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CHAPTER 1
ASTRID
I’m no athlete. Usually, it takes me five songs to make it to this part of the neighborhood on my runs. Okay, five to six. But today, I’ve made it in four. At this pace, I’m even on track to break my best one-mile time ever. It’s that excitement and the beat that makes me more confident and helps me forget the reason I feel the need to run.
I’m getting close to my favorite part of this route. A beautiful neighborhood tucked away between quiet little woods filled with houses I could never afford on a high school history teacher’s salary. Here the manicured front lawns become more spacious. The houses a little further apart. The cars parked in the driveways a little nicer with every passing mailbox.
The muscles in my thighs start to burn. I think I’ve exercised more this week than the past year combined. Salary negotiations make me nervous every time. But this was the year I graduated with my master’s. I was supposed to get a raise.
I was supposed to get a big raise.
I cross another street.
The rhythm in my headphones matches the determination in my steps. Reaching the edge of another sidewalk, I sprint across the road. I want to beat my time. My watch says there is less than a tenth of a mile left. If I give it my all, I can set a new record, and then I’ll take a little walking break.
That’s the singular thought that drives me forward. It carries my feet to the opposite side of the road, where I take to running on the smooth street instead of the sidewalk to make it a little easier on myself.
I think it’s a combination of several things. The volume of the song blaring through my headphones, the way it fights against the sound of my own thoughts, desperately trying to drown them out, and my eagerness to break my one-mile time. All of those factors cause me to become hyper focused on the road in front of me.
And only that.
Somewhere, somehow, a car comes speeding behind me. I don’t realize it until it’s too late. I don’t think the driver realizes it all, and I have to jump onto the grass-covered curb to try and get to safety, rolling my ankle as I do so.
Pain flares up at the point of impact, and I wince against the pressure. It hurts. That’s what I process immediately. It hurts so badly.
Oh no.
I cradle my injured leg as if I’ll be able to see the injury and soothe it to make the pounding, pulsing pain stop. It doesn’t work. Shit. I’m about a mile from home, and I don’t know how I’ll get back there. Carefully, I try to stand, gently testing my injury by putting weight on that side, only to fall to the ground in pain once more.
No. No. No. I don’t know how I’m going to get home.
I consider trying again, as if the problem is lack of effort and not the swelling that seems to be taking place around my ankle sock. I’m about to test the theory when I see the man approach.
Not from the car that nearly killed me. No, that car doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around to make sure I’m all right. They would’ve left me for dead.
Obviously.
It’s a passing car in the other direction that does though. A black shiny car that belongs in this kind of place, unlike me.
The driver rushes to my side. I have to shield my eyes from the sun to see him fully. He’s tall, the shadow cast across his face making it hard to see anything else.
I take off my headphones as he approaches.
The closer he gets the better I can see. He looks worried. I process this at the same time as I process how handsome his worried face is.
Wow.
His sharp jawline clenches beneath his hallowed cheeks. Maybe he’s a model. It’s a silly thought, but one I become more convinced of as he kneels next to me.
I close my mouth, realizing that I’m staring in open shock.
“Are you alright?” he asks. His brow is furrowed.
Definitely a model. I look at his lips. His dark eyes. He’s certainly tall enough. I try to think of another profession. Mafia prince, maybe? That seems right. Something crazy and fictional that would match such a handsome face…
“Did you hit your head?” he asks. His voice is deep and rough.
It’s also a little judgmental…
