by Xavier Neal
Must Love Jogs
Xavier Neal
Must Love Series #2
Must Love Jogs
Must Love Series #2
By Xavier Neal
©Xavier Neal 2017
Cover by Dana Leah with Design By Dana
All Rights Reserved
License Note
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization from the author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in a court of law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication: To the Universe...Thank you for giving me a life I never find boring.
Playlist Selects
Here are five songs from the “Must Love Jogs” playlist!
Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.
1. All About You- Chris Lane (Country)
2. Cupid- 112 (R&B)
3. Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift (Pop)
4. River- Bishop Briggs (Indie Rock)
5. I Will Wait- 2Cellos (Classical/Pop)
More songs: http://spoti.fi/2vthZpX
Thirty. Single. And apparently the most out of shape person on the entire planet. 5k? What the hell was I thinking? I can barely make it to the mail box without getting winded. This was…the dumbest thing I believe I’ve ever done. Since I don’t do many things outside of rehearsing, I guess that’s not really a hard list to top.
I take a large deep breath from my bent over position. The pain in my side throbs harshly, overshadowing the one festering in my lungs.
Oh yeah. Easily the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Next time I decide to be a ‘good friend’ and help a good cause, I need to be reminded if I do, it will be me they need to make donations towards for lung replacement surgery.
“Need a bottle of water, angel?” A smooth, country accented voice questions.
I struggle to banish my painful grimace. Once I feel the scowl on my chocolate colored face is at least remotely tolerable, I turn on my sore heels to come face to face with what looks like a heat stroke hallucination. My eyes drink in the lean, muscular, extremely tall, brown eyed hunk who is dangling an ice-cold bottle from his cream colored hands.
How wrong is it I want them both pressed firmly against my lips? Huh. That thought has to be the result of not getting enough oxygen to my brain.
His grin stretches wide and the pain I was obsessing over vanishes.
Well that’s….new…And it can’t be good. Definitely, can’t be good.
“So,” he speaks again, still smirking, “you want that drink, angel?”
Slowly, I nod and allow him to transfer the wet bottle into my hand. I give the table covered in coolers containing cold water bottles a quick glance to reassure myself he isn’t trying to slip me tainted water to help in his pursuit of kidnapping me. I do not watch much television, but I occasionally do catch the news, and my parents have a habit of sending me texts with the latest ‘what to watch for’ new stories.
My eyes steal an additional glance.
He doesn’t feel like the type to lure you to his van so much as knock you over the head with a mallet, toss you over his broad shoulders, and take you back to his cave as his new wife. Mmm. And what a lovely pounding that would be…Wow. I…need water. I am dehydrated to the point of ridiculous delusions.
I quickly unscrew the lid and guzzle down as much as I can without choking, quite aware his eyes are still planted on me.
This was a terrible idea. Every bone in my body is numb. It feels like they all sat down and had a meeting on the best way to handle my decisions from this point forward. Perhaps next time I will let logic win as it should, rather than my emotions. While I completely respect the purpose of this jog, which is to raise money for a foundation who helps fight against childhood cancers, I think next time I will simply lift my hand to scribble my signature on a check. That will save me pain as much as the embarrassment for finishing last. Dead last. There were toddlers who finished before me. Pretty sure a few laughed and pointed at my pathetic powerwalking.
My dark brown eyes meet the stranger’s again. “Why are you still here?”
He smiles once more and my knees knock together.
Nope. That’s not….anything special. That’s just my body boycotting the choice to keep standing.
“My company is one of the sponsors for the run this year.” He tilts his head the direction of the table I checked out earlier. “We’re in charge of the water. You know…making sure to keep your body…” his tongues grazes his lips, “wet.”
Great. He’s one of those men. Should’ve known it. I probably would have immediately if my brain wasn’t too busy sending pain memos to every cell in my body. He looks like one of those men. And if I am being honest with myself, he almost makes me wish I was one of those women…
“Hydrated,” I correct him with a snip.
“Same thing.”
“No. It’s not. But rather than waste the breath I just got back, I’m going to say, thank you and walk away.”
His mouth twitches to retort.
“Thank you for the water.” As quickly as I can, which isn’t as quick as I would like, I turn around and begin my long shame stroll towards my best friend, Dana, who is set up at the table for V.I.P. donors. Next year that will be me except I won’t run or I guess more accurately, powerwalk, because this event is for in shape, athletically qualified people, not women who sit happily in their chair all day and use mostly their arms.
After the event disperses, Dana insists I join her, her boyfriend, and a few of her out of town friends for beers and burgers at The Silver Tap Pub. Beer is far from something I enjoy drinking, but a victory burger seems directly up my alley.
At the pub, I grab the end seat closest to my best friend, preparing for my well timed exit.
I don’t do social functions. They make me uncomfortable. People don’t like me. I don’t even blame them. I have a tendency to be a bit harsh or dreadfully dull. Even I get bored listening to me talk. They have all these amazing things going on in their lives. Husbands. Children. Job promotions. Normal subjects and activities to converse over. Me? Not so much. Seriously, who wants to spend time listening to a woman who has travelled the world, but never really stepped into it? Who wants to hear about my trip to Italy where I didn’t go further than the coffee shop around the corner when I wasn’t rehearsing or performing? Who wants to hear about me passing on the chance to make out with a French male supermodel to enjoy pastries alone in my hotel room between rehearsing my audition piece for my next career choice? No one. Even Dana’s flawless, magazine perfect face scrunches after too long of listening to my so called ‘stories’. The reality is playing cello is my life. My entire life. It is where my focus has always been and most likely will always remain. It makes my ability to have discussions about other things very limited.
Hugh, Dana’s boyfriend, offers me a polite smile from his place beside her. “Really glad you came out to support the foundation, Abby. It’s always fun when our friends get involved.”
“Liar, liar,” Kellan, Hugh’s best friend who also looks like something that just strolled off a fashion runaway, chortles as he drapes his arm around a brown skinned woman I believe is his wife. “You bloody dread when I get involved with more than just the running.”
“That’s because you add to the headaches. Not alleviate them,” Hugh jokes.
&nb
sp; “Alleviate means to ease or relieve,” the woman says teasingly.
“I know what it means,” he says sharply to her. “I’m not the one who needs an English lesson, love.”
“You are always the one who needs an English lesson!” She bites, between laughs. “You are the only one at this table who calls them chips instead of fries.”
“They are!”
More laughter spreads around the table and I find it impossible not to join in.
Just because people don’t like me, doesn’t mean I don’t like them. Even now. I love hearing them argue and playfully fight. I love how he has an accent from a country I’m sure I’ve visited for a concert, but never toured for fun. I love trying to figure out what everyone’s discussing because to me it’s one giant puzzle the majority of the time. I think that’s why I love being around Dana when I can. She’s like a human hashtag. She always knows what’s trending in fashion or food or which celebrity is dating who. Doesn’t matter I have no idea what they are famous for or why the world cares about them, it’s fascinating to listen to. I also play better afterwards. My conductor says it’s because music is a gateway to human emotions and the best way to properly express them is to be in touch with them. Dana is always bubbling over with joy or anger, depending on the dumb shit Hugh has said or the romantic way he’s made it up to her. I lack those experiences, but plugging into hers seems acceptable. She never complains about it. And I appreciate the chance to be almost normal.
“Hello!” The young waitress sweetly states. “My name is Ainsley and I will be taking care of all of you tonight.”
“You have quite the smile,” Victor, Hugh’s colleague Dana has expressed possibly setting me up with it, less than slyly compliments. “I bet I can make it even brighter.”
She offers him a polite grin yet doesn’t make any attempt to flirt back.
Don’t blame her. The thin mustache he insists on having makes him look like a cartoon villain. I know why Dana wants us to go out. I may be terrible with social…everything…but there are a few cues I have learned to pick up on. If we were to date, which we won’t, then we could double date with her and Hugh, making it best friends dating best friends. Then of course there’s the more obvious reason. I don’t date. Almost ever. The last date I had ended in actual tears. His. Not mine. Telling a man you could never fathom how a woman could ever love him let alone want to procreate with him after he’s had four glasses of wine is not good social etiquette, though Dana tried to soothe my disaster by informing me, I don’t want a man who has to have that much alcohol on his first date anyway.
Kellan orders pitchers of beer for the table while I politely ask for water just like his wife. He insists I will love it, while his wife mockingly shakes her head, pretending to gag. Rather than argue or put myself in a more awkward position, I simply smile along with everyone else, and try to ignore the screaming agony pumping through my system.
Am I going to even make it through my nightly routine of practice without sobbing like a newborn baby?
All of a sudden a southern coated voice says from over my shoulder, “The man with the British accent is not wrong. It’s a great chocolate stout. Perfect for colder days like this.”
“Not British,” Kellan quickly snips.
“Irish?”
“Doctenn,” Kellan declares with a heavy sigh. “But thank you for agreeing with me. At least there’s one other person in the restaurant who has decent taste.”
His wife playfully states, “Just because I would rather drink something with actual chocolate in it doesn’t mean I don’t have great taste.”
“True. You did marry me.”
“Not exactly the best example,” Hugh comments and the table chuckles with him.
Baffled at the man’s lingering presence, I look up and snap, “Are you lost?”
“Abby!” Dana scolds quickly.
“So your name is Abby,” the man grins again. “Glad I finally have that.”
“Why would you need it?”
“It’s always better to have the name of the woman you’re trying to ask out.”
Dana awes from beside me and I snap my head towards her. “No. Do not make that sound. He’s not asking me out.”
“Well, I intend to, angel.”
Frustration romps through me as I turn to face him a second time. “Why? And why do you keep calling me that?”
“You mean aside from all the white?” His eyes grab another gaze of my white t-shirt, tennis shoes, and headband holding my thick professionally straightened hair out of my face. “You have a sweet face, like one only heaven could send.”
Dana coos again at the pitiful cajole, but Victor grunts, “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Better than the smile bullshit line you threw out,” Dana argues.
“It was a winning line because it was true.”
“Then I guess this guy should be taking home a trophy because what he said sounded true and believable.”
“Because it is,” his delicious voice sweetly says.
“Why are you defending him?” I motion my hand the stranger’s direction.
“Because he’s hot and interested in you.”
“Thank you.”
She offers him a polite nod before giving me an unwelcomed command, “Invite him to sit with us.”
“No.”
“Then go sit with him…alone.”
“Again…no.”
Dana glares at me briefly and looks up at the man I can hardly believe is still effortlessly towering over me. Obviously I was wrong earlier. He is clearly crazy and probably on some sort of stalker watch list proving once more my parent’s paranoia about the lack of safety in my surroundings is a serious issue.
My best friend warmly suggests, “Why don’t you go grab the two of you a seat at the bar? She will be right over.”
“No, I won’t. I-”
Her hand covers my mouth as she continues, “We just need a minute.”
My muffled complaints are lost.
We don’t need a minute. I definitely don’t need a minute. I have no interest in him or his sexy country accent. Oops. I didn’t mean to add sexy to the description. It’s not. It’s…distracting. How can anyone care about what information he’s sharing when everything comes out sounding like an old movie hero? An old movie hero who sweeps the woman into his arms, tells her she’s his whole world, and then kisses her with everything he has…Ugh. These are just farcical fantasies brought on by dehydration. I am without a doubt still suffering from heat stress.
The moment he’s far enough for her approval, she pins her eyes back on me. “You’re going to go over there, introduce yourself formally, and have an actual conversation with him.”
I shake my head.
“Yes and because I know you, you’re going to want at least three good reasons why so here they are.”
“Babe, why is your hand covering her mouth?” Hugh abruptly questions.
She gives him a quick look at the same time Ainsley brings the pitchers of beer. “I’ll explain in a minute.”
I try to express my displeasure yet her overly thin eyebrows dart down along with her voice. “One, you have now crossed paths twice. That’s not a coincidence.”
By definition, I am fairly certain it is.
“Different days, maybe. Same day? That’s a sign.”
A sign this city isn’t nearly as large as she thinks it is and that it is filled with more psychopaths than we are willing to believe.
“Two, he wants to take you out. You’ve already got his attention, so why not see if you might actually enjoy having it.”
I’ve probably got his attention because he liked the way my clothes were clinging to me from the sweat after the run. Mmm…walk. I walked a 5k. Couldn’t run that long if I was in a horror movie and living depended on it. Victim number one, right here.
“Three, because I live to play matchmaker and need a win.”
My eyebrows lift in curiosity.
Finally, her hand falls from my mouth. “Just because he has a country accent doesn’t make him a cowboy.”
She lets the corner of her lip tug upwards. “Go.”
I hesitate to follow the command.
Her three points were not valid enough to warrant my submission, but I know if I sit here, she will continue to push me until I do or even worse, she will invite him to come back to join us, which would be worse than giving him five minutes in private to come to the conclusion I am not his type. I don’t need an audience for that discovery. I don’t even need the amount of attention he’s already encouraged coming my way over this entire thing. What if they start asking me questions? What if they want to know where my boyfriend is or why I don’t have one? What if they lead me to the social pit then try to refrain from laughing as I plummet to the bottom?