The sound that came from Max's gullet was not a good one. "I'll have to pass," he murmured, toeing the floor. "I'm not feeling too great."
Grace's smile fell. "Oh, yeah. Well, anyone who can drink that much whiskey is bound to have the mother of all hangovers the day after."
Max cleared his throat of the embarrassment that teased it. "Yeah."
"And your girlfriend, was she feeling crappy this morning, too?"
Max's head snapped up so quick he almost toppled over. Shit. The blonde. Of course, she saw him with her. He'd told the boys he wasn't interested in hooking up with anyone, but they hadn't listened, which was fine because after his seventh and eighth drink an anonymous fuck sounded pretty awesome to him, too.
"I don't- No, I don't . . . she's not, we were just hanging out. Nothing-it wasn't like that."
He had no idea why he was rambling or why he felt the need to explain himself. The truth was, the girl had tried to get in his pants, and he'd been quite happy for her to, until she tried to kiss him on the mouth and call him baby. That put the brakes back on his libido right quick. That shit was far too intimate, too close to memories he was working to erase. Besides, it wasn't as if he could get a hard-on anyway, what with the gallons of liquor sloshing through his system.
He'd walked her home, bought a bottle of Jack and a pizza, and headed back to the boardinghouse, where he'd apparently called Tate a million and one times.
"Well, thanks for these," Grace said, avoiding his eyes. "I appreciate the gesture."
She turned to go, but Max caught the door with the palm of his hand, startling her. "Sorry," he blurted. "I was just . . . I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. I could show you the route then. If you want. If you're not busy or whatever."
What the hell was it about this woman that had his tongue in a fucking twist? And why the hell was he offering to share his run with her? Unlike her, he loved the solitary quiet of the route he ran every day. Grace would no doubt chatter away like a fucking chattering thing, shattering the serenity he tried so hard to cling to. She'd want to talk and shit and he'd just want to run-what the hell was he thinking?
She blinked at him a couple of times before her lips twitched with another smile. "That sounds nice."
That pulled Max up short, because seeing her normal soft, happy face instead of the disappointed hurt she'd worn when she opened the door was worth losing the quiet of just one run.
"Well, all right," he said with a nod, because, honestly, how bad could it be?
They met the following day in the corridor between their rooms.
Awkwardly, they set off from the boardinghouse, Max leading the way through the back paths, through the forest, and down toward the stream that ran the length of the entire town. His earbuds remained dangling from where they sprouted out of the neck of his T-shirt, bouncing against his chest as he ran. He didn't want to be rude and listen to music, in case Grace wanted to talk, but, to his surprise, she remained at his side or behind him when the path became too narrow, quiet, and focused.
She kept up with him, too. She met him stride for stride and didn't look as ready as Max when they stopped for a water break.
"This place is beautiful," she whispered, taking in the high canopy of green above them. "I've been here for months and never knew all this was so close."
"I love it out here," Max confessed, before chugging his water. It was true. It was so quiet, fresh, and green, especially now that it was the middle of spring.
"I could take some amazing photographs." She let her hand whisper across the moss of a nearby tree.
Before Max could comprehend what she was doing, or ask her more about her photography, she reached into her vest top and pulled out her phone. He stood mesmerized, openmouthed. "You just pull that out of your bra?"
"And it's a sport's bra, lemme tell you, it's far from comfortable. I'll no doubt have the Apple logo creased into the skin of my boob for days." Grace snorted at Max's dumbfounded expression and set about taking pictures of the trees, spiderwebs, and flowers.
"You can take good pictures on that thing?" he asked, scratching his head, trying to rid himself of the image of Grace rustling around in her bra, around her Apple-marked boobs for her phone. Christ, she was something else. It was bad enough watching her run in all that skintight Lycra. And, of course, bad meant good, because, seriously, the woman was wearing that shit like it was her job, all curvy, soft shapes, lean legs, and-
"They're not bad," she answered, leaning over to get a shot of . . . something. "But it's more to give me an idea of color and light. I'll come back with my real camera."