Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 99918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“It’s seventeen miles through the hills, but three of those are on the beach. I’m too tired to manage them all, but I’ll give it my best shot,” Dylan added excitedly before disappearing into the bathroom with his bag. He used a side dressing room to give Tristan his own space to dress.
Clearly Dylan was a serious runner, not the occasional jogger Tristan had originally thought. His body looked like a runner’s, lean and tall, and damn, he looked good in those running shorts. Tristan had dressed and come along because of the fucking night they’d shared last night. He certainly hadn’t anticipated the trail would be seventeen miles… The most he’d ever run was a few miles on the treadmill. Certainly nothing more than five and that had to have been a few years ago. What was he thinking?
“I don’t want to hold you back,” Tristan said, pulling his Ferrari into a parking space. They were close to on time, only a little past six in the morning. Dylan was already out the passenger side door, money in hand to pay for parking.
“God, it’s beautiful out here,” Dylan exclaimed as he came back to the car, spreading his arms out toward the ocean. “This is exactly why I wanted to come here.”
“I don’t want to hold you back,” Tristan repeated, but Dylan was off, heading to an area where other runners were already warming up. The experienced stretching he saw left no doubt Dylan could run the entire seventeen miles without a problem. He really needed a way out of this before he embarrassed himself. “I’ll hold you back.”
“You said you run all the time. You’ll do fine. You can set the pace.” Dylan lifted one leg close to his chest, then the other, before dropping down to stretch his legs out another way. Tristan wondered how Dylan felt about walking as a pace, but instead of asking, he followed Dylan’s lead, mimicking his movements. The guy was on a natural high. It had to be the fresh air, because he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours after drinking more in a ten minute period than Tristan had ever seen anyone drink before, and that was less than twelve hours ago.
He said a prayer as they set off.
Seven miles in and Tristan had seen Dylan’s frustration, though he’d tried to hide it, for the last three miles, but at least Tristan was trying and still standing somewhat upright. Tristan was huffing hard, dripping with sweat, and dragging. But he never complained, never said anything, not one word, and it wasn’t only because his breath wouldn’t allow talking. He wanted to impress Dylan with his stamina; he just needed to find it first. Thank fuck, Dylan dropped his speed to a slower-paced jog. He could handle that. Maybe.
“I think I’m done. Unless you want to keep going,” Dylan offered, not a hint of fatigue in his voice. Tristan thanked God right there.
“Nah, let’s keep going,” Tristan huffed, slowly passing by as Dylan started walking. He turned and started jogging backward, showing off for his handsome running partner.
“I’m done,” Dylan replied, smiling at him. He had to look like a hot mess, but he kept on jogging backward in place, as though he knew what he was doing. What was the saying? ‘Fake it till you make it.’ His shirt was soaking wet, and he struggled to breathe and talk at the same time. Dylan probably knew he was grandstanding for his benefit.
After a minute of Dylan’s patient smile, he stopped his little act and doubled over, trying to catch his breath. “Thank God…I was hoping you were serious about stopping. I don’t feel so good.” He dropped to the ground, rolling to his back.
“You should walk it out. You’ll cramp up if you don’t,” Dylan warned.
“I can’t cramp any more than I already am,” Tristan panted, gulping air, trying to stop the world from spinning above him. Dylan laughed, shaking out his legs.
“Come on, seriously, you’ll cramp,” Dylan said, extending a hand for Tristan. “We can cut back somewhere here, I think. I read something about that.”
“I have people on standby.” Tristan looked up at Dylan’s hand but completely ignored the gesture, choosing to remain on the ground, still breathing painfully hard. Dylan watched him closely, probably doing a bit of a how-serious-is-this assessment before lifting his brow and grinning down at him. After a second of staring at that handsome face, Tristan dug in his shorts pocket and lifted his phone to his ear. “Come get us.”
“What did you just do?” Dylan shook his head and began walking around again, before bending over to stretch out his back.
“About mile three, I feared a heart attack. I put them on notice. They’ll be here soon.” He grinned up at Dylan’s confused look, but still just lay there.
“So that’s what you were doing with your phone?” Dylan asked.
“Give me a break. I was dying. Who does this on a regular basis?” Tristan gasped, draping an arm over his eyes. The whir of a golf cart raced toward them, and Tristan turned his head to the side to watch as his rescuer arrived.
“Mr. Wilder?” A guy jumped off and rushed to his side. He had an EMT badge on his sleeve.
“Yeah,” Tristan replied lazily, not moving at all.
“Do you need a gurney, sir?” the guy asked, walkie-talkie in hand.
“No, I don’t need a fucking gurney.” It took a second for Tristan to hoist himself up. The sounds he made must have been what had Dylan laughing. It took several more seconds for him to get himself to his feet. The driver kept trying to help, and Tristan pushed him off, proud when he stayed on his feet under his own power. The EMT handed him a bottle of water, toweling his flushed face with a wet cloth.
“Don’t you have water all ready?” Dylan asked.
“I drank that the first two miles.” Tristan downed the contents of the water bottle quickly, knowing his stomach would hurt soon, but thirst overrode that concern.