Chapter 9 She’s a Runner, She’s A Track Star
She’s a Runner, She’s A Track Star
Harlee
As we lie tangled in each other’s arms, my mind runs laps while my body tries to pretend it’s asleep.
What we just did wasn’t… casual. It should’ve been. But it’s sitting in my chest like a live wire, warm and stubborn, buzzing under my ribs every time I inhale.
August’s scent clings to my skin like it’s got squatter’s rights.
Then the lights in the living room blink off.
A soft electronic beep follows, somewhere behind me, and I flinch like I’m guilty. Like the apartment itself just cleared its throat.
August shifts beside me, heat peeling away as he slides out of bed. The sudden absence hits like cold air on wet skin.
I sit up too fast, knees pulling to my chest, scooting to the edge like the mattress might swallow me whole.
Oh shit. What the actual fuck did I just do?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I shouldn’t have slept with him. I shouldn’t even be here. And now he’s walking away toward… what I assume is the bathroom.
Of course it’s the bathroom, Harlee. Men do sometimes use those. You don’t know jack about this guy.
My brain tries to sprint into a full panic, but I catch it by the collar.
I had a night. A good one. A reckless one. A surprisingly tender one.
And now I need distance before my mind turns one good night into a whole relationship in PowerPoint.
So I need to go.
Sex this amazing feels a lot like a trap.
So I need to get the fuck outta dodge.
Like, now.
I stand, immediately regretting it because the room is darker than before, and that earlier beep was definitely the shades closing. Great. Now I’m naked, spiraling, and fumbling around in a luxury cave like a confused bat.
I start gathering clothes off the floor in a frantic scavenger hunt.
Bra? Found. Pants? Found. One wedge?
Where’s the other one?
I freeze, holding a single shoe like it personally betrayed me.
Whatever. Cinderella I am not.
I crack the bedroom door and step into the hallway. The lights flick on automatically, dimmed and warm, guiding me like the place is politely escorting me out.
Did they do that before? Is his apartment judging me?
Focus.
I’m mid-fight with my bra clasp when August reappears behind me.
“Whoa,” he says, voice low with concern. “What’s going on?”
He’s in sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, tattooed chest bare, hair a mess. He looks like sin that got eight hours of sleep and a green juice.
My body reacts like it didn’t get the memo that I’m trying to be rational.
Annoying.
“Yeah… I’m good,” I say, eyes glued anywhere but him. “This was fun and all, but I should go. Early meeting tomorrow and…”
My hands gesture vaguely because my brain is in a towel-less, bra-less, dignity-less emergency.
“That’s not what I asked you, princesa,” he says softly.
He takes one step closer, not crowding. Just present. And that steadiness makes me feel worse, not better.
I take a step and my one wedge catches the edge of the rug like it's trying to square up with me.
I stumble.
“Shit on a stick!”
August is there instantly, catching my elbow before I can face-plant into his very expensive floor. “Hey. Slow down.”
How did he move that fast? And why does being held still feel like a trap and a relief at the same time?
“I’m fine,” I say too sharply, yanking my arm back like his touch is dangerous. “I’m going home.”
“Home?” He repeats it like the concept offends him. “It’s… three in the morning.”
“Exactly,” I snap, then wince. “Sorry. I just… I need to go.”
His expression shifts. Confused, then something like concern, like he’s trying to solve a math problem that keeps changing variables.
“I wasn’t trying to kick you out,” he says gently. “I was getting rid of the condom and grabbing you a towel.”
He holds out a fluffy towel like a peace offering.
I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Oh,” I mumble. “That’s… okay. I’ll shower at home.”
I step into my jeans and immediately remember I’m not wearing panties and somehow that feels like the final petty humiliation on top of the pile.
I hop, trying to pull them up without falling.
August’s mouth tugs like he’s trying not to smile.
“Don’t,” I warn, breathless.
“I wasn’t going to,” he says, hands lifting in surrender. But his eyes are bright, like he enjoys me even when I’m malfunctioning.
“So you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye?” he asks. “Damn. That’s cold.”
“I’m not—” I drag a hand through my hair. It’s giving electrocuted poodle. “It’s late. I take the train and then two buses and I don’t even know if they run this—”
August’s brow lifts.
I glance at the clock and swallow. “Or early. Whatever. I can handle myself.”
My other wedge is sitting on a side table like it climbed up there to mock me.
I snatch it and clutch my purse like it’s armor.
“Harlee,” August says, voice softer now. “It’s late. You don’t have to leave. Come back to bed.”
My stomach flips at the invitation, traitorous and hot.
No.
I can’t stay. Staying turns into breakfast. Breakfast turns into “so what are we?” And then my heart, which is already bruised and stupid from Spencer-era nonsense, decides it wants to audition for heartbreak again.
“No,” I say. “I should go.”
He nods once, like he hears what I’m not saying.
Then: “Okay. If you’re dead set, let me drive you.”
“No.”
He pauses. “Harlee—”
“No.” This time it’s firm, not frantic. A boundary, not a flare-up. “I promise it’s fine. I’ll just Uber. You should get some sleep.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, already moving. “If that’s what you want, let me grab my keys.”
I blink. “How did you get that out of what I just said?”
August looks back over his shoulder, expression calm, like this is the easiest equation in the world. “If you want me to get sleep, I’m driving you home.” His voice goes a shade firmer. Final. “That way I know you’re safe. Then I sleep.”
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m in August’s car, jeans sticking to skin I probably should’ve protected with underwear.
Note to self: going commando in denim is not an adult decision. It’s a cry for help.
The silence is thick enough to chew.
When we pull up to the curb, I reach for the seatbelt with fingers that have suddenly forgotten how to function.
“Well,” I mutter, throat tight. “This is me.”
August kills the engine, and the quiet gets louder.
His hand lifts, gentle, tipping my chin up with one finger.
And there they are, those lips that were all over me less than an hour ago.
Fucking hormones.
“Thanks for tonight,” I blurt, because I will apparently die before I let him speak first. “And the ride. I had… fun.”
His smile is small, warm. Dangerous. “I’m glad.”
“I told you,” I add quickly, needing to say it while I’m still brave. “This was a one-time thing.”
His brow lifts, not offended. Just curious.
“I don’t want to do… this,” I say, waving between us like the air itself is charged. “I don’t want it to turn into something. I’m not built for casual and charming and… whatever you are.”
His mouth quirks. “Charming?”
“Don’t joke,” I warn, but it comes out weak.
He studies me for a beat, then nods like he’s accepting the terms without punishing me for them.
“Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you need.”
The ease of it makes my throat tighten.
I hate that my chest wants to crack open just because a man respected a boundary.
I lean in to peck his cheek.
Bad idea.
His hand finds my waist, and the chemistry hits like a stun gun. I jerk back so fast you’d think his face burned.
“Let me get the door,” he offers.
“No,” I say instantly. “I can manage.”
“So that’s it?” There’s something in his tone that almost pulls me back.
“Yep,” I lie. The word tastes hollow.
My hand grips the handle.
Open it. Harlee. Open the door.
I don’t.
Instead, I turn back like a fool with a death wish, grab his face, and kiss him like my body is trying to sabotage my entire life.
It’s fast. Hot. Desperate in a way I refuse to unpack.
When I pull away, we’re both breathing hard.
Damn.
I fling the door open with shaking hands and climb out before I can change my mind. I shut it and walk away like my legs aren’t made of soft, traitorous jelly.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I’ll go back.
And I can’t afford to make a habit out of a man who makes me feel seen.
Wynter’s Big Mama’s house smells like fried food and old hardwood and history.
I close the door behind me and slide down it, palms to my cheeks, trying to make my nervous system stop tap dancing.
All I see are flashes of him. Hands. Mouth. Eyes.
One night doesn’t mean anything. One night doesn’t mean—
My body laughs at my logic. Loudly.
I drag myself to bed, peel off my jeans, and flop face-first into the sheets.
“Oh boy,” I whisper into fabric. “I’m in trouble.”
Sleep takes me like a mercy killing.
My phone’s excessive buzzing jerks me back into the world.
I groan, blind, disoriented, swatting at blankets until I find my purse on the rug and my phone glowing inside it like a tiny demon.
I hit answer without checking.
“Where the fuck were you?” Wynter demands. No greeting. No warmth. Just sisterly fury.
“Oh,” I croak. “Good morning to you too.”
“Do not ‘good morning’ me,” she snaps. “You sent a message that sounded like a farewell letter and then vanished. I was two seconds away from calling your dad.”
“There was no need to escalate to federal authorities,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.
“Harlee.”
I sigh and sit up, sheets sliding down my legs. My body aches in a way that makes last night feel both very real and very distant.
“I went out,” I say carefully.
“With who?”
“A… guy.”
Silence.
“…A guy,” Wynter repeats, slower. “As in singular? As in human male?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to text me that before you activated your witness protection program?”
“I didn’t plan on disappearing,” I say. “Things just… happened.”
“Mhm,” she hums. “Okay. Start talking. From the beginning. And don’t skip the part where you make it sound less serious than it was.”
I exhale. “I ran into August.”
Another pause.