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Like the phrase in my How to Speak Southern guide says, I want to wring his neck. I can’t believe he let me think he was married to his sister, of all things. And then that stunt about talking to Stanley behind my back before he even had a chance to meet me. That infuriates me. Of all the nerve. If this is Southern hospitality, I don’t want any part of it.
I almost trip on the stairs as I bolt up to my apartment in frustration. As I pace back and forth in front of the bay window, I review today’s happenings. I didn’t completely suck at church, so that’s a win for me even though I think I would have been more comfortable running down Main Street in the nude. And lunch with Gunnar started out okay, but things turned pretty sour. I didn’t think he would be a part of the church group that wants my money, but it could be why he let me embarrass myself.
None of this matters, anyway. I’m doing what Granny wants and nothing more. But that doesn’t stop my heart from skittering when I see Gunnar’s police car pull into the fitness center parking lot across the street. He talks on his cell phone before he opens the car door.
His dress shirt stretches tight over his back as he pulls out a gym bag and tosses it over his shoulder then saunters inside. Boy, it’s hot in here.
“Yeah, Andie. Nothing more, my butt.” I need to get a grip. Six weeks tops, and I’ll be gone. Even though my plans include checking out the gym, it would be too much for me to show up when he’s there. I would have “crazy stalker out-of-towner” tattooed all over my face. Besides, that would give the locals way too much gossip for one weekend. So I reshuffle my plans and start with number two on my list: buy some things at the Save-Mart to spruce up the shop.
I kick off my sandals, strip out of my sundress, and slip into my comfy tank top, running shorts, and flip-flops. Time to spend some of Granny’s money.
#
IN TWO HOURS, I ACQUIRED a shopping cart full of items and ten stares from the locals, and now I’m heading back to the shop. The cute tablecloths and silk flowers will be perfect on the booths, and the place mats are adorable. It won’t take much effort to make this place really shine. Granny had the decency to die with a pantry full of ingredients. All I need to do is figure out how to combine all those items into something edible. No shopping trip will help me in that department. I guess tomorrow will consist of only coffee.
Every thirty seconds, my eyes gaze out the front window just in case I can catch a glimpse of Mr. Muscle and Fitness. When he does exit the gym, my breath fogs up the window. That loose stringer tank top exposes all those ripped muscles I knew were hiding underneath his uniform and—oh God, I think he spotted me.
I stumble backward in hopes he didn’t catch me gawking at him, especially since I should still be miffed at him. He drives away, and I can finally suck in a much-needed breath. Before my mind leads me down the dirty path, I grab a bottle of water, my phone, and earbuds then change into running shoes. I’m ready for a nice little afternoon jog, anything to burn off this unnerving tension that has suddenly spread down my body.
I crank up the volume on my cell phone, which only has ten percent battery life left. Steven Tyler’s sexy voice sets the pace, and away I go. Considering Smithville isn’t a booming city, I figure there aren’t many jogging trails, so I keep to the sidewalks. They should lead me safely back to my shop even if I make one or two wrong turns. But if I jog down the street Gunnar lives on, I think I will die of embarrassment.
One swallow of water and two stop signs later, I switch from a walk to a slow jog. The air seems fresher compared to Boston, even if it’s very humid. I can breathe out here, and now I know that if I want some peace and quiet, all I have to do is take to the streets because Smithville residents don’t seem to be into outdoor fitness activities. Not a single jogger passes me along my jaunt. In Boston, jogging down sidewalks was out of the question. I wouldn’t be able to go two steps with the high volume of traffic. I stuck to the jogging trails, especially near the Charles River, and even then, it was usually packed no matter how cold it was.
This is my first glimpse of the landscape of the town. Once I get past the town square, homes start to pop up—cute bungalows with nice-sized front yards. Each house is painted a different color, making it appear almost like a movie set. A flash of memory hits me of the house in which my grandmother lived when we would visit. I know I was little, but I do remember she didn’t live far from the middle of town. I’m sure I would recognize her old house if I saw it. It probably hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years.
With renewed energy, I pick up the pace and turn down Elliston Street. Thank goodness Spanish moss covers the trees and serves as a canopy across the street. The shade is a welcome relief from the sun beating down on me. Two more gulps of water help me keep pace to the music. A car slows down as it passes me. I wave, but the driver sneers as he proceeds down the street.
With the hem of my tank top, I wipe the sweat from my face. It feels awesome to exercise and rid my body of all the toxins I’ve been taking in over the last few months. So this is what sober feels like. Not so bad. With thoughts of Gunnar to distract me these last two days, I haven’t thought much about taking a drink. Maybe if he comes around every now and then, it will be good for me in more ways than one.
I crank up the pace more and turn down another street, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. The sun blares down on me, and it wouldn’t surprise me if I got a nasty sunburn today. Next time, I’ll have to apply sunscreen.
Every time I reach a stop sign, I see another pretty house in the distance that I want to run by. Because of this, I wind up zigzagging through town so much, I can’t remember which way leads back to the center of town. All the streets are named after trees, and I can’t remember if I crossed Pine Street before Maple or if Dogwood Lane is perpendicular to Crepe Myrtle Avenue. The street names are as pretty as the homes, but I’m completely turned around now.
I stop at a traffic light to catch my breath. Scanning left and right, I’m not so sure which way to turn to get back to the town square, and I’m too proud to ask for directions from the two little boys throwing a football through a sprinkler. I wave at them, but they only stare back. Steven Tyler’s voice stops singing to me. I really need to remember to charge my phone more often.
When the light turns green, I shoot across the street and continue on my journey. My Fitbit buzzes to let me know I’m above my target heart rate. If it weren’t for that truck with the rusted tailgate following me, I would slow down to a walk. When I turn right, he turns right. I turn right again, and he’s still right on my heels, this time gunning his engine. I turn left, and the truck heads in the other direction, thank goodness, but not before the jerk of a driver wolf whistles. I pick up the pace, my Fitbit screaming for me to slow down. If I can get back to the street with the pretty Spanish moss, I think I can figure out how to get back to my shop. But I don’t know how to get back there.
The road I’m on changes from paved to gravel, and the quaint houses change to trailers with chain-link fences surrounding them. A very large dog rushes toward me, showing its teeth. I screech to a halt as the dog runs around me, not doing anything for my maximum heart rate.
A kid from the porch yells, “Buster, get up here now.”
After a final “woof,” the dog leaves me on the sidewalk, gasping for air. I do an about-face and retrace my steps, but nothing looks familiar. The last drop of water from my bottle drips onto my nose, and my tank top is soaked with sweat. I don’t need my Fitbit to warn me about my heart rate because I hear each swooshing beat in my ears, and my head is on fire.
When I get back to the paved part of the road, I stop and lean over, sucking in air. My eyes blur, and the ground spins, not to mention the contents of my stomach do not want to stay down. This is like a sober hangover. I stumble a few steps.
Fear creeps up my spine, and tears well up. Turning right seems like the way I came, but so does going left. I’m not sure anymore, and I can barely see either way now. The houses all appear the same, and my eyes blur so much, I can’t read the street sign.
To keep the panic from rising any higher, I lean up against a tree and force myself to slow my breaths. I’m lost in a frickin’ one-traffic-light town, and I don’t know what to do. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes in hopes of relieving the pressure in my head. But no matter how much I try to slow my breaths, I still pant like a dog inside a hot car.
My eyes close, and the bark of the tree scrapes my back before my butt hits the ground with a thud. I hear a vehicle approach, but I don’t have the strength to run away if it’s the guy in the rusted-out truck wanting to do more than catcall this time. A car door opens and slams shut, and footsteps crunch through the yard toward me. Sorry, Granny. Your granddaughter is an idiot.
“Andie?” That voice. I know that voice. “You okay?”
Gunnar. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer that I didn’t get eaten by a large dog or kidnapped by the rusted-truck guy today. “I’m okay. But I’m real hot.”
He chuckles. “You don’t have to brag about it.” He touches my face, and his cool fingers bring me back to life. I open my eyes in time to see his cocky grin turn to concern. “You’re burning up.”
And if he keeps touching me like that, I’m going to get hotter.
I shrug and try to take in a breath. “At least I’m not sweating anymore.”
He groans. “No. That’s a bad thing. In this heat and humidity, when you stop sweating, it means you’re dangerously close to having heatstroke. Andie, you need to—”
My gut explodes, and I spew every piece of chicken and biscuits I had for lunch all over the grass and down his leg.
“Yep. Heatstroke.”
I wipe my mouth with the hem of my tank top then use it to cover my face. “I’m so sorry.”
I try to stand, but my knees buckle, and in one quick sweep, Gunnar scoops me up and carries me to his police car. He places me in the passenger seat and cranks the air conditioner on full blast. He takes a water bottle from the console, pours some water into his hands, then lets the cool water trickle down my face.
I jump from surprise and slosh water everywhere. “What are you doing?” If I had anything left in my stomach, it would be all over the floorboard of his police car.
“Cooling you off.” He drizzles water down my arms and neck. Then he takes my socks and sneakers off and reclines the seat back, his face hovering dangerously close to mine.
He hands me the water bottle. “Here. Tiny sips. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“No! I am fine.”
“Hush.” He walks around the car and climbs in to the driver’s seat. After buckling his seat belt, he guns the engine and races off down the street.
I drift off to sleep but not before Gunnar’s strong, soft hand touches my cheek again and slides a strand of hair behind my ear.