Page 40 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Chapter

Thirty

NAOMI

The marathon was scheduled for the first Saturday in November.

Christian had been training for months, running before dawn and on weekend mornings when we weren’t at his penthouse or my condo.

My cycle competition wasn’t until tomorrow, and even though we weren’t on speaking terms, I couldn’t miss his run.

I arrived at Forest Park at dawn, and the starting area was already buzzing with hundreds of runners stretching, hydrating, and mentally preparing for twenty-six point two miles.

The morning air held that perfect crisp for ideal racing conditions, and I wrapped my jacket tighter as I searched the crowd for Christian.

The energy was infectious; runners of all ages and experience levels bounced on their toes, volunteers distributed race packets, and spectators arrived early to claim the best viewing spots along the route.

I found Christian near the registration tent and almost choked on my own intake of breath.

He was impossible to miss, even surrounded by other athletes.

The black compression shorts hugged every muscle in his defined legs.

His fitted gray tank showcased his broad shoulders and the lean strength of his torso, every line of his body speaking of power and endurance.

And his physique wasn’t the only asset that drew attention.

It was the way he carried himself, confident but focused and approachable.

He was stretching against a fence post, one leg extended behind him, and I watched the smooth flex of his calf muscles and the way his shorts pulled tight across his thighs.

I wasn’t the only one watching.

A blonde in head-to-toe pink spandex approached him, ostensibly to ask about his running watch but really to get closer to all that masculine perfection on display.

She touched his forearm as she laughed at whatever he’d said, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Her body language was clear; she was interested in more than his accessory.

A brunette in lime green jogged past, deliberately slowing her pace as she passed Christian’s spot.

Her appreciative gaze traveled from his running shoes up the length of his legs, lingering on his ass before moving to his chest and face.

When she realized he hadn’t noticed her blatant perusal, she made another lap past him, this time timing it so she’d be stretching nearby when he finished his own routine.

Two women in matching team singlets had positioned themselves where they could watch him warm up; their conversation was clearly about him, based on the way they kept glancing over and giggling. One of them was bold enough to take out her phone, probably hoping to get a photo.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a fitness magazine, and every woman within a fifty-yard radius had taken notice.

And for a year, he had chosen me. Until I’d pushed him away.

Christian finished his stretching routine and glanced around, probably looking for water or checking the time. His gaze swept across the crowd and stopped when it landed on me.

Even from thirty feet away, I could see his surprise. His entire posture shifted, straightened, and became more alert. For a moment, the distance he’d been maintaining cracked, and I saw something raw and unguarded flash across his face before his expression changed.

He said something to the blonde and started walking toward me. The swagger in his approach was so naturally him that I had to bite back a moan. Damn, I missed him terribly.

“Naomi. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I wanted to show support.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to miss your race. Even though we’re not speaking, I want you to do well. .” And I still love you … but I kept those words lodged in my throat.

“How are you feeling about the race?”

“Ready. I’ve put in the work.”

“You have. I’ve seen your commitment.”

He nodded. “You look good.”

“So do you. I see you have an audience.”

“Everyone does.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do you care?”

I sucked in a breath. “I can’t stop loving you overnight.”

“And yet, you did.”

“No, I, Christian…”

“Runners, five minutes to start time!” The announcement crackled through the speakers, cutting off whatever landmine I’d been about to step on.

“I should get to the line.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He surprised me by reaching out to touch my arm briefly. “Thank you. For being here.”

And then he was gone, jogging toward the starting corrals.

I found a spot along the route at mile twenty-four, where the course made a sharp turn before heading toward the final stretch.

The morning had warmed slightly, but the conditions remained perfect for racing.

Spectators lined both sides of the street, holding signs, ringing cowbells, shouting encouragement to everyone who passed.

The energy was electric, infectious in the way that only comes from watching people push themselves to their absolute limits.

The first runners appeared as tiny figures in the distance, gradually growing larger as they approached my section. They moved in a tight pack of five, with efficient and powerful strides. These were the elite runners who’d been training for times that most people could only dream of.

And there, in the middle of the pack, was Christian.

Even from a distance, I could pick him out by his form, by the way he held his shoulders, by the rhythm of his stride. As he got closer, I could see the focus etched on his face, the complete absorption in the task at hand that I’d witnessed during his training runs.

Sweat darkened his tank top and glistened on his exposed skin, but his pace never wavered. His legs worked like pistons, powerful and mechanical, eating up the pavement with each step. The months of early morning runs, weekend-long runs, interval training, and hill work had all led to this moment.

His breathing was deep, his arms pumping efficiently at his sides. There was something beautiful about watching him run, the way all the separate components of his body worked together in perfect harmony, the way he seemed to flow over the ground rather than pound against it.

I found myself taking in a sharp breath as the pack passed my section, my heart racing as if I were running with them. Christian didn’t see me in the crowd—his focus was complete, internal, existing only in the rhythm of his footfalls and breathing.

After they passed, I quickly made my way toward the finish line area, wanting to be there when he completed what he’d worked so hard to achieve.

The finish line area was a chaotic scene—spectators cheering, volunteers distributing medals, and exhausted runners getting closer to the finish line.

I pushed through the crowd, searching, and there he was at the head of the pack, running like he didn’t feel the exhaustion that everyone else felt.

Pride swelled inside me, and I clasped my hands together and smiled as he crossed in first place.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have our winner! Christian Valentine of St. Louis, with a time of two hours and fifty-one minutes!”

“Yes!” I shouted, clapping enthusiastically.

He dropped his hands to his thighs and took in a few deep breaths before shaking it off and being crowded by people.

Seconds later, he was on the winner’s platform, having a medal draped around his neck. His smile was brilliant, and I’d missed that smile tremendously.

Without thinking or considering the consequences, I ran toward him.

“Christian!”

He turned at his name, and when he saw me approaching, his face lit up with surprise and joy.

I launched myself into his arms, and he caught me easily, spinning us both around as I wrapped my legs around his waist.

“You did it! You won! I knew you could, I knew you would!”

“Naomi.”

I kissed him. Right there in front of hundreds of people, cameras, and reporters. I kissed him like he was mine, like I had every right to celebrate his victory.

And he kissed me back just as fiercely, his hands gripping my waist as he held me against him. For those seconds, nothing else existed. Not our past rules, or the distance we’d been maintaining.

Just him and me and pure joy.

Reality crashed back when camera shutters clicked rapidly around us. I slowly lowered my legs, panic rising as I realized how completely I’d blown apart every boundary I’d rebuilt.

“Naomi, wait.”

But I was already backing away. “I have to go.”

“Don’t. Stay. Please.”

Christian’s grip on my hand tightened, his eyes pleading. But running was what I did best.

“Congratulations on your win.”

I pulled free and disappeared into the crowd before he could stop me.

The morning was gray and windy, and it was time for me to see if my extensive prep had been worth the effort. Rolling hills, sharp turns, and unforgiving pavement would test every ounce of strength I’d built.

I arrived two hours early, needing time to find my zone where nothing existed except me, my bike, and the road ahead.

“Riders, thirty minutes to start time!”

I clipped into my pedals and did easy laps to warm up. The other competitors looked serious and focused. Several were women I’d raced before, including Clara Montclair and Allison Jones, both of whom had beaten me previously.

Today would be different. Today, I was racing for more than medals. I was racing for my father and those like him.

The starting gun fired.

The first twenty miles were strategic, the pack staying tight as we tested each other. Clara made an early move up a steep climb, and Allison responded immediately, opening a gap in the field. I stayed patient, knowing the real race wouldn’t begin until mile thirty.

By mile thirty-five, it was just the three of us. Clara, Allison, and I, trading positions as we pushed each other, edging forward and back. My legs burned, and my breathing was labored, but I held position.

The final five miles were warfare. Clara attacked on every hill. Allison covered every move. I waited, trusting in my training, in the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Christian telling me I was stronger than I knew.

With two miles left, I made my move.

I stood on the pedals, shifted to my highest gear, and unleashed every ounce of power I’d been saving. The gap opened gradually, ten feet, twenty, fifty. Behind me, I could hear Clara and Allison responding, their final kicks trying to close the distance.

The finish line appeared ahead. My legs were concrete, vision tunneling, but I held the lead through absolute willpower.

I crossed first, pumping my fist as the crowd erupted.

“And the winner, with a course record time, Naomi Blackford!”

I coasted to a stop, chest heaving as volunteers surrounded me with congratulations. Someone placed a medal around my neck, but I was scanning the crowd, looking for?—

“Yes, baby, yes! I knew you could do it!”

Christian pushed through the spectators, wearing comfortable clothes like he hadn’t been at work, which I knew was unusual for today.

I didn’t run to him; my legs were shaking from the race. But when he reached me, he didn’t hesitate.

He swept me up, lifting me off the ground as he spun us around.

“You were amazing! I watched the last ten miles from different points—you destroyed them!”

“You were here? The whole time?”

“I couldn’t miss this. I wouldn’t dare.”

I looked up into his face, saw pride and admiration shining in his eyes, and realized something that terrified me more than any race or risk I’d ever taken.

I was completely, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with Christian Valentine.

And all the rules in the world weren’t going to change that.

“Christian.”

“I know,” he said softly, his forehead against mine. “I know, Naomi. We need to talk.”

The crowd was cheering, cameras flashing, as officials tried to pull me away for the ceremonies. But for those precious moments, it was just us.

“Not here,” I whispered.

“Not here,” he agreed. “But soon.”

He set me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. Then he stepped back, giving me space, but his eyes never left mine.

As they pulled me away for photos and interviews, I looked back once. Christian was still there, still watching, his expression unreadable but his presence solid and reassuring.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe, and it was all because of him.