Sophie (The Boss 8)

“Yeah. I just laid down for a few minutes. I was exhausted.” Not a lie. “So, what have you guys been up to?”

El-Mudad, seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs, looked up from the book in his lap. His hair was still wet from a shower. “Having a lazy morning.”

“What did the nutritionist say?” Neil patted the couch cushion beside him as he sat up to give me room.

“Same sort of stuff I’ve been reading in diet books my whole life, minus the bullshit. And I’ve got some grocery and meal plans to give to Julia.” I dropped onto the sofa and leaned against Neil. “And it looks like I may have to break down and get a personal trainer again.”

“I’ve been telling you to get one since we moved back from bloody London,” Neil grumbled.

“It’s weird and intrusive!” I said, probably with the same inflection I’d used the hundreds of other times we’d had this argument. “But there are trainers that specialize in helping diabetics.”

I hated that word. It was such an admission that something was wrong with me.

I didn’t want to talk about any of this. There should have been some kind of law where chronic illness and mortality only weighed heavy on your mind for a couple of minutes a day.

“Speaking of exercise,” I said, standing suddenly, “I need to go on my run.”

And motivate me by imagining the Grim Reaper on a ten-speed behind me.

“I should run, as well,” El-Mudad said, setting his book aside with a noise of resignation.

I tilted my head as I regarded him. “Aren’t you worn out?”

Oh, right. They don’t know that I know what they were up to.

I turned it into a joke quickly. “You know. From all the hard work you’re doing holding that book up?”

“Yes, you’re so funny, Sophie,” he said, hurrying over to grab me before I could get away. He buried his face in my neck and kissed me until I squealed and wriggled out of his grasp.

Neil didn't move from the couch. “You two enjoy yourselves. I had my five o'clock with Jason."

El-Mudad put on a high, flirty voice and batted his eyelashes. "Oh, Jason!"

"It isn't my fault that the best trainers are twenty-six-year-olds with abs like speed bumps," Neil said, feigning innocence. His voice cracked a little on the word “abs,” somewhat lessening the believability.

"And that little L-shape thing pointing down to his…" I gestured from my hip to my crotch.

"I have that!" El-Mudad insisted, pulling down the waistband of his jeans to prove it.

"You did, at one time," Neil said, indicating where that ridge of muscle used to be more prominent.

I elbowed El-Mudad. "Yeah, you let yourself go once you sealed this sweet deal."

"Then we'd better get me back in shape." He kissed my forehead. "Meet me at the front door in twenty minutes?"

I nodded and raced off to get changed into my workout gear. I put on some spandex leggings and a sports bra under a thin fleece hoodie, laced up my shoes, tied up my hair, and headed back to meet El-Mudad. We set off from the front door and around the house to the path that wound through the wooded outskirts of our property. We’d figured out how many loops it took to add up to a mile, and while it did sometimes get boring, it was better than the treadmill.

Exercise wasn’t my favorite thing in life, but running was straightforward and didn’t require equipment. It was also a great time to connect with the majesty of nature; the sun filtering through the bare branches, the crisp spring air, the rock-hard calves, and the incredibly tight ass of the guy outpacing me...there was so much beauty for me to enjoy. I just couldn't figure out how he still had so much energy after what I'd seen him doing with Neil.

"Keep up," El-Mudad chided, running backward to face me.

"I hope you fall." I didn't. But his smugness did deserve some kind of punishment.

I held up a middle finger.

He grinned. “You know, you’d be prettier if you smiled.”

I gasped in outrage and picked up my speed, charging at him as though I would plow him over. He opened his arms and grabbed me up in a bear hug.

“I knew that would do the trick,” he laughed, dragging me with him. “Come on. The first mile is always the hardest.”

The high-pitched whine of an electric golf cart caught my attention, and I turned. It wasn’t unusual to see our security people out on the property, but they generally had their own thing going on that didn’t interfere with ours. This guard was headed our way.

El-Mudad frowned and put his hand at the small of my back as the cart rolled to a stop beside us. The guard, a middle-aged white guy with a balding strip down the middle of his head, leaned out. “Mr. Elwood sent me out to pick you both up. He said you’re needed back at the house.”