Page 16

I wait anxiously for Leah. We haven’t made a schedule or talked outside our runs, but for two weeks now, ever since we went out for dinner and struck some sort of truce, we meet every other morning at the same spot to run together.

The days she doesn’t run are difficult. I’m starting not to enjoy running if she’s not there, to the point where it was hard to drag myself out of bed yesterday.

This woman has transfixed me in a way I’ve never experienced before. She’s so strong, but there’s a vulnerability to her that makes me want to protect her. And her son.

He’s pretty cute and quiet. He hardly ever speaks during the run, but he’s observant, playing and pointing to things. I enjoy his presence—it feels steady when he’s there.

He’s a shield.

When I glance at my watch, I notice she’s a few minutes late. I start to worry. She’s never late.

The rising panic starts in my stomach. What if something happened to her? What if someone has been following her, tracking her movements? She’s been coming the same way every other day—it wouldn’t be hard.

My gut churns at the thought, at the possibilities. I should’ve told her to switch up her routes. It’s not something I have to worry about, but I know female runners are cognizant of their surroundings and pay attention to stuff like that, changing their routines to keep themselves safe.

However, Leah is a new runner, so she likely wouldn’t know to do that. I should have insisted on making a plan, but I didn’t want to scare her off by bringing up a schedule. I’m spiralling deep into my thoughts when footsteps sound, approaching me.

I spin around to find Leah coming up her usual path in a brisk walk.

Thank fuck.

I stomp over to her. “You’re late.”

This immediately raises her hackles, her calm demeanour flaring to life.

“Well, excuse me. I’ll tell Levi to hurry up his temper tantrum because Julien will be pissed if we’re”—she grabs my wrist, checking my watch, the heat of her touch sending a shockwave through my system—“four minutes late.”

She frowns, releasing her hold. My arm drops to my side, the effects of her touch still lingering. Has she ever voluntarily touched me before? I don’t think so. We typically keep a safe and respectable distance, running or walking side by side.

Even when we were sitting in the restaurant the other day, we barely touched .

But now she’s standing so close to me, one hand still on the stroller. The heat of her body radiates between us.

The shield starts babbling, releasing me from her green eyes as she turns to her son.

I have to pull it together. If she decides she doesn’t want to run with me anymore ... I don’t want to think about that. Besides, I’m here to keep her safe.

“It’s dangerous, okay?”

“What, walking to meet you?”

“Taking the same way every time.”

There’s a flash of irritation before she inhales, I’m assuming to calm her temper. What did I say now?

“I’m going to let this slide this one time because I’m assuming you’re worried about me. Which is sweet. But I’ve lived thirty-one years as a woman, I know what precautions I need to take. I may come through that path every day, but I take alternative routes, not in a pattern, to get here.”

Shit. I shouldn’t have assumed. I should apologize. But instead I say, “Okay.” Which earns me an eye-roll. “How long do you want to go today?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. How much do we usually do?”

“We typically run for about thirty minutes.”

“Ugh, why does it feel so much longer than that?”

Funny. To me, it’s not nearly enough.

“Let’s try running a little longer each interval today.”

“What are we at? ”

I have to hide my smile. She’s unlike any runner I’ve ever met. Even being new, she’s not obsessed about pace or time or tracking every step. She’s here to ... What is she here for? It can’t just be for Paige.

“We’re at five minutes running, two minutes walking.”

“Lead the way.”

The silent trust she places in me to lead our runs satisfies some primal part of me. The need to be needed. We settle into our usual pace for the first interval.

I’m not going to tell her I also want to try picking up our pace. The slow runs have been working to my advantage—I’m getting some great low heart rate training.

My endurance has built, especially on the ice. And in the runs I do alone, I’m able to go farther. There’s something to be said for running at a slower pace.

After our first walk interval, when we start running, I go a fraction faster. Apparently I can’t sneak anything past this woman because her head whips towards me, and I feel her attention lasering in on the side of my head. I don’t turn, though, merely continue at this quicker pace.

She’s huffing by the time we finish the seven-minute run interval I set. I do the next one at our regular pace and continue that pattern.

We’re almost to the end when I see her wince out of the corner of my eye and immediately stop, thoughts turning from run coach to worried ... friend? I think we’re friends. Why does that word sound off?

“What’s wrong? ”

“What are you talking about?” She glares back, and I feel my brows pull together.

“You know what. You winced,” I say like an accusation.

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.” I step in close, invading her personal space. “What’s wrong, Leah?”

Something flares in her eyes but I don’t know what it means. She deflates a little.

“It’s my calves. Or my shins, I’m not sure. They’re really sore.”

“Are you stretching and warming up?”

“A little.”

I give her a little extra time to tell the truth.

“Fine. No, I don’t typically stretch or warm up.”

“Why the fuck not?” The harsh words come out of my mouth before I can think. They’re louder than I intended and we both tense, looking at Levi. But he’s enthralled with the Canadian geese walking past.

He’s not old enough yet to realize the birds are malicious demons, ready to terrorize unsuspecting humans who get too close. They strut around as if they own the place, which in part they do, seeing as they’re a protected species and we’d be fined for even scaring them.

“I don’t have time, okay? It’s tough enough getting out here in the mornings, especially when someone gets his feathers ruffled if we’re—ow!” She winces as she steps towards me. I catch her by the elbows and lead her to a nearby park bench.

“You should’ve told me. ”

“Why, so you could lecture me more?”

“Lecture?”

She sits, locking the stroller before bringing both feet up on the bench. When she starts massaging her calves, she winces again, and something hot burns in my chest at seeing her in pain.

I don’t think, I take a seat beside her and pull her legs into my lap. She jolts in surprise but doesn’t protest or try to pull away. It would’ve been hard to let her go if she resisted, but I would have. Damn it. I should’ve asked first, but the sight of her pain propelled me.

“C-Can I help?” I ask, my hands hovering over her legs.

Again, there’s something in her face I can’t read, but I know I don’t like it. I want to read her thoughts.

“What was that look?”

She sighs. “It’s hard to accept help.”

This makes so much sense.

“Too bad.”

I don’t let her get another word in. I take one of her legs in my hands and start kneading the muscle. Gently at first and when I feel her loosen beneath my touch, I increase my pressure. A hiss escapes her breath that quickly turns into something a little more ... pleasurable.

My cock notices. I have to shift, turning to face her, suddenly aware of the position I’ve put us in, with her practically sitting in my lap. In public. With her son right there. So much for a buffer.

But Leah closes her eyes so I keep going. Her bare legs feel so small as I work the muscle in my hands, paying attention to the ridge along her shin where the muscle connects. Without warming up and stretching—and I’d bet my bonus without strength training either—she’s developing shin splints.

“ Têtu, ” I whisper under my breath. Her eyes fly open, narrowing.

“What?”

“You’re stubborn. You have shin splints.”

“Shin splints?!” she asks, worry furrowing her brow.

“It’s when the connective tissue around your tibia is inflamed from overuse.”

“What? No!” Her features contort into something resembling devastation, so I try to console her.

“You can still run, you just have to take it easier.”

“Easier than slower than a snail for five minutes at a time?” She blows out an exhale as I release one leg and pick up the other. She winces.

“Does this one hurt more?”

“No, I’m ... a little embarrassed. I haven’t shaved my legs in a while.” Her cheeks flush.

“I’m French.”

“So?”

“I don’t mind a little hair.”

She laughs, but her cheeks flare brighter with her blush as I realize what I said. It’s true, I don’t mind. Not one bit.

With a little cough, she clears her throat. “Good ...” Her voice trails off as she inhales. I’ve moved to massage the back of her calf muscle. She’s so tight—she needs to stretch, or at the very least, she should foam roll.

There’s a long stretch of silence between us as I continue massaging her legs. I know she’s not in as much pain anymore. She’s relaxed her posture and doesn’t wince. Her muscles are pliable in my hands. I could stop at any moment.

But I don’t.

I don’t want to remove my hands from her. The sun has risen over the city now and more people are peppering the path. I wonder what they think when they see us here on the bench.

My heart clenches when I turn to Levi and meet his curious stare. He has the same eyes as his mom.

They’re big and round, green as the grass around us. I think Leah mentioned he’s around a year and a half, but he seems older. That might be because he’s bigger than other toddlers I’ve seen, not that I’m around kids a lot.

There’s also something in his gaze, making me feel like I’m being analyzed.

“Hello, Levi.”

Leah sits up a little straighter, but I don’t take my attention away from her son.

Levi snaps his teeth in greeting, his round little face turning to his mom and then back to me. He chomps his teeth again, and I laugh.

“What big teeth you have, mon petit loup .”

“Woo,” Levi says, and I smile at his parroting. But Leah’s reaction to his impersonation of my French is much stronger.

“Do that again,” she hisses.

“What?”

“Say whatever you said in French again. ”

“ Mon petit loup ?”

“Woo,” Levi repeats. And for some reason, when I look at Leah, her eyes are brimming with tears. Alarm blasts through me. Does she not want her kid speaking French?

“What does it mean?” she whispers, focus glued to her son as he repeats the word over and over again.

“My little wolf.”