Loved from Afar

by Stephanie Street

  Walk two minutes. You’re almost there!

  Oh, I’m light-headed. Feel the burn, Paris. Man, I thought this was supposed to get easier over time. This program says I should be moving on to longer run times with shorter walks, but I’ve been doing the very first workout every day for two weeks and I still feel like I’m going to die of a heart attack. I can’t even imagine upping my times. How do people do it?

  I mean, seriously, every Monday morning as I sit and eat an orange scone and a large glass of whole milk, I scroll through my Facebook feed, reading post after post about the different 5k’s people ran over the weekend. The color run. The mud run. The CrossFit challenge run. Run. Run. Run. Like, it’s all they ever do. And in every picture, they stand, sweaty and smiling, arms thrown around other equally sweaty and smiling weirdos. How do they always look so happy? And don’t even get me started on the crazies that run mini-marathons. I just don’t get it. And now here I am, desperate to shed a few measly pounds for the sake of my health- because let’s face it my mother will kill me if I don’t fit into that dress- running like an idiot. No smiling, although there is a lot of sweat, and I can’t even run one complete lap around the track. This is bull crap!

  Two one-minute runs and a five-minute cool down later, I finally make my way through the opening in the fence surrounding the track and toward my car. I’ve upgraded from my Tercel to a Corolla. It’s not new but it’s in better shape and has less miles than the Tercel. Plus, due to a large Christmas bonus from the fancy restaurant I worked at in New York, it’s paid for.

  After tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, I slid into the driver’s seat, my muscles screaming Hallelujah! all the way. I reached for my water bottle and took a long draw of the cool liquid, wishing with all my heart the aluminum container held Dr. Pepper and not water. But Dr. Pepper is not going to help me lose ten pounds, so I’m determined to just be thankful my ice hasn’t melted all the way, leaving me with ninety-degree water.

  Damn. Pulling the water bottle away from my lips, I notice the front right side of my hood is lower than the left. Rolling my shoulders to ease the tension growing in them, I can’t help but think how much I really do not need to deal with this right now. Throwing open my door, I got out of my car and walked around to the front.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” I groaned, seriously tempted to curl up on the hood of my car and cry. My front right tire is completely flat. I must have run over a nail or some glass on my way to the high school. Shoulders slumped, I stared at the deep lavender sky above. It’s dark enough that I can see several stars twinkling. While there is quite a bit of traffic on the road in front of the school, I am by myself in the parking lot. I briefly consider calling my brother to come help me. But he lives almost an hour away and that’s just ridiculous.

  “Don’t be such a dumb girl, Paris,” I scolded myself. Taking a deep breath, I reached through the driver’s side window and popped open the trunk.

  “Ugh. It just gets better and better,” I grumbled, taking in the state of my trunk, overflowing with supplies for the bakery. Growling with irritation, I began unloading the boxes into the backseat of my car.

  It took forever. The boxes are small and I could only shuffle a couple of them at a time from the trunk to the backseat. I’d planned to unload them onto a cart in the morning once I made it to the bakery, so I didn’t pack them in a more efficient container. Dang. By the time I unload the trunk, it’s dark and the lights in the parking lot have blinked on.

  “Well, crap.” I’ve unloaded the spare and the jack, as well as the tool to remove the lug nuts, but as I haul the tire to the front of my car, I notice I’ve parked in a shadow. There is hardly enough illumination from the nearest light to make out the outline of the black tire. Reaching through the passenger side window, I retrieve my phone off the seat and turn on the flashlight app.

  “Hey, do you need some help?”

  Aaron

  “See you after my run,” I said into my phone before touching the red button to disconnect the call with my buddy, Jace Thomas. Jace hates running on the track and refuses to come with me to the high school. It’s the only part of our workout we don’t do together. But I like running on the track. I never have to worry about obstacles or distractions. It’s just me and my music and the oval blacktop.

  After plugging my headphones into my ears, I tuned up the new Imagine Dragons album. The music immediately gets my blood pumping, my body reacting to the beat like Pavlov’s dog. Bracing my hands on the door of my pickup truck, I work to stretch out my calves and hamstrings. My eyes scan the area around me, my years of military training kicking in without conscious thought. Survey. Assess. React. Even after four years, my body and mind refuse to relax.

  I parked my truck on the far side of the track, away from the parking lot. I prefer the isolation of the gravel service road running behind the football field. I always park under a light, but it’s reassuring that, for the most part, no other cars will park beside me.

  Kicking my heel back, I grab it and pull it toward my ass, stretching my quads. Rolling my neck from side to side, I survey the parking lot. One vehicle sits parked right in the center. The trunk is open and a woman walks around to put something into the back seat. Curious, I drop my foot to the ground and begin walking toward the track, my eyes trained on the woman who returns to the trunk and collects more items to store in the backseat.

  The high school parking lot seems a strange place to play shift-the-shit, but what do I know. Invested now, I can’t seem to take my eyes off the woman. Jogging slowly from the far side of the oval, I make my way down the straightaway and around the curve, every step bringing me closer. Even from a distance and with the little bit of light coming from a lamp not too far from her, I can tell she has some sweet curves, an hourglass figure that has my eyes traveling the length of her more than once. She’s wearing tight black calf-length running pants and a fitted lime green tee.

  As I begin to round the second curve, I know I won’t be able to see her if I keep going, so I slow to a walk. And like a stalker, head toward the fence watching her long ponytail swing from side to side with each sway of her hips. Damn. I could watch this woman shuffle packages from her trunk to her backseat all day.

  I can’t tell if her hair is brown or something else. Maybe red- a dark red. I can’t get a good glimpse of her face, but her profile shows me high cheeks, pouty lips, and a cute upturned little nose. Man, I hope she isn’t married because I am seriously checking her out.

  She walks back to her trunk, lifts the bottom out of it and reaches in, pulling out the spare. Well, that makes sense. Glancing at her vehicle, I notice it’s a little lopsided. Wow, Aaron. Talk about being distracted. Changing course, I move to exit the track and start toward her, absurdly excited that she has a flat tire and I have an excuse to approach her. Vaguely aware that I am gawking at her like a horny teenager, I make my way to her car and ask, “Hey, do you need some help?”

  Chapter Two

  Paris

  “Aaahh!”

  Yeah, that’s right. I screamed.

  Bloody murder.

  And not only that, I jumped a foot and shined the bright light from my phone right into the eyes of the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. Dark hair. Bright eyes. Chiseled face. Gorgeous skin. And muscles. Muscles. For. Miles.

  “Oh, my goodness, y’all scared me to near to death!” my thick southern accent accused, attesting to the fact that I had indeed been scared near to death, because let me tell you, people in New York do not like southern accents and I’d all but kicked mine over the last few years.

  “I’m sorry,” beautiful man laughed, squinting and holding a hand up to shield his eyes from my light because I was still shining it in his face.

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m sorry,” I exclaimed, lowering my phone almost regretfully because how could I keep checking him out in the dark? Beautiful man blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness again.

  “I didn
’t mean to scare you. I don’t know how you didn’t hear me walking up.”

  I didn’t know, either. Good grief, he could be a serial killer and I’d just let him walk within three feet of me. My heart rate, which had already been accelerated by the appearance of Mr. Hottie, threatened to beat out of my chest, this time with fear. He must have noticed, because he held up his hands and started reassuring me.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll stomp my feet and clear my throat really loud.” His voice was smooth and comforting like he was used to calming hysterical females. I tried to remain wary, I mean, the guy could still be a serial killer- a really, really hot serial killer.

  “No, I- It’s okay. I was just focused on trying to figure out how to change this tire and hold up my light at the same time,” I paused, inhaling a calming breath. “Sorry about blinding you.”

  “It’s not a bad defense, honestly. Stopped me in my tracks,” he teased, making me smile a little. “I’m Aaron,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I stared at it for a second, a whole new uneasiness growing in my breast. I did not want to touch this man. He was big and beautiful and exactly the kind of guy I avoided at all costs. It didn’t matter that his eyes were kind and his name reminded me of baseball games, clean and wholesome. I knew better. Men that look like him are arrogant and don’t give girls like me a second glance.

  I couldn’t be rude, however, since it looked like he was offering to help with my flat tire. I reached out my hand, part of me dying to feel his skin against mine even if it was just a handshake, while the rest of me recoiled, bent on protecting my bruised and battered heart from any potential risk. Even in the form of a handshake.

  His hand clasped warm around mine, his skin dry and callused, the casual contact feeling anything but casual. I felt the zing down to my toes.

  Wow.

  My gaze swiftly rose to meet his and I wondered what he felt as his hand squeezed mine just a little before he released me.

  Probably nothing.

  Turning away from him, I bent to retrieve the jack.

  “Here, let me help you,” Aaron offered, taking the jack from my hand.

  “It’s okay. I can-” I gestured to the flat, for some reason feeling like I should give him an out. I’m sure when he dreamed of rescuing a damsel in distress, she didn’t look like me.

  He paused. “Do you really think I’m going to leave you here in the dark to change your tire?” His eyes were wide, his expression a little offended.

  I shrugged, thinking I knew some guys who were real jerks and wouldn’t think twice about leaving me to fend for myself. But one more glance at Mr. Hottie Aaron, with his raised brows, I realized he was not going to leave me stranded to change my tire.

  “No,” I admit and his broad shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” Even I could hear the sincere gratitude in the words as I uttered them and Aaron flashed me a grin, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness.

  “No worries. We’ll get the spare on and get you on your way.” He set the jack on the ground beside my car and lowered himself beside it. “Think you can hold that light for me?” he asked, glancing at me.

  “Oh! Sorry!” Oh, my goodness! I am such an idiot. Shaking my head, thoroughly embarrassed, I shined the light from my phone over his prone body.

  Wow.

  Um, sheesh.

  I have to get pretty dang close for the light to be effective at all. In fact, I have to crouch so low, I’m close enough to smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and men’s body wash coming from him.

  It’s intoxicating.

  Lowering one hand to the asphalt beside me, I balance to keep from swaying any closer and completely embarrassing myself. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m flirting with him. I do not flirt. And even if I did, I would never flirt with a guy as gorgeous as this one.

  Aaron makes quick work of positioning the jack and twirling the crank to lift my car enough to remove the flat as I try to stop myself from staring at his abs which are peeking out from beneath his shirt. Holy crap! This guy is ripped.

  I scrambled to my feet when he pushed himself off the ground and picked up the tool to remove the lug nuts, all while I took a second to look him over unnoticed.

  He’s tall, like really tall, although at five foot four everyone seems tall to me. His dark hair curled around his head. Not tight curls, but big loose curls that were just long enough to make his hair look messy in a sexy way. I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes in the darkness but they were light, probably blue and they crinkled at the edges when he smiled at me. He had a dimple, too. Just one that flashed quickly before hiding again in his left cheek.

  I tried not to look at his body, that seemed kind of cliché, but really there was no help for it. A body like that was just begging to be ogled. Broad, muscular shoulders and a wide chest that tapered down into a narrow waist. I was suddenly tempted to send thank-you notes to fashion designers everywhere for fitted white tees and basketball shorts. When my gaze searched for his again a second later, he was grinning at me. My cheeks flushed.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m such a dork sometimes.” Seriously? Closing my eyes briefly, I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

  Name.

  I have one.

  “Paris.”

  Aaron held out a lug nut. I offered my hand and he dropped the hunk of metal into it before starting on the next one.

  “Like the city?” he asked, grunting just a little from the effort of removing the nut, the muscles in his arms and back tightened, distracting me.

  He asked a question.

  Oh, right.

  “Yes. Paris, like the city. Not Paris, like the Hilton.” I answered.

  I like my name. I do. I just wish it wasn’t the same as some rich reality TV girl. It was good for a gimmick though. I’d even incorporated it into the name of my bakery, Paris Cupcakes. The logo was a black and white drawing of the Eiffel Tower, the lower portion made to look like a cupcake. It was really cute, if I do say so myself. Of course, underneath the logo, are the words And other fine desserts because I don’t just sell cupcakes, but I loved the concept when Brad, my brother and business partner, came up with it and couldn’t imagine it being anything else.

  “The Hilton? You mean that blonde chick from TV?” he asked, dropping another lug nut into my hand.

  “Yeah, I mean who wants to be associated with that girl? It’s like the Kardashian’s. Now, anyone named Khloe, or Kendall, or Kim will be forever asked, you mean like the Kardashian’s when they tell someone their name. It’s kind of sad, really. I’ve always liked the name Khloe for a little girl. But now, it’s ruined for me.” I sighed, with real regret, because I know I’m rambling and Khloe is such a cute name.

  I look over at Aaron where he’s crouched in front of my flat tire to find him watching me with real amusement shining in his eyes, which are blue, by the way. Me and my mouth. I swear, sometimes I wonder if I was born without a cool bone in my body. I can’t tell you how many times my rambling has been the cause of supreme mortification and this time is no exception. Why had I told him any of that?

  “I don’t know about Khloe, but I’ve had my heart set on Kanye since I can remember,” Aaron says, his tone serious as a heart attack. “I can’t name my firstborn son after that tool, though, so I’m screwed.”

  I giggled. A short burst of hilarity that quickly threatened to turn into gales. So freaking funny. I laughed and laughed even as I watched Aaron, Mr. Hottie tire changer, gaze at me in wonder for a moment before his eyes twinkled and his dimple made a reappearance. I worked on calming my laugh down to a grin.

  “See? You get it.” I sighed, as he dropped another lug nut into my hand. “Now, I’ll have to name my kids something like Sarah or Jane. Not quite as cute but less likely to make you think of plastic surgery.”

  “Kids, huh? Not that you look it
, but are congratulations in order?” Aaron asked, his gaze skimming my stomach quickly before returning to my tire. Oh, dear.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m not married. Not that you have to be married to have kids. I mean-” Oh. My. Gosh. “No. I just name hypothetical kids.” And now that I am completely mortified, let me go put my head in an oven. See, this is what happens when I am forced to speak to gorgeous men, I ramble and carry on like a blithering idiot. And now he just looked at my flabby stomach hanging over my yoga pants, wondering if I’m expecting a baby in the near future.

  Aaron dropped the last lug nut into my palm. “Sorry. I guess that could be a sore subject.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I brought it up in the first place.” Of course, now that he’s asked me if I’m pregnant, I’m wondering about him. Does he have a gorgeous wife and a few genetically privileged children at home? A quick glance at his left hand reveals a ring less finger. Whew. Not that I care! Mr. Hottie, Aaron would never be interested in me.

  Aaron lifted the flat tire free and swung it into the trunk of my car like it weighed no more than a piece of paper. Then he lined up the spare and pushed it into place. I held out the handful of lug nuts, still shining my phone on the tire so he could work. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude filled me.

  “Thanks again, Aaron. I really appreciate your help.”

  He paused with the tire and turned to look at me. “It’s no problem. I’m just glad I was here to help.” His eyes scanned the empty parking lot, a frown forming on his handsome face. “Seriously, though, what are you doing here so late? After dark? It’s a little dangerous, don’t you think?”