Page 63 of On the Ropes
I’d said yes, of course, even though I was much too young to understand what I was saying yes to. Given her hypercritical nature and casual disdain, being asked to keep a secret felt like a burst of maternal love. One that I’d craved with a desperation that still made me cringe, years later.
She was so nonchalant about showing me that true love, for her, was a switch to be turned on or off. It was shallow, fickle, and could be yanked away at any moment.
There was a knock at the door that was probably Dean. I shoved the photo back in the album and scrubbed my hands down my face. I was legitimately excited to see Dean tonight and didn’t need mom-memories interfering.
Dean was standing on the stoop in all his dark-and-stormy glory. The shy smile that flared to life when our eyes met sent my heart spinning.
“Am I dressed right?” he asked, looking down at his chest.
I shut the door behind me. “You’re perfect. And your muscles look great, by the way. It’s almost like you’re a professional athlete?”
His brow lifted. “Former.”
“Once a pro, always a pro,” I said, stepping backward across the sidewalk. “And have you guessed what our activity is this evening?”
I hummed the opening bars to “Gonna Fly Now.”
He dropped his head in his hands. “I thought you were joking.”
“You and me? We’re running the steps at the art museum, just like Rocky Balboa. Or, more importantly, Michael B. Jordan in Creed.”
“You’re really going to make a boxer run the Rocky steps?” he asked mildly.
“I’m going to make you race me to—and up—the steps,” I clarified.
His gaze lingered on my face, then dropped down to my mouth. “What happens when I win?”
“If.”
“If,” he conceded. “Is there a prize?”
I spread my arms wide with as much confidence as I had. “I don’t know, Mr. Machine. And neither will you. Because I shall be victorious.”
“And to be clear, you’d like us to start running here. And race each other to the museum.”
I dropped my hands to my sides. “Yep. About how far is it to run from here to the art museum again?”
I could see him trying not to laugh. “Three miles, give or take.”
“Interesting.”
After a beat, he said, “Are you much of a runner?”
I frowned. “The last time I was in shape were my blasted cheerleading days.”
He slipped his hands into his shorts pockets and removed a pair of car keys. “What if I drove us there and we only raced the actual steps? My car is parked right here.”
I matched his smile and poked him in the chest. “How convenient. Are these competitive mind games? You do want to beat me, huh?”
He walked around the side of a large, busted up SUV and opened the passenger door. “Come on. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, and then you’ll have even more time to win.”
I made a show of really considering my options but in the end, flounced on over and hopped inside. “I’ll admit that this is one of those leap before I look moments. But for the record, I should say that impulsive fun is best served with as little planning as possible.”
“That sounds like my nightmare,” he said. That happy, amused expression hadn’t left his face. “I do know a little bit about running. Being a pro athlete and all.”
I laughed as he shut the door, rounded the car. Those definitely-not-first-date jitters rippled under my skin like a frothy, stormy sea. As he buckled in and started the car, I scanned my immediate surroundings for visible clues about Dean. But the car was neat inside, practically pristine, even though from the look—and sound—of it, it was old as shit.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re giving up your South Philly parking spot for me?”
