The Truth

I swear to everything that is holy on the face of the Earth, Daniel Stryker blushes. I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but his tanned cheeks have a decidedly pink tint to them.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, and I know I’m right on target.

“Then let’s do it. You need this.” I twirl my finger in a circle, indicating that he should hurry up. I think that’s the key with him. Daniel Stryker is a man who calculates every move he takes twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.

To get to his ooey, gooey center means I have to squeeze into the tiny moments he doesn’t have planned out with plans of my own. And like water seeping into the cracks in a mountainside rock face and then freezing, I plan on breaking at least a few of his workaholic habits.

Not all of them. But a few.

He laughs and shakes his head, but he does turn to head down the hallway, leaving me in the living room alone.

“You’d best be getting your shoes on!” I call after him.

“Socks first!” he calls back, and I do a wiggly-kneed victory dance, thankful he can’t see me right now. “And give me a second to change into some shorts!”

Now that’s interesting. I consider following him, my feet even taking an unconscious step that way, but it’s too soon for that. Not for me. He could take me to his bedroom right this second, and I’d willingly and happily run there. I’d look like the Road Runner, with a cloud of dust around feet that have never moved so fast.

But it’s too soon for him. He’s too unsure of me and of himself with me.

Time and some gentle surety from me will fix that.

A moment later, he shows up with his shoes on, the same black T-shirt, and a pair of red shorts. Yes! Score one for Team Me.

“Okay, let’s go, I guess,” Daniel says, still sounding stunned that he’s going along with this even as he does it. But as he opens the door for me to exit, I can smell the cologne he spritzed as he put his shoes on.

It’s subtle and comforting. Sexy as hell.

“Mmm, you smell good,” I say quietly, leaning in to take a delicate sniff. “I was going to bring your clothes back. I washed them and everything, with the best of intentions, I promise. But then I slept in your shirt again last night, so it’s basically mine now.”

I hope he’s imagining me in his shirt and nothing else, which is exactly what I wore to bed last night after our dinner not-yet-a-date. “But if you promise to give it back, maybe I’ll bring it over so you can spray some of that on it?”

I shrug like the suggestion is no big deal and smile innocently as he groans low in his throat.

“No? Okay, but I’m still sleeping in it.”

With that decided, I bounce on my toes, running in place. And maybe doing just a bit of happy bouncy-bouncy with what I’ve got.

“Ready?”

He lets me take the lead, and I guide him to the flattish path through the park. I know I’m going slower than he usually does, but in a total nod to how good a guy Daniel is, he pulls back his pace to stay even with me. The slower speed suits the park, which is tree-lined and picturesque and filled with families topping off their weekend with a few more minutes of playtime.

About a third of the way into the path, we reach a gentle, smooth, and wide dirt path that follows a river, adding a refreshing breeze to our run, and our steps become softer. I’m glad because my feet are starting to sting a little. As I suspected, slapping my feet down on concrete is quite different from a treadmill.

“Hey,” I ask as we come up on a shallow rise in the bank, “think we can take a short break?”

Daniel, who by this point must’ve figured out that I’m not a habitual runner, cuts me some slack. “Sure. Top of the hill’s got a great view.”

I look to where he’s pointing, measuring the distance compared to the lack of oxygen in my lungs. “Okay . . . I think I can make it,” I huff, following him. I might’ve been exaggerating my capabilities, but this part is quite motivating because running behind Daniel means the view is spectacular. His calves are pumped and his ass is round and grabbable, but I keep my hands to myself. Mostly because if I reach out, I’ll probably face plant, and my pride cannot withstand another hit.

When we get to the top, there’s a bench, and I lean on the back gratefully as I breathe deeply. Or gasp for air. Tomayto, tomahto.