by Linda Seed
“That’s … amazingly accurate,” Patrick concluded.
“So, what are you going to do now?”
That was, indeed, the question.
“I thought … running.”
Ramon looked at him blankly. “Running where? You mean, dumping Sofia? Dude, I know it was a bad date, but ...”
“Running as recreation,” Patrick clarified. “I thought I would ask her to go running with me.”
Ramon nodded. “Right. Do something active and outdoorsy. That’s her bag. Give her the home field advantage, get things back on the right track.”
“That’s the general idea,” Patrick agreed.
“Do you even run?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t. I’m not eager to be humiliated.” It wasn’t strictly true that Patrick ran. Not regularly, anyway. But he had jogged a little in the past, and he’d been increasing his speed on the treadmill since he’d started working out at the gym. Certainly, he could manage a couple of miles respectably enough.
“Okay. So, when are you going?”
“I haven’t asked her yet.”
Ramon picked up his slice and paused with it halfway to his mouth. “Have you talked to her at all since the bad date?”
“Ah … no.”
Ramon shook his head in pity. “Every minute you wait, she’s getting more and more angry about the whole French film debacle.”
“She is?”
“I’m married, man. Trust me. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock.”
Patrick wouldn’t normally assume that Ramon was right about anything, but the man did have more experience with relationships. That had to count for something.
Figuring that a phone call might be fraught with peril—too many variables might come into play—he texted her after lunch, before his next class.
When can I see you again? Some morning this week, maybe? I thought we might go running.
There. Going running together before work was casual, it was non-threatening. And it wouldn’t lead to the question of sex, because they both would have somewhere they needed to be.
He normally wouldn’t have added won’t lead to sex as an item in the dating-scenario plus column, but one had to adapt to the circumstances.
When she didn’t answer right away, he figured she hadn’t seen his text. And when she still hadn’t answered an hour later, he wondered if he’d blown his chance with her.
That, he thought, would be tragic.
15
Sofia didn’t see the text until more than two hours after Patrick sent it. She’d been out on a kayaking tour when it had come in, and she didn’t notice it until after she’d gotten showered and dressed.
Running? That was unexpected.
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She wanted to see him—she’d thought of little else since their ill-fated Saturday night—but was there any point? They were too hopelessly mismatched for this thing between them to go anywhere.
Did Patrick call you yet? Martina texted while Sofia was considering her options.
He texted. He wants to go running.
Why running? Martina asked.
God knows.
She had an idea about his reasoning, though. She’d told him that she’d felt out of her element on their date, and he wanted to put her back into a situation where she’d feel comfortable. It was sweet.
I don’t know what I'm going to say, she told Martina.
Say yes!!! The response came almost immediately. He’s sweet, Sof. If you don’t go out with him again, I will.
And that decided it. The force of sibling rivalry was strong enough to overcome any doubts Sofia had.
The hell you will, Sofia answered.
They scheduled their run for a Wednesday morning before work. Patrick didn’t have his first class until ten, and Sofia didn’t have a tour group until late morning. They met at upper Fiscalini Ranch, and Sofia unfolded a map that she’d taken from a rack at the trailhead.
Patrick’s first hint that he’d made a tactical error came when she showed him the map and proposed a route.
“We can head up this trail to the Forest Loop, curve around here to go down to the bluffs, follow the bluff trail down to here, and then circle back to the starting point.” She looked at him expectantly.
He blinked a few times, looked at the map, then looked out at the trail before them. The route she was suggesting had to be at least four miles, maybe five. And a substantial portion of that was steeply uphill.
“Oh. Ah … hmm.” Yes, he’d been sure that he could handle a run. But he’d imagined a couple of miles at the most, on relatively flat ground.
“If that doesn’t work for you, we can take a different route,” she said.
He should have confessed then that the route was too hard, too uphill, too long. He should have admitted that he was daunted by the prospect of it. But the blow to his manly pride would have been too much.
“Have you run this route before?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. When I’m training for a triathlon, I do this on my low-intensity days.”
This piece of information offered two bits of alarming news. One, that she competed in triathlons. And two, that she considered this route to be “light intensity.”
Chances were good that he would end this outing injured, humiliated, or both. He began wondering how he might get out of it. Could he fake some kind of emergency that would require him to leave early? Pretend that he had a bad knee or a sore ankle that demanded a shorter route at a slow pace?
He could try that, or he could just man up and do his best not to embarrass himself.
“So, what do you think?” She was stretching a hamstring as she spoke.
“After you.” He gestured gallantly to the trail ahead.
One benefit of the outing was the view. The rolling hills, the golden grass, the wildflowers, the sweeping vistas of the forest and the ocean, the vast, blue horizon. And then there was the view straight ahead of him: Sofia in a cropped workout top and spandex running pants, every curve and plane of her body in clear relief.
If he’d thought she was magnificent before, she was even more so now, her muscles working flawlessly, a light sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, her shiny, thick hair bouncing in its ponytail, a good two inches of smooth, tanned skin visible above the waistband of her pants.
He was enchanted.
At least, he was enchanted for the first part of the run, before all of his faculties became absorbed in survival.
Her pace was faster than he would have liked, but that was okay at first. He pushed himself a little, and he kept up. But as they headed uphill in the late September sun, his breathing became labored and his legs and lungs started to burn.
He could have called to her to slow down a little—she would have accommodated him—but, God help him, he wanted to impress her. So he imagined what he might do if rabid wolves were chasing him. He dug down deep into his reserves of strength and energy, and he kept pace with her as they rose toward the top of the hill.
By the time they were two miles into the run, he was gasping for breath, his legs felt like they were on fire, his vision was blurred with sweat, and he began to see his life flashing before his eyes.
Sofia, keeping her eyes on the trail in front of her, seemed oblivious until he stumbled. She looked back over her shoulder to see if he was okay, and surprise—then alarm—registered on her face.
“Patrick? Patrick! Oh, my God.” She skidded to a stop and rushed back to where he stood in the middle of the trail.
At first she wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Patrick’s face was bright red, he was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide in either pain or panic. He dropped to his knees as she got to him.
“Patrick! Are you all right? What happened? Can you talk?”
He flopped onto his back and spread out like a starfish in the dirt, gasping.
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I’m going to call 911.” Marveling tha
t the man was going to require emergency services for the second time since she’d known him, she pulled her phone out of a pocket in her shirt and thumbed it on.
“No … no … no need …” Patrick gulped air. “I just … I need … a minute.”
She knelt beside him and felt his pulse. His heart was racing.
“Can you sit up?”
He began to pull himself into a sitting position, and she helped him, supporting his back with her hand. She pulled a water bottle out of a pack she had strapped around her waist, and she offered it to him.
He drank deeply, gasped for air a few more times, then fell onto his back again, this time more in defeat than due to any kind of near-death crisis.
“Come on. There’s a bench over there.” She offered him her hand and helped him up, and they walked fifty yards to a driftwood bench that overlooked the ocean down the hill and far below them.
“You gave me a scare. Again,” she said when they were settled and his breathing was slowing down.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I probably should have mentioned that I’m not a serious runner.”
“You don’t say.” She might have smirked slightly. She wasn’t proud of the smirk, but the situation seemed to call for it.
“You’re a triathlete,” he said.
“Well, yes.” Suddenly, she was embarrassed that she’d failed to take that into account. What had she expected? Of course she was more fit than he was. Not everyone was prepared to run four to five miles at high speed up steep hills. Why had she assumed he was?
Probably because her previous boyfriends had been bodybuilders, long-distance runners, and cyclists—men who’d have thought today’s run was a light warm-up, the way Sofia did.
She hadn’t even thought about it—she’d simply expected more than Patrick could give.
“God, I’m so sorry,” she said as they sat on the bench, looking out at the ocean. “I didn’t think. When you said you wanted to go for a run …”
“I meant a mile or two. At a slow jog.” He smiled ruefully.
“You should have said something.”
“Yes. And you should have said you wanted to see the Marvel film. We’re even, I suppose.” His color was improving, and his breathing was more or less back to normal.
She offered him the water bottle again. “I guess you’re right.”
Would they ever have a date that went smoothly, when someone didn’t almost die or fall asleep unintentionally, or explode in a fit of insecurity?
She sighed and slumped down into her seat. “Patrick … maybe this just isn’t meant to be.”
“I don’t believe that.” He was looking at her intently with those pale blue eyes.
“You don’t?”
“No.” He reached out and touched her shoulder where the T-back shirt left it bare. An electric tingle warmed her all the way down her spine.
“I invited you into my bed, and you refused. No one has ever refused before.”
“Now, that I believe.” He smiled, just a little, and the smile tugged at her.
“So, why did you say no?”
His hand slid off of her shoulder and down her arm, until he took her hand in his. “Because you weren’t offering for the right reasons. You didn’t want me. You wanted the upper hand.”
“I …” She’d opened her mouth intending to deny it, but she couldn’t. It was true.
“I want you to want me, Sofia.”
“I do.” It came out as a whisper, a prayer.
“I’m not an athlete,” he said.
“I’m not some intellectual, high-IQ MENSA member who—”
He cut her off with a kiss, and in a moment, she could no longer remember what she was or wasn’t, or what he was or wasn’t. She only knew she’d meant it when she said she wanted him. Her body was on fire with it.
His hands were on her face, holding her to him, and hers were in the fabric of his shirt, grabbing it, pulling at it.
She was utterly lost in him when they heard someone coming up the trail. They pulled apart self-consciously as a woman walked past with a corgi on a leash.
“This isn’t over,” Patrick murmured to her.
“God, I hope not.”
16
It was confusing, that’s what it was. They kept having disastrous dates, yet Sofia couldn’t stay away from him.
He wasn’t her usual type, that was true. But dating her usual type hadn’t worked miracles for her love life, had it? Dating a man she could work out with was good; it was fine. The visuals were great, and the sex usually met her expectations. But when it came time to be quiet together or to actually talk, there was always something missing.
Usually, what was missing was any concern for her or her feelings.
But Patrick was different. He wasn’t out to use her. If he had been, he’d have slept with her the night she’d offered, regardless of whether it was the right thing for either one of them.
But he hadn’t done that. He’d wanted her to want it for the right reasons, and that was a revelation. That was refreshing as hell.
Normally, after two dates as bad as the ones they’d had, she’d have packed up her emotional bags and moved on. But somehow, she wanted to unpack and move in for a long stay.
Sofia took her tour group out at San Simeon Cove later that morning. The weather was perfect for it: clear skies, warm temperatures, calm water in a color so blue it almost seemed painted on.
Her muscles were pleasantly warm as she paddled, keeping an eye on the group behind her.
Twice now, Patrick had risked both pain and injury to get close to her, to impress her. He was trying too hard—but then, so had she when she’d claimed to want to see a movie she had absolutely no interest in.
What if they both stopped trying so hard and just relaxed? What if they both tried being themselves? It was possible they’d discover they had nothing in common. But it was also possible that they would have a lot of fun. And it certainly would be safer for Patrick.
After she brought the group in, she got changed into workout clothes and went to the gym, where she put in a hard half hour on the free weights. She didn’t feel quite right unless she’d had an intense workout. It was something in her DNA, something that had been true for her since she was a small child running on the beach with the wind in her hair, feeling a thrilling surge of energy and the immutable strength of her own limbs.
When she was done and heading toward the showers, she ran into a guy she’d dated once—a muscle-bound jock who’d played football for the Mustangs and who now worked as a personal trainer. He was wearing shorts that showed the bulge of his quadriceps and a cropped T-shirt that offered a peek of six-pack abs.
What kind of guy wore a crop top, anyway? She marveled that the question had never bothered her before.
“Hey, Sof.” He eyed her up and down while trying to pretend he wasn’t. “How you been?”
“Logan. I’m good.” Their time together had been brief and had ended amicably enough. The problem was that she’d gotten tired of talking exclusively about him—and he never had.
“Saw you running at the ranch yesterday with some guy,” Logan said. The inflection he put on the words some guy indicated that what he really meant was some stiff or some asshole.
“Did you?” She smiled enigmatically.
“Looked like he was having some trouble. You training him, or what?”
“Or what,” Sofia said, offering nothing more.
Logan grimaced. “What are you doing with that guy? Let me take you out, remind you what it’s like with a real man.” He flashed his artificially white teeth in what was supposed to be a winning smile.
“A real man?” Sofia said. “Why? Were you planning to introduce me to one of your friends?”
“Ouch!” Logan staggered theatrically, his hands over his wounded heart.
“Goodbye, Logan.” Sofia continued on her way to the locker room.
“T
hink about it, babe!” he called after her. “You’ve got my number!”
She certainly did have his number. And that was the problem.
Patrick managed to get through his work day despite his sore muscles and his dearly held desire to take a nap.
He lectured, he moderated class discussions, he met with students during his office hours, and he graded papers. He tried not to wince when he got up from his chair.
He was torn in his feelings about his own actions since he’d met Sofia. On the one hand, a person could argue that he’d acted like a fool, pretending to be someone he wasn’t and putting his own safety in jeopardy. On the other, how could he be faulted for giving his all for romance? What was life if not risk? And Sofia was more than worth a foolhardy gesture or two.
If he’d been more cautious, more prudent, then where would he be? Admiring her from afar, he supposed, instead of fondly remembering that sublime kiss.
Ah, the kiss.
He needed to kiss her again the way he needed food, shelter, air. It was hard to think about anything else. But he had a job to do, so he focused on the student who was sitting in the chair across from his desk during his afternoon office hours.
“… my financial aid,” she was saying as she waved a stapled sheaf of papers in front of him.
“May I?” He reached out for the assignment she was holding, and she handed it to him. An analysis of the story structure in The Sun Also Rises. He’d given her eighty-eight percent—a B-plus.
“Eighty-eight is a very respectable grade,” he said, handing it back to her.
“Yes, but Dr. Connelly, I need to get an A in your class or my overall GPA is going to fall below the requirement for my scholarship. I can’t lose my scholarship.”
He pulled up her grades for the semester—such as it was, this early in the term—and saw that she was averaging in the eighties. “There’s plenty of time to pull up your grade,” he reminded her. “We’re only a month into the term.”