Chapter 23
Saturday, June 28
A light breeze fluttered Char’s racing bib. The birds were singing, the temperature was a balmy sixty-five—not too hot, not too cold—and flowers lined the first stretch of the race route under a milky blue sky. Everything you could want in a race day.
The quinquennial event had created a festival atmosphere in Napa, packing the town with people. Vendors sold food and drinks from trucks and tents. An outdoor yoga class was underway in the park. Athletic gear companies were hawking free samples. A block away where the route looped around to the finish line, a TV satellite truck maneuvered into position.
Today marked a milestone—the achievement of a goal Char had set as a teenager, when she’d first heard of the challenge. For five long years, she’d looked forward to conveying that she was a caring individual with a big heart, not just a spoiled wine heiress. But it was only once she’d narrowed her focus to helping migrant children that she’d found her real passion. For the past six months, she’d geared all her running toward this race. After all the shin splints, all the sweat and the blisters, she was ready to go deep. Go hard for who she’d begun secretly referring to herself as “her” kids: Juan and Amelia and all the others who depended on her small but growing El Valle Avenue mission. Today, of all days, she was supposed to be happy. Excited. So why had she woken up distracted and out of sorts?
Until last night, her sole priority had been her new foundation. To that, she was one hundred percent committed. If falling in love had been her goal, last night would’ve nailed it. Ryder—the man, not the actor—was everything she could ever want in a love match: bright, considerate, sexy . . . with a face that literally stopped traffic and a body to match.
But falling in love with Ryder McBride wasn’t part of her plan. In fact, it went against everything she believed.
Because Char wasn’t prepared to fall in love with anyone. Especially not an actor.
It was no coincidence that she’d never let someone into her life for long. She’d gone out with guys, of course. But whenever they got too close, she backed off before they could reject her. Because that’s exactly what would happen, as soon as they found out how hopelessly screwed up her family was. Especially Ryder, of all people. Why would any guy want Xavier St. Pierre for a father-in-law—even if Papa weren’t accused of killing his father?
She knew about the accusation before they made love, and she had intentionally hidden that information from him. Had he known, last night might have turned out very differently. But it was only a matter of time until he found out.
Luckily, she had her teammates to rally, keeping her from being completely absorbed in guilt and regret.
Forcing her attention back to the task at hand, she counted heads. Everyone was there. Even Wendy, who seemed to be the only one not affected in the least by what had happened up at Diablo. She was passing the time stretching and chatting.
Char tied her time chip onto her shoelace. Hoping he’d come looking for her, she forced herself to wait until the very last minute to scan the crowd for Ryder’s red jersey. By the time she picked him out, she tried to catch his eye, but he never looked her way. And it was too late to initiate a conversation now anyway. Maybe he’d catch up—rather, fall back—with her during the race itself.
At the starting line, she fussed and fidgeted. Then she fidgeted and fussed. Her shoes didn’t feel right, her stomach was queasy, and her calves ached. Worst of all, the tenderness between her thighs was a constant reminder of the night before.
Had making love with Ryder been stupid? Yes. Would she do it all over again? In a heartbeat. That’s what was so maddening.
At the crack of the pistol she managed to place one foot in front of the other, despite shoes that felt like they were made of concrete.
Within the first quarter mile, three of her fastest teammates rabbited past her without a backward glance, shouting encouragement as they went.
It was only at the second mile marker that Char found her legs. That was when she noticed a skinny boy holding a sign into her path: ¡Corre, Char! Juan! And with him, Amelia, jumping up and down, and their mother, waving and smiling.
That gave her a boost. When she passed a second-stringer from her field hockey team, a smidgen of her old self-confidence returned.
Pushing hard, she put three more miles behind her. Now her clothes were soaked. She struggled past her goalie and a midfielder who were running as a pair.
Farther down the course, she found her inner forward.
She ripped open a gel pack, squeezed it onto her tongue, and kicked it into high gear.
At that pace, she even forgot about the pain between her legs.
Ryder’s lungs were killing him, and he was struggling to shake off the dizziness.
From his calculations, he’d been somewhere among the top third of the men and ahead of most of the women at the eight-mile mark. But every inhalation burned like battery acid.
He wasn’t used to limitations. He’d been successful at most everything he’d ever set out to achieve. Then again, he’d never done a half-marathon only two days after sucking on smoke.
At least all of his men were ahead of him, where they still had a chance. Scant consolation, what with Dan on the couch with an ice pack on the bridge of his busted-up nose.
Again, he ran down the mental list of his runners. Was there anyone he’d overlooked who had a remote chance of homering?
It wasn’t that his team wasn’t strong. Their bunker gear came in at sixty-five pounds, and that was before the mask and air pack. It was just that only Dan and Ryder had any kick in the long haul. The plan all along had been for Dan and Ryder to push for PBs. That was just not going to happen today.
Not that he’d end up roadkill . . . there were still a bunch of guys behind him. But he was going to have to face the fact that, barring some miracle, he wasn’t going to finish in the money.
Good-bye, building. And most likely, good-bye, grand prize.