“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. And Shania Twain taught me in the 90s that I’m allowed to do that as much as I want.”
Larsen chuckles at that, and Amanda blushes, like she’s just realized that we’re around other people.
“Shania is always right,” Lars says, extending her hand. “Hi. I’m Doctor Larsen Belle. But call me Lars. Everyone else does.”
“Not-Doctor Amanda Parks,” she replies, and I see what I’m sure no one else does, the way she grimaces a bit with that last name.
I realize then that we haven’t talked much about her divorce, about when it’s officially happening. All I know is that David told me his dad has been dragging it out and making Amanda’s life a living hell.
I crack my neck at the thought.
Dane takes Amanda’s hand next, giving it a firm shake as he eyes me, her, then me again, his eyebrow perking up into his hairline. “And how do you two know each other?”
Amanda’s eyes snap to mine, and her conversation from earlier this week echoes in my head.
Can we keep this thing between us?
I clear my throat, sliding my hands in the pockets of my shorts. “We’re old friends,” I answer simply, hating how Amanda’s shoulders relax with relief at the dodge. “Dane and I were roommates in college,” I tell her, to make sure the subject stays away from us. “And Lars here works at Bayside.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Amanda says.
For a moment, we stand there in an awkward silence, Dane and Larsen exchanging glances while Amanda and I do the same.
Seems we’re not the only ones hiding something.
“Well, I’m going to see if I can find Asher,” I tell them.
“I’m sure he’s already shirtless and posing for Meadow somewhere,” Dane teases.
“Meadow?” Amanda asks.
“Meadow Matthews. Apparently, some hot shot phot—”
Before Dane can finish his sentence, Amanda gasps, smacking him in the arm — which makes Dane smile curiously and give me a look.
“The Meadow Matthews?”
“You know her?” I ask.
“Yes! Well, I mean no, obviously. No one does. She never shows her face on social media, but I’ve followed her work for years. She’s incredible.” Amanda looks at me then. “I had no idea she’d be here.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find them and you can meet her,” I say, and then I clap hands with Dane.
When he tries to pull away, I hold on tighter, grabbing his elbow with my other hand and speaking low enough where only he can hear it.
“You know I’m getting the scoop on whatever the fuck is going on here later, right?”
“I could say the same about you and your old friend,” he challenges, brow arching as we release.
We share a knowing glance, and then with a smile and a wave, I say goodbye to both of them, and Amanda and I make our way through the field to check the other tents for Asher.
We find him and Meadow by a group of firefighters doing synchronized push-ups, Meadow crouched down and snapping away as Asher watches her like she’s the most fascinating thing here. And to him, I can already tell she is.
“So that’s what she looks like,” Amanda muses from my side. She clicks her tongue. “If I had a body like that, I’d be posting all over social. Just saying.”
My eyes catch on her red tank top again, at where it stretches over her curves, where her leggings outline that juicy ass.
“You’re completely oblivious to how beautiful you are, aren’t you?”
Amanda’s smile slips, her eyes meeting mine for just a brief second before she clears her throat, nodding back at Asher and Meadow. “They look busy,” she says. “Maybe we should catch up with them later.”
Her change of subject is about as subtle as a cow in a field of kittens, but I let it go. I wait until Asher looks up, catching his gaze for just a second. He gives me a chin tilt greeting and his wide smile, but then he cocks his head at the sight of Amanda, wiggling his finger between the two of us with a questioning furrow of his brow.
Luckily, Amanda doesn’t see, and I subtly scratch my neck before waving him off, giving him the we’ll talk later look.
That earns me a shit-eating grin, and then he nods down at where Meadow is still snapping away, telling me without words that he’s got stories to share, too.
Seems we’ve all been busy since the pile-up.
“Squads twenty through forty-five may now begin their climbs,” a voice booms over the loudspeaker, and Amanda glances down at the bib we picked up when we first entered the stadium, the number thirty-seven staring back at her.
“Ah, shit,” she groans, eyes finding me next. “That’s us.”
I chuckle, pulling her under my arm and giving her a playful noogie as I tug her toward section one-forty-nine where we’ll be doing our climb. “Come on. I’ll carry you if you get too tired.”
“Pshh, like you could.” She gestures to her body with a sweep of her hands. “This girl’s got a lot of junk in the trunk, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
I lean in closer, whispering in her ear. “Oh, trust me,” I tease, noting the way chills break on her skin at the touch of my breath. “I’ve noticed.”
Then, without warning, I pick her up like a sack of potatoes, throw her over my shoulder, and take off running across the field with her squealing and laughing the entire way.
AMANDA
I’m going to die.
My legs are going to spontaneously combust into a roaring fire of hell and take me down with them.
This is it. This is how it ends.
“You’re not going to die,” Greg says on a laugh, jogging to catch up with me.
Brat.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“You’ve been saying it out loud. For about the last three climbs.”
I pause, hanging one hand on my hip and wiping away the sweat on my forehead with the other. I grimace at the sight of my slick wrist after wiping it on my leggings. “How much longer do we have?”
“You can quit whenever you want,” Greg says with a shrug. “Our donors will pay a certain amount per step.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t quit.”
As if I walked right into his trap, Greg smirks, stepping up onto the stair I paused on. His chest brushes against mine, sweat dripping down his hairline and over the edges of his jaw as he looks down at me.
“Atta girl,” he purrs.
His voice is low and seductive, lips curling into an even wider grin when my eyelids flutter from him being so near. I swallow, trying to find the words to tell him to put more space between us, or the strength to do it myself.
But I can’t.
I just stand there looking up at him, leaning into him, wanting more of him pressed against me.
All the burn in my legs is forgotten, replaced with an ache in a very different region.
Then, Greg steps back, making me sway a bit forward with the loss of his heat.
And the motherfucker smacks my ass.
“Greg!” I howl, already chasing after him as he flies up the stadium stairs laughing, weaving in and out of innocent bystanders trying to survive their own torture.
I follow his lead, muttering excuse me’s to those I pass as I furrow my brow in determination.