The Fastest Way to Fall(70)

Claire motioned to the water. “Lots of fish in the lake.”





42





THE NEXT FRIDAY, Britta and I were on mile two, our shoes hitting the pavement in tandem. It was a cool morning for late July, and the angry-looking sky hung low, but being next to Britta again lightened the dark cloud I’d been under.

Her brows pinched, and she kept looking at her watch, or where her watch would have been if I hadn’t put it in my pocket. I wasn’t sure why she put it on only to hand it to me, but I liked that brief contact with her fingers every time we ran, so I never commented.

“Hey,” I said. “You haven’t told me you hate me yet today.”

“I do,” she huffed. Her face was red, but she looked strong, back straight and body relaxed. When we first met again in person after the trip to the hospital, it was as awkward as I expected, but once we started running, we fell into our old patterns. We could go back to how things were. It wasn’t going to be so hard.

“One more mile,” I said.

Britta groaned, a low, guttural sound, but despite her protests, she kept going, which I liked about her. She powered through. Even when she didn’t believe in herself, she believed me. I’d been training people for years. No one had ever made me feel as trusted as Britta did. I, once again, wanted to kick my own ass for screwing it up.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she panted a few minutes later.

“You can.” I slowed our pace. I’d inadvertently sped up when she groaned. “What about this? If you finish, I will buy you coffee.”

“Oh yeah? Plain black coffee, or are we going for fancy?”

I chuckled. “Whatever you want.” I mentally ran through my checklist of things to do that day, but I had time. Pearl had moved my meetings to later in the morning ever since Britta and I began training on weekdays. I ignored the big flashing light in my head reading Warning! Warning!—I was planning my life around this woman while pretending she was just my friend.

“Well . . . what if we got smoothies instead? I made that recipe you’ve been trying to talk me into.”

“Are you telling me you’ve changed your opinion on kale?”

“I’ll never admit it!” She pulled ahead, surprising me. If I were a better coach, I would first note how her stride was more confident or how her form was excellent as she ran. Instead, I admired her round, full ass in her running shorts, remembering how good she’d felt in my hands. I sprinted to catch up.

We ran another few minutes before the first raindrop hit my lip, then more on my cheek and arm. I glanced at Britta scrunching her nose when fatter drops fell onto her skin.

“Want to grab a Lyft?” I asked, looking around. The sky had turned from overcast to an ominous shade of gray and didn’t look like it would be a wait-it-out passing storm. Thunder rumbled nearby. “Or we’re close to my place if you want to take shelter there.”

“How far?” She shielded her eyes as the rain pelted us.

“Maybe five minutes that way,” I yelled, motioning north.

“Let’s finish, then!” she called back, pushing water off her face.

We darted between people huddled under umbrellas and scurrying for cover. The rain fell in sheets that soaked us both, my shoes getting soggier with every landing on the flooded sidewalks. Britta’s pale pink T-shirt was plastered to the swells of her breasts. Her dark hair, slick with rain, threw off drops of water as she bounced with every step. I longed to take her arm and pull her into an alcove, pressing her slippery body against a wall. I didn’t want to remember how her curves felt against me, under me, but I couldn’t push it from my head.

As we narrowly avoided an elderly couple huddled under a brightly colored golf umbrella, she flashed me a wide grin. Then I didn’t want to pull her into an alcove just to feel her body; I wanted to kiss her and tell her she was perfect. The only options were alleys and crowded bus shelters. And she’s your client. The reminder was short-lived when Britta shot me another smile, water streaming down her face as we reached my building.

“That was awesome!” She wrung out the edge of her shirt and then her ponytail on the sidewalk under the awning. I watched her movements, trying to shake some water off myself, but it was useless to pretend her hard nipples poking against her sports bra didn’t transfix me. The cold didn’t stop my dick from twitching.

I held the door. “C’mon, let’s get inside. I’ll get you a towel.”

Britta leaned against the elevator wall, catching her breath from the sprint and stretching as we rode. Pride suffused me—in February, she didn’t run. Now we were soaking wet after sprinting down Division Street together. Her shorts clung to the curves of her hips, and I imagined easing them down her thighs, remembering how she’d liked my hands against the skin there.

“I must look like a drowned rat,” she said, letting her foot fall back to the ground after stretching her quads.

I bit back the mushy things I wanted to say. “Maybe like a raccoon who fell in a lake.”

She swatted at my stomach—and the subtle brush of her hand against me was a maddening sensation. “That’s worse!” She tried again, this time with a jab, but I blocked her fist as we exited the elevator.

We’d done a few boxing workouts—she loved it, and I liked play sparring with her. It was another excuse to touch her that was within professional boundaries. “A swimming raccoon is worse than a drowned rat?”