“Are you okay?” he asks, concern on his face.
Why is he so nice?
“I’m fine, I thought you might be getting tired,” I lie. I’ll die before I tell him my thighs burn.
“I’m fine,” he frowns.
“Okay,” I shrug like I’m fine and pick the pace up again. My thighs and calves cry in protest, but I keep my face blank and instead concentrate on my breathing and sound of our feet.
If he can do it, so can I. I’ll go another two miles.
Finally, I breathe an inner sigh of relief when I start to slow. My legs are a little rubbery. I do usually run every morning, but I haven’t trained for a marathon in a long time, thanks to my job.
My ex-job.
My body shows the lack of training.
Leo slows with me and leads me into a park with picnic tables. He leads me to the nearest table.
“Sit on top of the table,” he directs me, his voice hard.
I follow his orders and frown up at him. “Why?”
“Why did you do that?” He pulls my right leg straight and begins working his thumbs and fingers into my thigh muscles and I barely hold my moan of pleasure in.
Dear God he has great hands.
“Do what?”
“You obviously went farther than you’re used to. Your legs are shaking.”
“I’m fine.” I set my jaw and try to pull out of his grip, but he leans in and braces himself on his hand at my hip, his face a few inches from mine and tight with anger.
“Don’t ever lie to me, sunshine. I don’t ever want you to run until your legs give out on you like this again. The only time your legs will shake like this is if I’m inside you.”
My mouth drops open and my eyes go wide. He glares down at me for another heartbeat and then resumes his work on my legs, pampering them and massaging them.
When was the last time someone wanted to take care of me? I don’t even remember.
If I’m inside you.
Damn.
As tempting as that sounds, that just can’t happen.
He rubs my other leg, and as I start to feel better, I pull away from him and stand up.
“Thanks, I’m fine.” I can’t meet his eyes. It’s too easy to like this guy, to want to give in to his touch and his kindness.
He’s family.
He’s a celebrity.
Not going there.
He walks with me back toward my condo. We ran in a circle, so my place isn’t far. As we pass my favorite café, Leo grips my elbow to pull me to a stop and I can’t help the flinch as I pull away.
His eyes go hot as he scowls down at me. I clear my throat. He’s watching me, like he wants to ask me something, but he just sighs.
“Let’s grab some breakfast.” He gestures to the café and loses his scowl. I shouldn’t spend any more time with him. But the thought of going home with no job to go to and really nothing planned for today doesn’t excite me.
“Okay.”
He leads me to a booth and we settle in across from each other.
“Coffee?” the waitress asks as she approaches the table.
“Sure,” Leo responds.
“No thanks,” I murmur and grab the menu. “Just orange juice.”
“No coffee?” Leo asks as the waitress leaves.
“No,” I wrinkle my nose in disgust and read the menu, as if I don’t already know what I want. “I hate coffee.”
“You do realize that you live in Seattle, right?” He chuckles and takes a sip of his black coffee. “I think enjoying coffee is a law.”
“Don’t call the coffee police. I never developed a taste for it. I love this place.” I close the menu and sit back in my chair and can’t avoid looking at him anymore.
My insides do a double flip. It should be illegal to look like him. His hair is wet, but his style is a messy feaux-hawk anyway, so it looks fine. He’s casual in his running clothes, tattooed hands wrapped around his mug, and it’s easy to forget that he’s a celebrity.
He’s just a guy.
The waitress brings my juice and takes our orders and leaves us.
“So.” He leans back and braces an elbow on the back of the booth. “Why aren’t you working today?”
“How do you know I’m not?” I ask.
“You said last night that you’re not working any more. Why not?” His eyes narrow slightly, and he’s watching me closely.
No lying.
“I got fired,” I answer and take a sip of juice, trying to clean the bad taste that word left behind.
Fired.
His eyebrows climb into his hairline in surprise. “Why?”
I shrug and look down at my juice. I don’t want to tell him this.
He leans in and takes my hand in his and I can’t stop the instinctual jump that comes with being touched.
What is wrong with me?
“Why do you flinch every time I touch you?” he asks in a low, tight voice.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Look at me.” His voice leaves no room for argument, so I look up into his angry gray eyes. “Tell me.”
I shrug again and shake my head. “It’s stupid. I’m no victim, Leo. You don’t know me well, but I would think you’d know me well enough by now to know that I don’t take shit from anyone.”
“Okay, go on.” He keeps my hand in his and rubs his thumb over the back of my hand.
God, that feels good.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” And that’s the truth.