Page 48 of The Parent Trap

I happen to glance at her phone as she passes me—she’s answering email.

“Delia.”

No answer.

So I follow after her to the end of the main driveway where she finally wedges her phone into a special pocket built into the waistband of her shorts at the small of her back. Today’s selection of running gear is a pair of bright neon 90s purple shorts with a white sports bra, the straps of which at her back are a complicated web.

Her hair is in twin braids.

She jumps up and down a few times, then does some high knees.

That’s when I sidle up beside her, nonchalant.

She screams and jumps a literal foot into the air. “What the actual fuck, Thai?” she demands, breathing hard with her hand clapped over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” I point back at the opening of her driveway. “You did walk directly past me and my truck.”

She blinks. “I did not.”

I laugh. “You did. Where do you think I came from? I didn’t walk here from my condo.”

“Condo?”

“Uh yeah. You don’t think I’m living with my parents, do you?”

“I guess I didn’t think about it, honestly. I suppose I assumed you were, but now that I think about it, I know there’s no way you would.”

“Not a chance in hell. I’ve seen them exactly twice since I’ve been back, once when I first got into town, and I met them for brunch last week. They spend most of their time at their place in Majorca.”

“Where?”

“Majorca. Spanish-owned island in the Mediterranean. They own a place there. I have a feeling at some point they’re going to sell that place—” I gesture in the direction of the fifteen thousand square foot monstrosity I grew up in, “—and live in Majorca full time.”

She eyes me. “You’re not a morning person, self-admittedly.”

“Nope!” I agree with fake cheerfulness. “And I’m also not a big fan of running.”

She laughs. “So…why are you here, at six a.m., dressed to run?”

“I havenoidea!” I say, still faking the bright and chipper voice.

She laughs harder. “Glutton for punishment, maybe?”

“That, or I just really, really love your ass in those shorts.” And…that just came out of my mouth.

Her head swivels slowly to pin me with a glare. “Funny.”

I shrug. “Who’s joking?”

Her cheeks color, but she gives no other indication of what she’s thinking or feeling. Finally, she huffs. “Keep up, if you can.”

She accompanies this by bursting forward into a fast run—even when I was running several times a week with the guys at Wharton, I was never able to keep the pace she’s setting.

Can I bench double my body weight? Yeah. Pull-ups with fifty pounds chained to my waist? Four reps. Three plate back squat? Five by five.

But put me outside for a run? I’m doing great if I break a nine-minute mile, and according to my watch, as I push myself to catch up, says she’s rocking an 8:22 mile and is probably only going to speed up as she hits her groove.

So the whole plan where I fake running slower than her just to have a legit excuse for staring at her ass? Turns out I don’t have to pretend.