Legend (Real, #6)(6)

Like Miles, I think.

“Here you go, little man.” Riley sits Racer in the stroller and they bump fists.

“I can’t believe he does that.”

“Yeah, you can. His dad would bust a vessel if he didn’t know how to bump fists by now.”

“What does he have in store for him next? Shadowboxing at the age of four?”

He laughs and heads off.

“Thanks, Riley.”

I feel a prickle in the back of my neck and turn to see Steel Eyes looking at me. He’s doing push-ups on the ground, army-style, quick and sleek, his head raised to look straight at me. Straight at me with such intensity and confusion, I catch my breath. He stops the push-ups and eases to his feet.

He looks at Racer, then at me.

He looks confused.

“Wee, my fut!”

“Food. Right. You want to get to the fruit bears, don’t you?” I turn to open the container of food as well as a bag of healthy dried fruit nibbles, and when I look at the spot Cage occupied, he’s gone.

I search the park and see him hit the running path. People pass by on rollerblades. Others throw balls. There are people walking and running, and couples on blankets making out or having lunch.

And Cage trotting and punching the air like his life depends on it.

I narrow my eyes and look at his profile a little more closely.

He gives me this rebel vibe. Like he’d rather say I’m sorry than may I, and maybe not even the “sorry” at all. There’s a fierce passion in his features and a kindled fire in his eyes. I admire passionate people. People who burn out everyone around them, they’re so passionate, they want so much, they crave so much.

Drops of moisture cling to his forehead, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering about him, things I shouldn’t admit to wondering about. Even to myself.

I stare until he disappears into the trees around the trail, and then I notice Racer has handily climbed out of his stroller. The little bag of dried fruits is right there, where he used to be eating. My heart turns to lead in my chest at the sight of the Racerless stroller. And then the dread slams into my midsection.

Leaping to my feet, I scan the park. Racer is already running a thousand miles an hour after a Labrador that’s chasing its own tail and then chasing some phantom shadow, running from one end of the field to the other like it’s never run in its whole life.

“Racer!”

I can’t put the blanket and everything back into my bag fast enough. In fact, I don’t. I just leave everything there and run after him the moment the dog spots Racer and charges after him. The dog is off a leash and three times the size of Racer.

I see a familiar figure leap up to a nearby tree branch and grab what looks to be a tennis ball stuck between the leaves. He tosses it to the ground.

The dog grabs it and scampers off, fast as a bullet.

Racer starts after him with a giggle of delight.

He doesn’t get very far. Cage scoops him up under his arm and brings him over. “You lose something?” he asks as he sets Racer on his feet before me.

Did I lose something? I think dazedly.

My breath.

My head.

Part of my soul just now, to be honest.

My heart is a kettledrum, still.

I could’ve lost Racer in the park!

The dog could’ve mauled him!

Brooke told me he was restless and irreverent toward dangers, but I never thought looking after an adorable little kid like him could actually be hard.

But it wouldn’t have been hard if I’d been paying attention to Racer rather than the guy standing two feet away from me, and far too close for comfort, now.

Cage watches me struggle to compose myself. “Thank you,” I tell him, then I drop to my haunches in front of my charge. “Racer.” I look at his happy blue eyes and feel my body tremble. “Don’t do that again. If you want to pet the dog, I’ll go with you.”

“Why?” he challenges, eyes bright and twinkling.

“I couldn’t see you, and I was scared you’d get hurt.”

He tilts his little head upward and eyes the guy, squinting beneath the sunlight.

Cage is looking at him too, and then at me. He looks fascinated all of a sudden. And that face of his is so distracting that I have to force myself to look at something else, so I stare at a spot past his shoulder.

“Wee’s my fwend!” Racer says proudly, extending out his arm to Cage. I quickly realize Racer is giving him his fist.

“He wants to fist-bump,” I hastily explain to Cage.

Cage takes in Racer in his Superman tee and his perfect little jeans. “You’re a cool little dude.”

He makes a fist—his huge and tan, Racer’s white and plump—and their knuckles bump.

Cage lifts his eyes and then looks at me. And I make the mistake of being caught blatantly staring at him when he meets my gaze. His dark, intent stare is a little hot and confusing.

Obviously he and I are not going to fist-bump, and for the life of me, I can’t draw anything but a blank from my brain. I seem to have forgotten how to speak.

The pheromones are in the air and my body is acting funny. Why is my body acting funny?

I’m not talkative, but this guy is worse.

“Did you grow tired of the gym today?” I ask him.

Geez. Could you come up with a duller question, Reese?