“Hold on,” I say, stopping him before he gets into his car. I plug my headphones into my cell, start my running playlist on Spotify, and shove the phone into my bra. Tyler watches with amusement as I adjust it slightly. “Bras make good pockets,” I explain, hooking my headphones into place over my ears.
“Ready?” he questions, sliding into his Mercedes and starting the engine with unnecessary force.
“Ready to kick your hot, British ass? You bet I am.” I wink and start running a second before he pulls away.
“We’ll see,” he calls out the window as he drives past me.
I take a right turn at the end of the street. My feet pound against the pavement as I pick up speed, determined to win this race. Determined to have twenty-four hours of him completely at my mercy to stuff up my sleeve and whip out whenever I feel like it.
And of course, that poses the question of whether it’s twenty-four hours straight or if I can break it up into twelve two-hour segments. Because that could be even more fun.
I take a turn onto a one-way street—the very same street that means at least three minutes will be added onto Tyler’s driving time. The one that takes two minutes running off mine.
He might have wheels where I have legs, but I have the upper hand because I know Seattle. I know the streets, the blocks, and every f**king shortcut.
His block comes into sight after a few minutes, and I sigh. A sharp pain starts in my side. Damn stitch. This is why I shouldn’t go five days without running—my body turns into a lazy pile of crap, unable to cope with a ten-minute run.
I turn the corner to his apartment building and scan the parking lot. Bingo. Sucker.
Grinning to myself, I pull my headphones from my ears, leaving them to dangle around my neck, and walk into the building. The doorman eyes me suspiciously, but I walk straight past him and head for the elevator.
I push the button to take me up to Tyler’s apartment and use the few minutes alone to catch my breath. When I get there, I realize that I can’t get in. I don’t have a key.
Fantastic. I win, but now I have to sit out here like a friggin’ lemon and wait for him to show.
Unless… I give the handle a jiggle. It opens. I raise my eyebrows. Clearly someone needs a lesson in locking his front door…
And cleaning up after himself.
I think I just walked into a teenage boy’s apartment.
There’s a mug on the island in the kitchen. Actually, there’s a mug and three plates. A shirt over the back of his sofa. A glass on the coffee table—the very smudged, dirty coffee table. And I’m pretty damn sure I can see a few socks poking out from the bathroom door.
“You need to learn to lock your door,” I say, hearing him come up behind me. “And how to look after yourself, evidently.”
“Isn’t that what women are for?”
I turn and punch him straight in the gut. “You sexist bastard.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Liv,” he laughs, rubbing his stomach. “Remind me never to get punched by you again.”
I narrow my eyes. “Tyler Stone, you are a twenty-six-year-old, fully grown man. Are you telling me you still need mommy to keep your shit in line?”
“No. I’m just lazy. I like to save my energy for other activities. None of which, by the way, I’ve heard you complain about.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Shut up.”
He laughs again, drawing me close to him. He nudges his nose against mine. “You won.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. I was. Then you punched me and I realized you’re a lot f**king stronger than you look.”
I unfold my arms and hook them around his waist. “I’m just full of adorable little surprises, aren’t I?”
He grins, but it only lasts a moment before he closes his mouth over mine. “You’re all sweaty,” he mutters.
“That happens when you run,” I say sarcastically, pulling away. I look around his apartment and sigh. “Do you have a dishwasher?”
“Do I look like I hand-wash dishes?”
Cocky bastard.
“You don’t look like you wash dishes at all.” I look at him flatly. “Okay, here’s the deal. You make breakfast and I’ll clean your apartment. I can’t eat in this mess.”
He smirks. “Calling in some of your twenty-four hours?”
“You bet I am. One hour.”
“Okay. Personally, I think it’s a waste of an hour. I mean, you could come, like, three times in sixty minutes, but whatever.”
I pick up one of his dirty socks from the floor and throw it at him. “Shut up and go and make me breakfast, bitch.”
He stops, raises an eyebrow, then roars with laughter. I grin.
Yep. I’m going to have so much fun with these twenty-four hours.
I’m pretty sure the bacon and pancakes just contradicted the effort I put in to run here. I’m even more certain that the sex after balanced it back out.
Apparently, my choice of what to do this morning was overruled. I don’t think I’m going to get my full twenty-four hours after all. The orgasms were great though…
“Do you have work today?”
I nod, tying my wet hair up in a messy bun. “At two. I’m on the long shift today. What are you doing?”
“Working. Engagement shoot.”
“Romantic.”
“They pay the bills.” He grins.
“Right. Because you need to work.” I raise my eyebrows and give him a pointed look.
“I don’t need to work, but I want to. I might have a cushy little trust fund courtesy of my parents—and the fact I sold my share in their company back to them—but I’d get bored sitting around on my ass all day. I need something to do.” He lies back on the sofa. “I used to teach photography, but then I decided to go freelance.”
“Why?” I sit on the other end of the sofa, nudging his ankles apart so I can squeeze in.
He shrugs. “I didn’t like teaching all that much.”
“How long did you do it for?” Bad question, Liv. Bad question.
I should get up and run now before I find out any more about him. Before this conversation delves any further into his past. Before it goes too far.
“A couple months. Like I said, it wasn’t for me.”
“But you teach Dayton now, right?”
“An apprenticeship isn’t really teaching. That’s why she’s in college one day a week.”
“But you still teach her stuff.”