Page 63 of The First Taste

He rolls his eyes. “You have to be here for a while. So what would it take for me to get you to run with me for… let’s say, ten days.”

My brow descends. “Like a bribe?”

He stares at me so intently that I feel like his blue eyes see right through me. I lift my chin, my face heating again, a kernel of defiance blooming in the air between us.

Keir reaches up to my face and brushes a few strands of my hair back, his long fingers smoothing them against my skull. For a second, just the briefest moment, my whole body tightens.

“Ella.” He whispers my name, his voice gruff. There is a hint of longing in his expression. And something more, maybe a note of regret.

“Yes?” I say, my voice an answering whisper.

Keir clears his throat, dropping his hand and moving back half a step. “Name your price. Let’s get moving.”

My cheeks are red hot. I press the backs of my hands against them and clear my throat.

“I want to see the Glasgow ballet.”

He seems a little taken aback by my request. “That’s all?”

Eyeing him, I give him a tiny smirk. “And, of course, I will need to go shopping. Somewhere expensive where I can get an outfit appropriate for the ballet.”

“I see.” His lips twitch. “I think that can be arranged.”

I stick out my hand. He blinks and looks at me for a second before shaking it, his grip hard and the feel of his fingers causing heat to spread out in my body like a starburst.

“If you’ll wear one of my running jackets, it’s a deal. It’s fucking cold outside before the sun is fully up.”

Rolling my eyes, I move toward the front door. Keir is so overbearing and I feel sort of infantilized by his Mother Hen attitude.

I decide that the best way to defuse his offer is to tease him. “Sure. If you need to dote on me and take care of me, go right ahead.”

“You know what?” He shoots me a glare. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Making a soft sound of aggravation, I point to the hall closet. “Is there a jacket in here?”

Keir’s reply is sulky. “Probably.”

Fishing an ultra-lightweight jacket out of the closet, I pull it on and zip it up. Keir walks outside, clearly still pissed that I made fun of him. His jaw is all taut as he stretches his arms.

“Okay, let’s go.” I close the door behind me with effort and then look at the long downhill slope of the massive hill we are on. It’s important for me to remember that no matter how long I decide to jog and how hard I push myself, I’m going to need to climb that hill as the end to my run. At least when I’m on my way back, there should be some light to see by. Right now, I can only make out indistinct shapes and the long white gravel line of the road.

Keir takes off at a casual trot and I follow him. We jog down the hill, me trying my hardest not to act like this is the very first time I’ve ever exercised in my whole damn life. There isn’t much to look at yet because of the early hour so I focus on my form and breathing instead.

For several minutes, it’s just me and my breath. It is cold despite the jacket but I don’t dare say anything. As I fall into a rhythm, the scenery speeds by me, barely registering.

Still, twenty minutes in, I’m winded. Not only that, but my right knee burns, like I have hot fire ants just below the surface of my skin, in a place that I can’t scratch.

As we jog up a hill, I slow down, getting a stitch in my side. Keir glances back at me and slows his pace.

“Come on. Just make it to the top of this hill. Then you can take a break.”

I hate the fact that he’s seeing me be so damn weak. More than that, I hate that I’m so obviously out of breath and out of shape.

How did someone who runs as easily as Keir decide that hooking up with a damaged former ballerina was a good idea?

At this exact moment, I feel intense shame about my body and about how I have let myself slide from being a professional athlete to being this weak pile of guts.

“Ella?” Keir prompts.