Page 12 of The Billionaire's Promise

He didn't, and after a while, I forgot about the too-tight clothes, my embarrassment, and his hard cock. At first, because we did talk business during the warm-up, and business was always a good distraction. Then, once we started jogging, I couldn't think of anything but my burning muscles and my oxygen-deprived lungs.

Why would anyone do this voluntarily? It was awful.

Vance took me through intervals of walking and jogging that he told me were the best way to start a running habit. My heart sank at that information. Clearly, he intended for us to do this on a regular basis. Dammit.

I survived the first run. I barely dragged my way through the second and third. I have to admit, once I got the step tracker set up and synced to my phone, I got a kick out of seeing all the miles I was logging. And I couldn't really complain about Vance paying me to work out with him.

In terms of his fitness, it was a waste of his time to run with me. I slowed him down and couldn't go very far, even after a few weeks, but it was his time to waste and it wasn't like I was holding back his program. These days, he was up every day at dawn, either lifting weights or using the suspension system he'd installed in the roof garden. By the time I showed up in the morning—my start time was now nine—he'd already been working out for a few hours and was ready to wind down with a slow run.

I didn't want to admit it, but after we'd been running together for a few months, I looked forward to it. It wasn't just that Vance was an entertaining companion. I did, truly, feel better. I don't think I lost any weight since running made me hungry. It also made my body feel good. I even started going back to yoga class. I had decided to agree with Vance. My ass looked good, and anyone who didn't think so could go to hell.

Vance didn't tease me about the way that I looked after that first run, though I caught him eyeing me more than once with heat in his piercing blue gaze. I didn't say anything. I snuck a few glances here and there when I thought he wouldn't catch me. I couldn't help it. If he'd been hot before, now that he'd ditched the alcohol and replaced it with exercise, he was incendiary.

I could manage to keep my eyes off him when he was dressed and we were working, but the shirtless jogging was too much temptation. I never flirted. I absolutely never touched. But I looked. The muscles, the tattoos, the washboard abs. God damn. A saint would've looked her fill, and I was no saint.

Ironically, Brayden didn't like my new exercise habit. He was still pushing for plastic surgery, liposuction at the very least. Not going to happen. There were days, a lot of them, when I wasn't sure why we were still together.

Relationship inertia. I wasn't in love with him. And I'd already realized I couldn't marry him. I was desperate for a family—I could be honest with myself about that—but I couldn't marry a man I didn't love. Especially when I wasn't even sure I liked him. But I couldn't seem to bring myself to do anything about it. I thought about telling him it was over. Then I thought about how empty the house would be when he was gone.

I'd imagine what it would it would mean to be alone. Really, truly alone. I always ended up not doing anything. I was letting life carry me along, too scared to shake things up.

There's a problem with that. If you don't take control of your own life, eventually, someone will take it from you. Then you're stuck dealing with the fallout from the mess you let them create. That was a lesson I'd have to learn the hard way.

CHAPTER FIVE

MAGNOLIA

BLAST OFF

I wasn't getting out of bed. Ever. I was never, ever getting out of bed. Scratch that. I’d get out of bed to answer the door. I’d have my groceries delivered, and I could get up to let Scout outside.

Other than that, I was never getting out of bed. I was going to lay here, in my room, and eat ice cream for the rest of my life. Possibly while watching action movies. Explosions made everything better.

I know 'heartbroken girl eating ice cream' is a cliché, but I wasn't going to make it worse by watching sappy movies. Besides, I didn't think I could handle sappy movies, and I was done with crying. At least for the moment.

Pounding echoed up the stairs, interrupting my self-pity. I ignored it. I'd already texted in sick to work and then turned my phone off.

The pounding stopped, and I let out a breath of relief. Whoever it was would go away, and I could get back to my ice cream and theDie Hardtrilogy. Just when I thought I was off the hook, the pounding started again, louder than before and accompanied by shouting.

"Magnolia Henry, open this door right now, or I will break it down."

Vance. I should've known he wouldn't be put off by a text. I should have called, but I hadn't wanted to talk to him. I hadn't wanted to hear him sayI told you so.

"If you don't let me in, I'll keep yelling and your neighbors are going to call the police," he threatened.

It was unlikely. My house sat on five acres, directly in the center, and while I could see my neighbor's rooflines, we weren't in shouting distance. Though Vance was pretty loud. And I was in my pajamas and probably had chocolate ice cream smeared on my chin. I didn't want to entertain the police in my living room in this condition.

Sighing in annoyance, I dragged myself out of bed, picked up the pint of Hagen Das, and went downstairs, shoving a bite of ice cream in my mouth on the way.

Vance stumbled forward when I swung open the door, his hand raised and ready for another fit of pounding. His eyes widened at the sight of me, my hair in a messy knot on the top of my head, not a stitch of makeup, puffy red eyes and a pint of ice cream in my hand. I made a sad sight, and I knew it. I just didn't care.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Vance demanded. "Are those your pajamas?"

I took another bite of ice cream and glared at him. Who was he to judge? At least I wore pajamas. I looked down at the threadbare pink- and white-striped broadcloth pajama set my grandmother had bought me when I was in college. They'd seen better days. The pink was faded, and all the bleach in the world wouldn't make the white stripes truly white again. Was this why Brayden had left? I didn't have it in me to wonder.

"You don't look sick," Vance said. "You said you were sick."

"I lied," I said.