Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(21)

“Hi,” I said, continuing my awkward lumber. I was so winded I sounded like a phone sex operator with a serious smoking habit.

Please keep running, I silently begged him. Just run right past me, give me a glimpse of your sweaty back musculature, and I’ll go back to thinking about bear maulings.

But Jonah fell into step with me. He could have walked faster than I was running right now. I wanted to kick him.

“How’s your morning?” he asked, annoyingly unwinded.

“’S great. Fabulous,” I gasped. Spots danced in front of my eyes. “Oh for Pete’s sake.” I gave up all pretense, stopped, and bent at the waist.

“You okay?”

“No! I’m not okay. I’m dying. I’m going to hyperventilate and die right here and then be eaten by bears or skunks or timber rattlers.”

His feet came into my line of sight.

“Go on. Leave me here. I’ll crawl home,” I heaved dramatically.

“You need to change your stride,” he said.

I glared up at him from my hunched over position.

“I need to not have registered for a triathlon,” I countered.

He didn’t react to the information. Which either meant he was disinterested or my big mouth brother had already told him.

“You’re taking too much impact on your heels. It’ll tire you out faster. Land on the balls of your feet. It’s springier. Easier on the joints.”

He demonstrated for me while my joints voiced their displeasure at me. “I’ll consider your suggestion,” I said stiffly.

“Your wind leaves a lot to be desired, too,” Jonah observed. “How far did you go today?”

I straightened, pleased when I didn’t vomit all over him. Peering over my shoulder, I gauged the distance. “At least six miles,” I guessed.

His lips quirked. “If you started at the house, you’re only about a mile out.”

“Are you kidding me?” Screw it. I’d kiss that $300 goodbye and find a better way to prove to myself that my body was capable of more than just deteriorating.

Was competitive napping a thing?

“Maybe a mile and a half.”

“I don’t want your pity measurements!”

“Relax, Shelby,” he said lightly. “You’re doing fine. When’s your triathlon?”

“Six weeks.” He didn’t outwardly flinch, but I was pretty sure the words “Oh, boy” flitted through his mind.

“Six weeks? Okay. We can work with that if you’re not setting unrealistic goals.”

“We? Unrealistic?” I really needed some water. My mouth felt like I’d licked a bag of cotton balls. Longingly, I stared at the water bottle in his hand. Why hadn’t I thought to carry a water bottle? Rookie mistake. “I just want to finish.”

“Finishing we can work with.” He put his hands on his hips and stood there looking like a romance cover model.

“You keep saying ‘we.’”

“I’m a personal trainer. I coach people for athletic events.”

“I have zero money. Your mercenary sister’s rent isn’t exactly bargain basement.”

“Scarlett is a shrewd businesswoman,” he agreed.

I was being grumpy and petty.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed and exhausted,” I said by way of an apology.

“And I can help you with that. Free of charge,” he offered.

My eyes narrowed as I attempted to assess his motives. But his handsomeness kept getting in the way. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be very neighborly of me having all this knowledge and not share it with you, now would it?”

“Bootleg Springs sure is rubbing off on you,” I observed.

His smile faded.

“What?” I asked, intrigued by his sudden shift in mood.

“Nothing,” he said, staring out ahead. He reached up and across, grabbing his shoulder. Jonah Bodine was feeling vulnerable. Interesting.

“Are you still upset with everyone over the whole ‘me being an evil reporter’ thing?” I hazarded a guess.

He shrugged carelessly. “No one really loves being the laughing stock of an entire town.”

“That’s not what they were doing,” I told him. “At least not only what they were doing.”

“Really? Because that’s what it felt like,” he said.

“Jonah, don’t you see what that was?”

“Everyone making sure I remembered that I’m the outsider. I should probably get back to my run,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare move,” I threatened. If he started running, I’d never catch him. “Your family was welcoming you into its ranks.”

“By making me the ass of a joke?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ever pledged a fraternity? Or joined a sports team? This was their way of recognizing you as one of them. You’ve been initiated into Bootleg Springs.”

“Initiated? Feels like they’re pushing me out,” he said, a little crack in his cool showing.

I saw the flicker of hope shine through. If shirtless Jonah was physically attractive to me, vulnerable, shirtless Jonah was practically catnip. I was a sucker for authentic vulnerability.