Page 9 of Rogue Survivor
Hey? That’s the best you can do?
Can the ground swallow me whole now?
“How many today?” I ask.
The look on his face makes me regret saying anything, because now he knows I’ve been paying attention.
“Forty-nine. That’s four points. Not bad, but not enough, either.” Connor sets the treadmill for seven and a half miles an hour, balances on the side rails, and shakes his head. “Sorry. You probably have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“I know you count your reps and write everything down in that little notebook,” I say when I set my own pace at a leisurely three miles an hour. As much as I’d like to run every day—and my waistline would appreciate it—my knees wouldn’t. Today, I’m going to be gentle with myself.
Half a mile passes before he curses under his breath and takes the speed down to a more reasonable jogging pace. “Physical fitness test. If I don’t pass, I can’t go back to my job.”
“What kind of job requires you to run faster than seven miles an hour? Jewel thief? Cheetah wrangler for the Austin Zoo? Olympic track and field pacer?”
A smile quirks his lips seconds before he stumbles. He recovers quickly, but when he slows the treadmill so he can walk next to me, he’s limping a little. “I work for the government.”
“City? State? Federal?” I should stop asking questions before he starts thinking I’m a crazed stalker.
After a long pause, he levels a serious gaze at me. “The FBI.”
“Get out.” I laugh, but his expression hasn’t changed. “Seriously?”
He hits the kill switch on the console, and once the belt stops, pulls his left knee to his chest with a groan. “Yeah. Almost twenty years. Best job in the world.”
“Except for the running?”
Shifting into a hamstring stretch, he chuckles and nods toward his rebuilt knee. “Maybe. Never had a problem passing before all this.” His eyes unfocus, and suddenly he’s grabbing onto the handrails like they’re all that’s keeping him upright. “Shit.”
“Connor?” Jumping off my machine, I touch his arm gently, his corded muscles tensing under my fingers. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just…done for today.” He shuffles back a step, his gaze shifting to mine for only a second before he stares down at his feet.
There’s that look again. The one I feel deep in my soul. “Already?” I ask. “Who’s going to keep me company for the next two miles?”
“Sorry. You’re on your own today. My leg isn’t all that’s messed up.” With a single heave of his shoulders, he scoops up his towel, water bottle, and notebook. “I’m hittin’ the showers. See you later, Isabel.”
Before I can respond, he limps away.
Something inside me snaps. I can’t let this man walk away from me. Not like this. “Connor, wait.” Leaving everything behind—even my phone—I rush after him, and thank God he stops before the men’s locker room door. “Have coffee with me?”
His brows shoot up, but in the next breath, he shakes his head. “Probably not a good idea. I’m shit company.”
“Oh? Do you slurp your coffee loud enough to wake the dead? Are you rude to baristas? Have you forgotten how to sit in a chair?”
What am I doing? The man said no. But he’s obviously in pain, and in his eyes? I recognize that look. He’s in Lonely Town. I should know. I’m a permanent resident.
“Well, no.” The corners of his mouth twitch.
“I’m not a stalker. Despite all evidence to the contrary. I just thought…well…Icould use some company. What about you?” Lifting a shoulder, I know I should stop talking, but I can’t. “One…date. Coffee date. Err, one cup of coffee.”
Shut up, Isabel. Why did you have to say date? Now he probably thinks you’re going to hump his leg under the table.
This time, he smiles, and a hint of the loneliness eases. “Thereisa good coffee shop on the corner. I could meet you after you’re done with your workout.”
“Workouts are highly overrated. Coffee isn’t.”
“And what about dates?” he asks.
