“Listen, honey—I’m no therapist,” Annie says, leaning her elbows on the counter, “but can I throw something out there?”
I glance up warily, and she takes that as a green light.
“Maybe you picked this fight with him not because youwantto leave,” she says gently, “but because you’re scared youdon’t.Maybe it’s easier to walk away when things are messy than to leave when everything feels... perfect.”
Her words land like a sucker punch straight to my chest.
It knocks the breath right out of me.
Because damn it—she might be right.
She sets a large coffee in front of me without asking. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Don’t mention it. And hey,” Annie leans in, smirking slightly now, “for what it’s worth? If a man builtmea river swim sanctuary and nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to impress me at the rodeo? I’d probably throw a muffin at him and then kiss him stupid. But that’s just me.”
I let out a laugh—small, a little cracked, but real. “Muffin first, huh?”
“Oh yeah. Always soften the blow with carbs.”
She turns and walks away to help a customer and I flip open my laptop, staring blankly at the screen. Words swim before my eyes, impossible to focus on. Headlines, leads, structure—none of it comes. My thoughts are still tangled in Grant’s voice, that look on his face when I walked out.
My phone vibrates with an incoming call. Not Grant, thankfully—Suzi, my coach.
“Hey coach,” I answer, trying to sound normal. “Everything okay?”
“Mia,” she says, bright and breathless, like she’s already halfway through a power walk and two espressos. “You sitting down?”
“Kind of,” I mumble, glancing at my untouched coffee. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got news. Big news. You ready?”
“Please. I could use a win today.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “How does two months of intensive training with Dr. Mikhailov and his team in London sound?”
I blink. “Wait—what?”
My stomach flips.Three days. London. The man’s a legend—part physiotherapist, part wizard. Athletes fly across continents just to get five minutes of his time. His programs shave seconds, redefine limits, break records.
“Are you serious?” I clutch the phone tighter. “How? His waitlist is years long.”
“He had a cancellation, and I begged, borrowed, and borderline blackmailed to get your name on that list. Training starts in two days. This is exactly what you need to take your training to the next level before the Olympics.”
Then, more cautiously: “Do you have your passport?”
I swallow. “Yeah… actually, I got it today, as a matter of fact.”
The irony is sharp enough to cut.
Two days. London. An ocean between me and Texas.
Between me andhim.
Between me and the cowboy with the sad eyes who made me forget what I was running from—until I remembered why I always run.
