“Breathe. Come on now. You’re fine, I promise. I won’t let anything happen.” He used the heel of his hand to cover her chest, where her lungs worked frantically. “You can breathe, you’re just blocking it.” He pulled her in close, so their fronts were melded together. The pressure against her front seemed to help, as if the touch were a physical reminder to keep working. Keep breathing in air to push the pressure away.
A pair of joggers passed by, slowing down a little to watch. One, a man in his forties, stopped completely. “Hey, is she okay?” He took a few steps over, but Killian waved him off.
“She’s fine. Just pushed it too hard. Thanks.”
Sensing she was in capable hands, or maybe just not wanting to get involved, the pair continued on.
After a minute of more steady breathing, he guided her off the path and over to a tree to lean on for support. She glanced down and choked out a laugh.
“What?” He looked around, and didn’t see what she did.
“This is our tree,” she croaked out. “You know, from the last time.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Damn good tree. Always there when you need it.”
She rested heavily against the rough bark. Sure. Damn good tree.
He smoothed her hair from her face. What strands hadn’t already been slipping from the crappy ponytail she’d pulled it into before leaving her apartment were now flying around her face from her first—and last—run. “Aileen . . . why’d you run?”
“I thought . . . that’s what . . . people did here,” she said slowly, using deep breaths between the words.
“Most people don’t come to the trails to sprint hell for leather, like they’re running to catch a bus. Especially when the most workout they’ve done recently is—”
She glared at him.
“—pick up a bowling ball,” he finished innocently.
She pushed at his shoulder. He didn’t budge.
“Come on, that was a good one.”
His boyish grin, so satisfied with himself, had her fighting a grin of her own. In these unguarded moments, it was all she could do not to yank his mouth down on hers and show him exactly how irresistible his true personality was. How much he shined when he opened himself up to someone else.
Journalistic integrity, Aileen . . .
Okay, another tack. She waited for her heart to slow to something resembling a human’s heartbeat, instead of a jackrabbit’s, and asked, “Is it my day, or yours?”
He blinked, and it was as if she could see him mentally taking a huge step away from her. For the best. Still hurt. “I’m not sure anymore. It’s . . . someone’s.”
She laughed. “Bunch of professionals, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll call today a wash and start tomorrow. You can have it, though I’m still not sure what you’re up to and why you want interview days with me.”
He watched as she straightened and took a few wobbly steps. His hands were by his sides now, but his alert posture told her if she started to pitch forward, he’d catch her without hesitation. “I’d feel better if you came back to the apartment with me. You’re a little shaky right now.”
“No, I’m good. Besides, you have to take me to my place anyway,” she reminded him, then took a chance and headed back to the path without any support. He didn’t argue when she turned back toward the parking lot. “Just watch to make sure I get inside my door, if you’re worried. That should satisfy your manly complex.”
“I don’t have a manly complex. I have an I give a shit about you complex.” He all but growled it, but she heard him clearly enough. “Is it so hard to believe I’d care about another human being?”
“Hard to believe you’d care about a journalist. Just think, if I stroked out, you’d be free and clear.” She said it lightly, with no malice, but his hand viced around her wrist and forced her to stop her slow trek. “What?”
“Don’t joke about shit like that. It’s not funny.” He was staring at her as if he had blinders on, oblivious to the world around. A jogger approached, slowed, then sighed and detoured around their statue-like bodies. She heard him grumble something about them being assholes before he continued.
“It was a joke,” she said slowly, tugging a little on her arm. He didn’t relent. “I’m sorry, it’s just a saying. I didn’t mean . . .”
He shook his head, then kept walking beside her. But she could tell he wasn’t happy with her.
Why had she made the joke in the first place? Death had never been an amusing topic for her, especially after her parents’ crash. All the sudden, she felt the need to make an awkward pun about dying? What was wrong with her?