"I'm older?"
I nod.
"I'm not even thirty."
"Almost thirty."
He chuckles. "Do you think baiting me is going to work?"
Yes. It always does. And I need the challenge. Cam is faster than I am, by fifteen seconds a mile. "Work at what? I'm stating facts. You're older, out of energy. I can run faster."
"You really need to race a man who ran for an hour to win?"
"How do I know you really ran for an hour?" I ask. "You're probably just saying you ran for an hour."
"Okay. If you need the handicap." He smirks challenge accepted and returned. "To Chelsea Piers and back. Loser buys coffee."
"You own a tech company."
"So?"
"I'm a broke college student."
"And I'm ordering the most expensive pour over." His smile widens. "Run fast."
My chest warms. My cheeks flame. I'm not sure if I'm angry or charmed, but I know I'm ready to win. "On three or you need a break first?"
"On three."
"You sure? You already ran so much and you are older."
"And taller."
"Heavier." Neither of us is built like a distance runner. They're tall sometimes—tall people have longer legs—but they're incredibly thin.
He's built like a sprinter, the same way I am.
Of course, broad, muscular men are considered the height of hotness. My muscular frame isn't the body type men covet.
But it doesn't seem to deter Cam. He's not exactly shy about checking me out.
And I do have a great ass. Maybe not as great as Cam's, but that's like saying a sport isn't as great as soccer.
It's not possible to compare.
He motions to the edge of a tile. Adopts race position. "On three."
"On three."
He holds out three fingers.
We count down in unison.
I take off the second I finish one, spring past a dad pushing a stroller, a couple on a morning walk, two friends sipping coffee.
I don't look back until I round a corner.
Cam's running fast but not full speed. Is he tired or conserving energy?
He is faster than I am, but he's used to running in London weather. It's not as hot as yesterday, but the air is still warm and sticky. It's enough to distract even the most seasoned athlete.
I take my lead for half a mile, then I slow to a speed I can maintain. I focus on my form. My breath. The cool breeze rolling off the Hudson.
I'm too slow. He gains on me.
Cam shoots me a told you, then he runs past me.
Fuck. Did he really run for an hour? Where the hell does he get the stamina?
I let him lead until Chelsea Piers. But he's there. Hand on the wall. Waiting.
"Here and back." I struggle through the words.
"I know." His voice is breathy. He's straining too.
It's because of the workout, but it sends my thoughts to the gutter. Beautiful images fill my head.
Cam kissing me.
Wrapping his arms around me.
Pinning me to the wall, sliding my running shorts to my ankles.
Even in my fantasies, we're wearing our sneakers.
I don't even need Alice's warnings. I already eat, breathe, sleep soccer.
"So you…" I uncap my bottle. Suck a sip of water. "You're giving up."
"Taking a break."
"Asshole. You're showing off."
He shrugs. "If I am?"
"I'm buying the most expensive drink on the menu."
"You have the cash for that?"
I flip him off.
He smiles. Waits for me to tap the wall. Then he runs.
Fast.
Faster than he ran here.
I speed until I'm at his pace.
Until I'm gaining on him.
Fuck, he's too fast. But I'm almost there. Two more minutes. I can do that.
My feet press off the ground, my legs burn, my lungs strain.
I go all out. As if I'm chasing the ball. As if winning is the only thing I want.
I catch him.
Gain.
Race past the virtual finish line.
There. I let my bottle drop on the grass. Raise my arms in victory. Double over with a cramp.
A heavy breath breaks up Cam's laugh. It's a strange sound. Sweet and sexy at the same time.
"Come here." He offers his hand.
"Here?"
"I'll help you."
"Help me?" I don't need his help, but I'm not turning down this kind of proximity.
"Yes." He moves into my space.
God, he's so close, so handsome, so sweaty.
I struggle through my next breath. Brush a stray hair behind my ear.
It sticks to my forehead. I'm sweaty too.
It's a hot day. And he's so, so close.
He leans down to meet me. Brings his hand to my wrist. Peels my fingers off the bottle.
Oh.
He steals the water. Sucks liquid from the mouth. Offers it to me.
I swallow with greedy sips. "You owe me coffee."
He nods I know. "Now or after you dress?"
"I'm dressed."
He motions to the quiet street. "Pick your poison."
Hmm. Where did I go last weekend? The place with homemade syrups. Yes. That's it. I name the store and head toward it. "I'm not sure they have pour overs."
"They'll make one."
"People do whatever you ask?"
"You doubt it?"
No, actually. "You're not wearing your suit."
"So?"
"You may have less sway in a jersey."