How to Get Over Your Ex

by Nikki Logan

  ‘Next week we’ll be looking at surveillance gear,’ the instructor continued, ‘and having a go at planting a bug on someone.’

  She rounded on Zander, eyes wide, and mouthed, Yay!

  He shook his scraggy head, laughing, and stood back to let her pass in front of him back to the classroom. They stripped off their borrowed military accoutrements—very reluctantly on Georgia’s part because she’d been having herself a nice little fantasy about Zander doing that for her—and collected up their belongings.

  ‘Would you truly have wanted me to take that hit for you?’ she queried as they walked back towards his Jag a little later.

  ‘It’s nice to think someone would.’

  She lifted her eyes to his.

  ‘Isn’t that what anyone wants?’ he said. ‘Someone to sacrifice all for them.’

  ‘You don’t seem the type,’ she murmured, sliding into the passenger seat next to him.

  ‘I’m as susceptible as anyone to grand gestures.’

  She laughed as they pulled away from the kerb. ‘And you wonder why your staff are frightened of you.’ And then, at his frown, ‘If death is the only way they can get in your good books. Even metaphorically.’

  He stared ahead at the road, letting that sink in.

  ‘You value loyalty that highly?’ she risked.

  He took a moment answering, but when he did it wasn’t with the same light tone that they’d been firing back and forth since the war-games ended. ‘I’ve not had a lot of it in my life.’

  ‘Who from?’

  But of course he wasn’t going to answer that. And no matter how many hours of fun they’d just had, it didn’t give her much of a right to ask.

  Instead he turned to her, brightly, and said, ‘Want to grab something to eat on the way?’

  No. But she wasn’t ready to go home alone, either. Maybe she could wheedle some clues out of his assistant, Casey. Now that she was a super spy and all. Then again, Casey probably hadn’t stayed as an assistant to a man as exacting as Zander Rush for as long as she had by chatting casually about his private business.

  She’d have to be smarter than that.

  She matched the brightness of his smile. And the fakeness.

  ‘Sure.’

  SIX

  June

  ‘It’s a good ten kilometres longer than a regular marathon,’ the spectator perched next to Georgia on a fold-out chair said, his eyes firmly on the bend in the road they were sitting by. ‘But it’s only a club-training day so it doesn’t count as an ultra-marathon. It’s just a good run.’

  Georgia chuckled. Calling a fifty-three-kilometre run ‘good’ was like calling her drive up from London in her gran’s borrowed car ‘brief’. Though getting herself to the starting point up towards the Scottish border reminded her just how long it had been since she’d taken herself right out of London.

  Too long.

  So even if this was the craziest and most spontaneous of bad ideas, it at least had the rather pleasant silver lining of getting her out into fresh, brisk, northern air.

  The event didn’t run adjacent or even near to the actual Hadrian’s Wall remains; disappointing but understandable. The past two thousand years hadn’t been kind to them already, the last thing they needed was forty sweaty runners and their support crews plodding along their length. But the route trundled along paved roads and tracks and along a river in one place, and so Georgia was able to drive ahead, park, and set herself up at strategic locations with the other spectators to watch them go by.

  She quickly realised that Zander would be in the front half of the pack, though not right at the front. Those spaces were occupied by the elite professional runners and their support crews. But he wasn’t too far behind, sans support crew. Last stop she’d practically hidden in the shrubbery as the pack ran by, keen for Zander not to spot her on the side of the road. But as she’d watched him steadily plod past she realised he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the spectators. He was just lost in a zone of his own. The zone that got this tough job done.

  She’d had a good poke around a Roman ruin and Hadrian’s Wall itself and still been ready at this next vantage point twelve kilometres along for the moment he came jogging along the track.

  ‘Here they come,’ the man said in his thick accent, standing. He readied himself with squeeze-bottles of energy drink and a pair of bananas and stepped up to the road edge in case his runner needed supplies. Georgia stepped back into his considerable shadow so that she was partially screened from the runners.

  Just in case.

  Zander stood out in the field, both for his height and also his electric-green vest top. So she watched for that. Only about a dozen runners passed her before she saw the flash of lime and she tucked back even further into her companion’s wake. As before, Zander was totally focused on the path ahead and, not expecting anyone to be out here for him, he wasn’t looking for anyone. That meant his eyes were locked forward, determination all over his face, and he sucked air in and blew it out steadily between the thud of his sturdy runners on the track.

  A slick gloss of sweat covered most of the exposed areas of his body but instead of making him look hot and miserable, it just made him look...hot. Some men really did sweaty well and apparently buttoned-up Zander was one of them. The all-over sheen defined the contours of muscles that flexed taut with effort and made her imagine other ways he might get that sweaty. And that taut.

  She shut down that thought hard as he ran past.

  ‘Is that your guy?’ the man next to her asked, his eyes still on the bend in the road up ahead, his bananas and energy drink still outstretched.

  ‘No, he’s just a friend,’ she laughed. Way too brightly.

  The man glanced at her quizzically, as if she’d answered a totally different question from the one he asked. ‘I meant is he the one you’re here cheering on?’

  Heat surged into her face. ‘Oh, yes.’

  He turned his eyes back to the bend and waited for sight of his guy. Or girl. That was how little attention she’d paid to anyone but Zander. ‘Next stop you’re welcome to one of my squeeze-bottles if you want.’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ she said, dragging her eyes back off Zander’s disappearing form. ‘I’m just watching.’

  She picked up her fold-a-chair.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you at the King’s Arms,’ the affable fellow said. ‘We’ll all have earned a brew by then.’

  She hadn’t planned on waiting at the end, she’d only thought to watch him for a bit, get a feel for this sport that he loved, and then drive the many hours back to London. But while the idea of sitting waiting to surprise him in a pub didn’t appeal, the thought that what she was actually doing was tantamount to stalking appealed even less.

  ‘Yes,’ she suddenly decided. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Late night be damned.

  She clambered her way back across the farmer’s field to where her car was pulled off the road heading west—the same direction as the pack of runners.

  As the afternoon wore on, Zander’s form remained steady but the exertion showed in the lines around his mouth and the cords that became more pronounced in his neck and calves. So even with all his heavy training this wasn’t an easy run. The front of the pack certainly made it seem so and she was always gone by the time the rest of the pack went through. But Zander went from the front-runner in the second cluster of runners to the rear-runner in the front group with a brief, lonely stint by himself as he transitioned the ever-stretching gap between them.

  Most of the other spectators went to the final checkpoint to cheer their runners across the line but Georgia headed straight for the small pub on the main street. There was no guarantee that Zander would even go there; if he valued his solitude enough he might just clamber back into his Jag and head straight back to London all puffing and sweaty.

  And she’d be sitting here for nothing.

  But she stayed. She wanted him to know she’d come—eve
n if he might not be all that happy about it. She wanted him to know how much she admired his dogged determination. She wanted to know what time he’d run. Those long waits on the side of the road were great for getting a feel from the regulars on what was a good time, what the stages in the pack meant and why long-run competitors did what they did.

  Curiosity and a real sense of anticipation hung with her.

  She wanted him to have done well. For his sake.

  The front-runners started to appear amid the small crowd in the pub. She recognised some of them since they were the ones she’d been looking at all afternoon. Their arrival at the Arms was a mini-version of the race order. Clearly there was a procedure followed by most competitors—finish, shower, pub.

  Her eyes drifted to the door yet again.

  The crowd grew too thick in the small pub for her to see the moment Zander actually came through the door, but they spotted each other at virtually the same moment as he turned from the bar. She sucked in a small breath, held it, and smiled.

  As casual as you like. As though this were her local and he’d just happened into it. As though she weren’t three hundred miles from her local. Sitting on the border of a whole other country.

  ‘Georgia?’ His confusion reached her before he did.

  She stood. ‘Congratulations. That was quite a run.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t joyous, either. Had she expected pleased?

  She took a deep breath. ‘I thought I’d watch you compete. I just wanted to say hello before I headed off.’ Let you know I’m not a stalker. She reached for her handbag, realising what a desperately bad idea this all was. Not only was she not invited, but she’d intruded on his privacy. Presumed her way into his own space and sporting circle. The least she could do was keep it short.

  She threaded the straps of her handbag in her fingers. ‘How did you do?’

  He shook his head, still trying to come to terms with her presence. ‘Good. Personal best for the distance.’

  She nodded. ‘I saw you make that big break between the chase group and the lead,’ she babbled. ‘That was exciting.’

  He frowned.

  ‘I had lots of time to talk to the spectators,’ she confessed, flushing. ‘Ask me anything about marathon running now...’

  She laughed. He didn’t.

  Oh, God... ‘OK. Well, congratulations. I’m going to go.’

  She didn’t wait for a farewell, but started weaving her way immediately through the assembled throng. She got to the door before a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  ‘Georgia...’

  She turned. Forced a bright smile to her face. She was getting quite good at swallowing humiliation now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You being here really threw me. I’m not...’ He frowned again and looked around at everyone else’s support teams laughing and sharing stories. ‘I’m not used to having someone here for me. Stay for a while longer?’

  One foot was, literally, out of the door. It would be so easy to make an excuse about the sinking sun, the long drive home, and flee. But there was Zander, all freshly showered and apologetic and great-smelling, standing in a room full of excited buzz, inviting her to stay in it. To enjoy everyone else’s post-run high. To vacation in his world for just a short while.

  She scanned his face for signs of being humoured. ‘Maybe for a bit, then. If you’re sure you don’t mind.’

  ‘Stay. We can chalk this up to a Year of Georgia project.’

  The radio promotion. Of course. Everything came back to that.

  They returned to the place she’d been seated but someone had taken quick advantage of the vacant seat and slid into it. Zander turned and shepherded her through to an area behind the bar. Still busy but quieter. A small table-for-one in the far corner was empty. It didn’t take him long to find a spare chair.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you out on the road,’ he started, sinking onto one of the seats.

  She waved away the apology. His job was to stay focused on the run, not glance at spectators in case one of them was for him. ‘How do you feel after the run?’

  ‘Always the same. Exhilarated. Drained, yet like I could do it all again. I’ll feel like a conqueror for a few hours yet.’

  ‘How many recovery days do you have?’

  His lips parted in a smile and in this private little corner of the bar it was all for her. ‘You really are a quick study.’

  Heat filled her cheeks. ‘They were quite long roadside vigils.’ And lots of listening so that she didn’t have to talk too much to strangers.

  A genuine smile lit up his face. ‘Sorry. I should have run faster.’

  They chatted more about the race, the pastime, the rules, and the challenges, and Georgia found herself sinking into his obvious engagement.

  ‘You look totally different,’ she blurted.

  ‘In civvies?’

  ‘No. When you talk about running your entire face changes. You become so animated.’

  ‘How do I normally look?’

  She gestured to his frown. ‘More like that. When you’re talking about work. This Zander is...very human.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Wow. I’m not even human in London?’

  What the hell? She’d intruded on his space, she might as well go the whole way. He was a puzzle she wanted to solve. ‘You’re so guarded in London.’

  He shrugged—totally guarded—and she regretted raising it. ‘I’m in work mode when I see you. It’s not London’s fault.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re not yourself when you’re in work mode?’

  ‘A different part of myself.’

  ‘So which is more you—this Zander or London Zander?’

  He squinted as he thought about it. ‘I work eighty hours a week so, statistically, being like this is less common. But scarcity just makes me enjoy it more.’

  So he liked this side of him as much as she did.

  Around them a few people stood, as if on cue. He noticed, too.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We have a tradition when we run the wall.’

  She followed him out of the King’s Arms, feeling very comfortable and welcome in this crowd—with Zander—even though she knew how out of place she was. Such a fraud. A line of them trooped, beers in hand, down to the banks of the tidal flat that had been halfway out when she’d arrived earlier. Now water lapped right up to the banks. The groups split down into small pairs and threes and spread out along the length of the foreshore. It practically glowed with rich, dusk light.

  ‘Solway Firth,’ Zander said, taking his cue from a pair of nearby cows and sinking onto the grass. ‘Best sunsets in England.’

  ‘And Scotland,’ she said, dropping down next to him and looking across the narrow expanse of water that separated the two countries. She wondered what Scots might be sitting on the opposite banks looking at England and sharing the sunset. Then she looked inland. ‘What town is that down there?’

  Lights twinkled where the tidal flats became a river as the sun lowered.

  ‘Gretna Green.’

  ‘Convenient if we were eloping.’ She laughed.

  But the mention of marriage dented the relaxed companionship that had blossomed between them since they sat back down at the pub.

  ‘Have you never wanted to get married?’ she asked, without thinking about how he might construe such a question. In such a context. With Gretna Green an hour’s stroll away.

  His answer was more of a stammer.

  ‘Not that I’m volunteering,’ she hurried. ‘One misguided proposal a year is my limit. I’m just curious. You’d be quite the catch, I’d have thought.’

  Understatement.

  He took his time answering that. Or deciding how to. ‘What self-respecting woman would want me and my insane schedule?’

  OK, they were going with flippant, then. ‘I think you’d find your postal code and credit limit would be sufficient compensation for many people.’ Not
to mention the body.

  ‘Many? But not you?’

  She blew a breath slowly out and stared into the orange glow of the sunset. ‘I would actually be quite choosy about who I married,’ she started.

  ‘Despite all evidence to the contrary,’ he murmured.

  She looked at him. ‘It’s not like I picked Dan out of a Proposals-R-Us catalogue. I’d known him a while. I really like him as a person. He’s bright and dedicated and he has really good family values.’

  Would he notice the complete absence of the L-word?

  ‘You two wanted kids?’

  She snorted. ‘We never discussed a week into the future, let alone years.’ Which only made her proposal even more misguided. ‘But he’d been looking after his sick sister and her kids for a while. So I got to see it in action. The potential.’

  ‘Family’s important to you?’

  She frowned, thought about it. ‘The values are important. The capacity to love and nurture something to adulthood.’

  ‘Like plants?’

  She chuckled. ‘Exactly. Kids can’t possibly be any fussier than ferns.’

  ‘And that’s more important to you than money or an address? Values?’

  She looked at him. ‘You’ve seen how I live. Do I strike you as someone who cares much about money or the trappings of wealth?’ Or threw them around needlessly?

  ‘Not having it is not necessarily synonymous with not wanting it,’ he said. ‘I used to have none and I definitely wanted it.’

  ‘Some things are more important than money.’

  ‘So what was the leap year promotion all about?’ he asked suddenly. ‘If not for the fifty grand. Why put yourself and Bradford through that?’

  The sun touched the horizon. ‘Did you know that sunsets are only a mirage? By the time we’re seeing it touch water, the sun has already dropped below the horizon. Something to do with the curvature of the earth.’

  He turned to look. And it wasn’t until then that she realised how closely he’d been watching her before. But then he brought his eyes back around. ‘I didn’t know that. But I do recognise a subject change when I hear one.’

  ‘It’s not... I’m not comfortable talking about it.’