As soon as I start moving again, my legs start complaining. Loudly. They feel heavy, and the effort required to move them seems overwhelming, but I pound on, determined to catch up with the runners. Having got this far, it would be such a shame to fail now.
Also, I’m plagued by thoughts of Matt and Patrina, running the route together, crossing the finishing line first, high-fiving and laughing. Accepting their prizes; dinner for two. It might be two separate vouchers, but it would be only natural for them to go out and celebrate together. Patrina’s made it very clear she expects that to happen, and Matt is hardly going to refuse a night out with a gorgeous woman.
I reach the bend in the high street, and I’m about to charge straight on, but I catch a flash of colourful lycra disappearing off to my left, along the river path. Trying to cross the road, it’s just my luck that a mini should be passing at that moment, being driven at about ten miles an hour. That would be fine – but the line of frustrated, backed-up traffic behind it is definitely not! No-one is letting me cross.
At last, I’m on the path by the river, following the runners. I can see up ahead that they’re crossing the bridge to the other side, and minutes later, the leaders are pounding along towards me. Matt is at the front, followed by…hang on a second. I do a double-take. Is that Krystle in second place? It is! She’s running as if she does this every day, making easy work of the distance, and Patrina is being forced to bring up the rear! But Krystle can’t run for toffee – we all saw that when we did that training on the green. She was even worse than me.
Matt draws level with me on the other side of the river, and I’m so busy looking over that I fail to notice where my feet are treading – until I trip over a tree root and stumble sideways, landing with a thud against a thorny bush. Shocked, I move away from the prickles, while acknowledging with a sinking feeling that my right ankle feels far from okay. The runners keep charging past on the other side of the river, although no-one seems to have noticed my fall. I guess they’re all locked in their own private world of grit, determination and pushing through the pain.
I wait until they’ve gone, then I try to stand up, gingerly testing out my foot, but the sharp pain that shoots through my ankle makes me yelp. I hang onto the back of a river-side bench, rotating the foot gently.
A pounding on the path makes me look up. Matt is running towards me.
‘I saw you go down.’ He slows to a stop, panting slightly, and runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. ‘Are you hurt?’
I look up at him, amazed he’s here. ‘It…doesn’t feel good. My ankle.’
‘Can you walk on it?’
I feel his hand on my waist, supporting me, and a delicious shiver runs the length of my spine as I attempt to stand properly and walk.
‘You’re limping badly.’
‘I’ll be able to get home, though. You go,’ I say, sitting down on the bench, not wanting to hold him back.
But he sits down beside me. ‘Not going anywhere.’
‘Right.’ I smile. ‘So we’re just going to sit here?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What shall we talk about? I know, your novel!’
He frowns. ‘What’s there to talk about?’
‘Um…the fact that you’ve got a brilliant opening there and if the rest is as good, I really want to read it?’
His mouth moves into a reluctant smile.
‘And the fact that if I love the opening, then so might a publisher? Art should be shared, shouldn’t it? Not jealously guarded.’
He shrugs. ‘I told you. It’s just a hobby.’
‘I know. But think about it. You worked in publishing, editing other people’s books, then you opened a bookshop, selling other people’s books.’
‘So?’
‘So isn’t it possible you’ve just been dancing around your real ambition, which is to be a published author?’ I shrug. ‘Just a thought.’
He frowns. ‘Why would I avoid what I really want to do?’
‘I don’t know. Fear of rejection?’
He flicks his eyes to the sky. ‘I didn’t realise I’d be getting free counselling this morning.’ But he’s smiling.
‘Ah, well, you know. Happy to help.’
He stands up. ‘Right, enough of the psycho-babble. We need to get you across that finish-line.’
He looks down at me, hands on hips, thinking.
‘How about a piggy-back?’ he says at last.
I look at him as if he’s mad.
‘I’m serious. You want to finish the race, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes. But…’
‘So come on. I’ll get you across the finish line.’ He shrugs, grinning. ‘There’s no rule that says your feet have to touch the ground the whole time. And even if there is, we’re ignoring it. It’s for charity, after all.’
I gaze up at him, still not sure. He’s not going to be able to lug a lump like me for another three or four kilometres, surely?
‘I’m up for it if you are.’ He gives me a lazy smile that catches at my heart.
‘Okay. Let’s do it.’ Despite the fleeting worry that I could possibly give a great white whale a run for its money in the blubber stakes, I’m apparently powerless to say no.
You find Matt impossible to resist, whispers a little voice in my head. You know it, so why not just tell him?
I have no time to reflect on this disturbing thought, though, because suddenly, he’s bending his knees and I instinctively follow his lead as he hitches me onto his back. I lean into him, my head spinning as his gorgeous manly scent assaults my senses in the best way possible, and I place my arms rather self-consciously around his neck. I can feel myself blushing, it seems such an intimate thing to do.
I give a wry smile. I really must be sexually frustrated if I’m finding a piggy-back arousing!
Matt steadies himself, asks if I’m okay. Then we’re off.
He sort of half-jogs for a while, and I’m amazed that he actually has the spare breath to talk as he goes. But he does.
‘So this is fun.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Are you sure your ankle’s sprained? It wasn’t just a scam to hitch a lift?’
I laugh softly in his ear. ‘No, it was not. For your information, my ankle hurts like mad.’
‘Okay. I believe you. Hang on tight, we’re going over the bridge.’
I oblige him, clinging more firmly, my hands pressed to the muscles of his chest, my face so close to his that strands of his hair are tickling my nose. Oh God! How can a man smell this tantalising when he’s sweaty from a race? And carrying baggage that would definitely bust the scales at the EasyJet check-in. There should be a law against it.
We’re on the bridge now and he’s jogging close to the edge, pretending he’s about to throw me off, and I’m squealing like a schoolgirl, telling him to stop it. We reach the other side, and he turns his head slightly to look at me. ‘You do realise this is my exercise for the month, carrying you.’
‘Hey, what are you suggesting? That I’m not as light as a feather?’
He snorts. ‘Well, you were when I started. But you’re definitely a lot heavier now. You’re not scoffing doughnuts back there, are you?’