side. I drag myself to the bench, where I lie panting for several minutes.

Dammit. Why did I let myself get caught up in his stupid game? As my racing heart slows and the feeling returns in my limbs, I do allow myself an inward smile.

After chugging back another bottle of water, I’m recovered enough to make it back upstairs. My legs are shaky and rubbery as I pass through the gym, noting Rafe is no longer on the treadmill.

I head to the elevator and up to our room to take a shower.

When I emerge, Rafe has returned, also freshly showered and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s sitting on the balcony with a beer open on the table beside him. I lie on the other chair and fold my hands over my stomach. I refuse to let him see how much he drained me.

“I showered downstairs,” he says.

I look over, searching for some sign of his earlier conversation with Hannah, finding it written in the lines of his face as he turns to study the horizon.

“You okay?” I ask.

He turns to look at me. “Yeah, why?”

I shrug. “No reason.”

We sit in silence, accompanied by the crashing sounds of the sea.

He picks up his beer and points it towards me, offering me a sip. I shake my head because I’ve never liked the taste. He tips his head and takes a long gulp. I watch the line of his throat as he swallows, noting how his bicep swells against the sleeve of his shirt.

“How are your legs?” he asks, his gaze wandering over my lower half, spreading over me like molten sugar. I resist the urge to tuck them away.

“Fine,” I lie. They feel like rubber, and my hamstrings are already tightening, an ache settling in my quads. “Yours?”

“Never better,” he replies coolly, but then he winces as he shifts.

My self-satisfaction knows no bounds.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his lap. It looks like a sketchbook.

“Nothing.” He flips it over and throws me an ominous look. “None of your business.”

If he thinks I’m letting that go, he’s never met me.

“Let me see,” I say, holding out my hand and curling my fingers in a give-it-here gesture. I’m sure I caught the lines of a sketch. Rafe draws?

“No,” he says, tilting the book away from me.