Magical Midlife Madness (Leveling Up #1)(37)

My heart stuttered and my adrenaline spiked. Self-defense lessons I’d taken in my twenties cycled through my head. I looked over my shoulder, playing it cool.

Niamh was on my tail, wearing an 80’s sweatband nearly identical to the one Mr. Tom had offered, a wrist band set and tiny running shorts showing off wiry, bleach-white muscles that nearly glowed in the streetlights.

I slowed to speak, or at least grunt, but she put up a hand in a wave and passed me by. “Meet ya at the pub after. First round is on me.”

I gulped air in her wake, watching her form practically zoom up the street and around the corner. The woman was trucking it! What an ego crusher.

Legs wobbly, I carried on. If she could do it, I could do it. Eventually. One day.



A half hour that felt like years later, I finished a large circle, landing me at the opposite end of the downtown strip from home. Deciding it was time to cool down before I fell down, I slowed to a walk.

All in all, besides the fact that a woman twice my age had mopped the floor with me, it had been a decent first run. Everything hurt and I probably looked like Quasimodo, but at least I’d gotten out and done something. Which didn’t mean I was about to join Niamh for a drink.

The downtown strip, all few blocks of it, was mostly quiet. Loud laughter came from the hotel down the way, with soft orange light spilling onto the wide sidewalk from the open door. Someone—a woman it looked like—stepped out of a little cottage a block down, probably some sort of business rather than a dwelling, and locked up.

I straightened up, still panting, sweat dripping down my face, and marshaled on. Darkened or covered windows dotted the way. Doors were closed. It wasn’t that late, but most of the businesses had already shut down for the night.

A squeal erupted from the hotel. I peered in the open door as I passed. A few younger people sat at the far end of the bar, the women scantily dressed and the guys in variations of the same outfit: a blue-collared shirt and artfully distressed jeans.

My gaze lingered on the bare midriff of one of the women. What I wouldn’t give to have my four pack back. If I had one, I’d show it off, too. No jiggling when this forty-year-old moved, no-siree. I’d want to put it out there as proof.

I gritted my teeth. I would put it out there as proof. Why else was I running? Soon I’d get my diet under control—no more binging cookies right before bed—and then I’d be a rock star. I could do this!

Okay, not as many cookies before bed. A lady had to live.

A loner sat in the middle of the bar and the bored bartender stared at his phone, leaning near the cash register. Didn’t seem like much of an exciting place unless you brought your own friends. Not like Austin Steele’s place, with people playing pool and most of the clientele chatting and exchanging greetings.

The memory of what he’d said swam through my memory. My gut twisted.

Maybe he was right. I clearly didn’t fit in here. Yes, that was starting to look like a compliment, but the betrayal still stung. He’d listened to me. He’d walked me home. Those were things gentlemen did. Things that seemed to be dying off with the younger generation.

But he wasn’t a gentleman at all. He thought I was lowering the status of his crazy community.

I walked on, approaching the edge of the strip.

What was Austin’s game, anyway? Why help me out if he wanted me to fail?

And what was the deal with the name Steele? Really, Steele? He probably came up with that name himself. A silver fox rebranding his middle age—“I can still hang with the young bucks, because I’m made of steel!”

Well, I didn’t need to rebrand myself to know I was awesome. I might be in the middle of a full-blown identity crisis, with a mom bod and no craps left to give, but I could still run circles around my twenty-year-old self.

Okay, not run per se. The only thing that bitch couldn’t beat me to was an ice cream truck.

But I’d think circles around her! I had money matters on lock. I knew how to juggle running a household, managing bills, working, taking classes at the city college, and raising a human being. At twenty, I could barely keep myself alive.

I had become fiercer, too. Being a mom really taught you the meaning of self-sacrifice and absolute courage. I would run into fire for my son. I’d step in front of a bullet. I’d throw myself at any danger, no matter how terrifying, just to see him to safety. And I’d do it all without blinking.

The courage of a mother could not be measured. We toiled in the background, day in and day out, without thanks, so our children could become their best selves. We sacrificed ourselves for our loved ones, and we did it silently. Gladly. Full of love.

I blew out a frustrated breath. What kind of bad sort of person was Austin calling me, anyway?

You know what? I didn’t even care. I liked that house. It spoke to me. It felt like home. So what if the neighbor was violent and drank like a sailor. And so what if the gardener liked to fool unsuspecting children with his well-tended shrubbery. And who cared if the butler thought he was a super hero and didn’t really understand personal space—they all had big hearts. They’d welcomed me. That said something about their character. If the only problem was some muscle-bound guy who’d never grown out of his hotness, so be it. I didn’t need friends like that, anyway. He would not find a way to push me out of that house. It was my home now, and I protected my home.

Except for the doll room. That still had to go. That was too far.