Rod jogs in place and tells me, “We’re just getting started.”
“We worked out at the house.”
“Stretching doesn’t count.” He checks the gizmo strapped to his arms and says, “We’ve only run half a mile.”
That’s more than I’ve run since high school PE. I’m breathing a little hard but I’m not wheezing like a pack-a-day smoker. “That’s good considerin’ I haven’t worked out in a while. I need to start out slow.”
“We are. I’ve cut your run from ten m
iles to three.”
Ten miles? Is he on drugs?
“Come on. You’ve only made it as far as the golf course.”
“Great. Let’s get a cart. I’ll drive us home.”
“We have two and a half more miles.”
I fall onto my back and spread my arms straight out. “You’re high if you think I’m movin’.”
“This isn’t like you.”
I laugh and watch the clouds gather in the sky. “You might have heard; I’ve been in the hospital.”
“I was told you had an accident and have trouble with your memory. There’s nothing wrong with your legs though.” He stands over me and looks down. “You can do this, Edie. When we’re done for the day, you’re going to feel great. You’ll be glad you worked through the pain. You ran the Boston Marathon in just over three hours.” Three hours? He continues with his pep talk but I tune him out. Rod’s a good-looking man. Blue-eyed with sun-bleached blond hair, abs so tight bullets could bounce off him like Superman. I wonder if he and Edie had their own special workout. If they got naked and sweaty. When he pauses to take a breath, I ask, “Were we more than workout buddies?” I let my gaze travel to his waist and spandex-covered bulge. Well, that’s just sad. Maybe he’s cold.
“I’m a professional trainer!”
I guess that means no. “Sorry, I was just askin’.” I sit up with my legs out in front of me. Getting professionally trained and boomerangs and marathons were the other Edie’s thing, not mine. I’m not saying I won’t exercise or stay fit, but I’m not running unless Rod chases me with a shotgun. “I not only lost my memory in that accident, I lost half a lung and a couple of ribs,” I bullshit, because Rod is too hard-core for the new Edie. “One wrong move and a jagged rib can puncture a lung and pierce my heart.” I look at him through sad eyes and sigh. “I’m fragile.”
“Oh. Your parents didn’t mention that. Do you want me to walk you back home?”
I shake my head, because I don’t think he knows how to “walk” without turning it into some sort of endurance training. “No need.”
He starts to jog in place again. “Call me when you’re better.”
“You know I will, for certain.” I watch him run off like he can’t get away fast enough. I crawl to my knees and stand up. The back of my jogging suit is wet from the late-morning dew, and the cream-colored velour has turned dark brown on my butt and the backs of my thighs. The good news is that Hawthorne is less than a mile away. The bad news is that I can’t remember how to get back. I was watching my feet or thinking about how much I hate jogging, and I didn’t pay attention because Rod knew the way.
I move across the parking lot of the St. Clair Shores Golf Club to the street. I look left and right, and I remember passing that giant pine tree on the next block. I lean forward for a better look, and some jerk honks his horn from behind me. I jump so hard I almost wet myself. I put a hand on my heart and turn around as the tinted window of a white sports car slides down a few inches.
“Are you lost, Sunshine?”
The other night, I’d wondered if he was handsome in the light of day or if darkness was his friend. Sometimes turning on the light kills the mood. Charlie Buck and his wonk eye comes to mind. “Are you spyin’ on me, Oliver?”
The window slides down the rest of the way, and I swear to God my heart stops along with my breath. His deep green eyes look up at me, and if it wasn’t for his hard jawline and the cleft in his chin, his dark lashes might make him look girly. “Why is your butt wet?”
Oliver Hunt is definitely a leave-the-lights-on kind of guy. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those. I pull off my hat and run my fingers through my hair. “Wanna give a girl a ride home?”
“You’ll get the seat wet.”
“I’m worth the sacrifice.”
“It’s Swiss leather.”
“Well, in that case…” I step on the backs of my running shoes as a car honks and pulls away from the parking lot. Oliver sticks an arm out of the window and sunlight pinwheels off his gold watch as he waves. “Who’s that?” I ask, and kick off one shoe and then the other.
“My golf partner.”