How to Get Over Your Ex (9 page)

No. But she wasn’t ready to go home alone, either. Maybe she
could wheedle some clues out of his assistant, Casey. Now that she was a super
spy and all. Then again, Casey probably hadn’t stayed as an assistant to a man
as exacting as Zander Rush for as long as she had by chatting casually about his
private business.

She’d have to be smarter than that.

She matched the brightness of his smile. And the fakeness.

‘Sure.’

SIX

June

‘It’s a good ten kilometres longer than a regular
marathon,’ the spectator perched next to Georgia on a fold-out chair said, his
eyes firmly on the bend in the road they were sitting by. ‘But it’s only a
club-training day so it doesn’t count as an ultra-marathon. It’s just a good
run.’

Georgia chuckled. Calling a fifty-three-kilometre run ‘good’
was like calling her drive up from London in her gran’s borrowed car ‘brief’.
Though getting herself to the starting point up towards the Scottish border
reminded her just how long it had been since she’d taken herself right out of
London.

Too long.

So even if this was the craziest and most spontaneous of bad
ideas, it at least had the rather pleasant silver lining of getting her out into
fresh, brisk, northern air.

The event didn’t run adjacent or even near to the actual
Hadrian’s Wall remains; disappointing but understandable. The past two thousand
years hadn’t been kind to them already, the last thing they needed was forty
sweaty runners and their support crews plodding along their length. But the
route trundled along paved roads and tracks and along a river in one place, and
so Georgia was able to drive ahead, park, and set herself up at strategic
locations with the other spectators to watch them go by.

She quickly realised that Zander would be in the front half of
the pack, though not right at the front. Those spaces were occupied by the elite
professional runners and their support crews. But he wasn’t too far behind, sans
support crew. Last stop she’d practically hidden in the shrubbery as the pack
ran by, keen for Zander not to spot her on the side of the road. But as she’d
watched him steadily plod past she realised he wasn’t paying the slightest bit
of attention to the spectators. He was just lost in a zone of his own. The zone
that got this tough job done.

She’d had a good poke around a Roman ruin and Hadrian’s Wall
itself and still been ready at this next vantage point twelve kilometres along
for the moment he came jogging along the track.

‘Here they come,’ the man said in his thick accent, standing.
He readied himself with squeeze-bottles of energy drink and a pair of bananas
and stepped up to the road edge in case his runner needed supplies. Georgia
stepped back into his considerable shadow so that she was partially screened
from the runners.

Just in case.

Zander stood out in the field, both for his height and also his
electric-green vest top. So she watched for that. Only about a dozen runners
passed her before she saw the flash of lime and she tucked back even further
into her companion’s wake. As before, Zander was totally focused on the path
ahead and, not expecting anyone to be out here for him, he wasn’t looking for
anyone. That meant his eyes were locked forward, determination all over his
face, and he sucked air in and blew it out steadily between the thud of his
sturdy runners on the track.

A slick gloss of sweat covered most of the exposed areas of his
body but instead of making him look hot and miserable, it just made him
look...hot. Some men really did sweaty well and apparently buttoned-up Zander
was one of them. The all-over sheen defined the contours of muscles that flexed
taut with effort and made her imagine other ways he might get that sweaty. And
that taut.

She shut down that thought hard as he ran past.

‘Is that your guy?’ the man next to her asked, his eyes still
on the bend in the road up ahead, his bananas and energy drink still
outstretched.

‘No, he’s just a friend,’ she laughed. Way too brightly.

The man glanced at her quizzically, as if she’d answered a
totally different question from the one he asked. ‘I meant is he the one you’re
here cheering on?’

Heat surged into her face. ‘Oh, yes.’

He turned his eyes back to the bend and waited for sight of
his
guy. Or girl. That was how little attention
she’d paid to anyone but Zander. ‘Next stop you’re welcome to one of my
squeeze-bottles if you want.’

‘Thank you, no,’ she said, dragging her eyes back off Zander’s
disappearing form. ‘I’m just watching.’

She picked up her fold-a-chair.

‘Well, I’ll see you at the King’s Arms,’ the affable fellow
said. ‘We’ll all have earned a brew by then.’

She hadn’t planned on waiting at the end, she’d only thought to
watch him for a bit, get a feel for this sport that he loved, and then drive the
many hours back to London. But while the idea of sitting waiting to surprise him
in a pub didn’t appeal, the thought that what she was actually doing was
tantamount to stalking appealed even less.

‘Yes,’ she suddenly decided. ‘I’ll see you there.’

Late night be damned.

She clambered her way back across the farmer’s field to where
her car was pulled off the road heading west—the same direction as the pack of
runners.

As the afternoon wore on, Zander’s form remained steady but the
exertion showed in the lines around his mouth and the cords that became more
pronounced in his neck and calves. So even with all his heavy training this
wasn’t an easy run. The front of the pack certainly made it seem so and she was
always gone by the time the rest of the pack went through. But Zander went from
the front-runner in the second cluster of runners to the rear-runner in the
front group with a brief, lonely stint by himself as he transitioned the
ever-stretching gap between them.

Most of the other spectators went to the final checkpoint to
cheer their runners across the line but Georgia headed straight for the small
pub on the main street. There was no guarantee that Zander would even go there;
if he valued his solitude enough he might just clamber back into his Jag and
head straight back to London all puffing and sweaty.

And she’d be sitting here for nothing.

But she stayed. She wanted him to know she’d come—even if he
might not be all that happy about it. She wanted him to know how much she
admired his dogged determination. She wanted to know what time he’d run. Those
long waits on the side of the road were great for getting a feel from the
regulars on what was a good time, what the stages in the pack meant and why
long-run competitors did what they did.

Curiosity and a real sense of anticipation hung with her.

She wanted him to have done well. For his sake.

The front-runners started to appear amid the small crowd in the
pub. She recognised some of them since they were the ones she’d been looking at
all afternoon. Their arrival at the Arms was a mini-version of the race order.
Clearly there was a procedure followed by most competitors—finish, shower,
pub.

Her eyes drifted to the door yet again.

The crowd grew too thick in the small pub for her to see the
moment Zander actually came through the door, but they spotted each other at
virtually the same moment as he turned from the bar. She sucked in a small
breath, held it, and smiled.

As casual as you like. As though this were her local and he’d
just happened into it. As though she weren’t three hundred miles from her local.
Sitting on the border of a whole other country.

‘Georgia?’ His confusion reached her before he did.

She stood. ‘Congratulations. That was quite a run.’

‘What are you doing here?’ It wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t
joyous, either. Had she expected pleased?

She took a deep breath. ‘I thought I’d watch you compete. I
just wanted to say hello before I headed off.’
Let you know
I’m not a stalker.
She reached for her handbag, realising what a
desperately bad idea this all was. Not only was she not invited, but she’d
intruded on his privacy. Presumed her way into his own space and sporting
circle. The least she could do was keep it short.

She threaded the straps of her handbag in her fingers. ‘How did
you do?’

He shook his head, still trying to come to terms with her
presence. ‘Good. Personal best for the distance.’

She nodded. ‘I saw you make that big break between the chase
group and the lead,’ she babbled. ‘That was exciting.’

He frowned.

‘I had lots of time to talk to the spectators,’ she confessed,
flushing. ‘Ask me anything about marathon running now...’

She laughed. He didn’t.

Oh, God...
‘OK. Well,
congratulations. I’m going to go.’

She didn’t wait for a farewell, but started weaving her way
immediately through the assembled throng. She got to the door before a hand on
her shoulder stopped her.

‘Georgia...’

She turned. Forced a bright smile to her face. She was getting
quite good at swallowing humiliation now.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You being here really threw me. I’m
not...’ He frowned again and looked around at everyone else’s support teams
laughing and sharing stories. ‘I’m not used to having someone here for me.
Stay for a while longer?’

One foot was, literally, out of the door. It would be so easy
to make an excuse about the sinking sun, the long drive home, and flee. But
there was Zander, all freshly showered and apologetic and great-smelling,
standing in a room full of excited buzz, inviting her to stay in it. To enjoy
everyone else’s post-run high. To vacation in his world for just a short
while.

She scanned his face for signs of being humoured. ‘Maybe for a
bit, then. If you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘Stay. We can chalk this up to a Year of Georgia project.’

The radio promotion. Of course. Everything came back to
that.

They returned to the place she’d been seated but someone had
taken quick advantage of the vacant seat and slid into it. Zander turned and
shepherded her through to an area behind the bar. Still busy but quieter. A
small table-for-one in the far corner was empty. It didn’t take him long to find
a spare chair.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you out on the road,’ he started,
sinking onto one of the seats.

She waved away the apology. His job was to stay focused on the
run, not glance at spectators in case one of them was for him. ‘How do you feel
after the run?’

‘Always the same. Exhilarated. Drained, yet like I could do it
all again. I’ll feel like a conqueror for a few hours yet.’

‘How many recovery days do you have?’

His lips parted in a smile and in this private little corner of
the bar it was all for her. ‘You really are a quick study.’

Heat filled her cheeks. ‘They were quite long roadside vigils.’
And lots of listening so that she didn’t have to talk too much to strangers.

A genuine smile lit up his face. ‘Sorry. I should have run
faster.’

They chatted more about the race, the pastime, the rules, and
the challenges, and Georgia found herself sinking into his obvious
engagement.

‘You look totally different,’ she blurted.

‘In civvies?’

‘No. When you talk about running your entire face changes. You
become so animated.’

‘How do I normally look?’

She gestured to his frown. ‘More like that. When you’re talking
about work. This Zander is...very human.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Wow. I’m not even human in London?’

What the hell? She’d intruded on his space, she might as well
go the whole way. He was a puzzle she wanted to solve. ‘You’re so guarded in
London.’

He shrugged—totally guarded—and she regretted raising it. ‘I’m
in work mode when I see you. It’s not London’s fault.’

‘Are you saying you’re not yourself when you’re in work
mode?’

‘A different part of myself.’

‘So which is more you—this Zander or London Zander?’

He squinted as he thought about it. ‘I work eighty hours a week
so, statistically, being like this is less common. But scarcity just makes me
enjoy it more.’

So he liked this side of him as much as she did.

Around them a few people stood, as if on cue. He noticed,
too.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We have a tradition when we run the
wall.’

She followed him out of the King’s Arms, feeling very
comfortable and welcome in this crowd—with Zander—even though she knew how out
of place she was. Such a fraud. A line of them trooped, beers in hand, down to
the banks of the tidal flat that had been halfway out when she’d arrived
earlier. Now water lapped right up to the banks. The groups split down into
small pairs and threes and spread out along the length of the foreshore. It
practically glowed with rich, dusk light.

‘Solway Firth,’ Zander said, taking his cue from a pair of
nearby cows and sinking onto the grass. ‘Best sunsets in England.’

‘And Scotland,’ she said, dropping down next to him and looking
across the narrow expanse of water that separated the two countries. She
wondered what Scots might be sitting on the opposite banks looking at England
and sharing the sunset. Then she looked inland. ‘What town is that down
there?’

Lights twinkled where the tidal flats became a river as the sun
lowered.

‘Gretna Green.’

‘Convenient if we were eloping.’ She laughed.

But the mention of marriage dented the relaxed companionship
that had blossomed between them since they sat back down at the pub.

‘Have you never wanted to get married?’ she asked, without
thinking about how he might construe such a question. In such a context. With
Gretna Green an hour’s stroll away.

His answer was more of a stammer.

‘Not that I’m volunteering,’ she hurried. ‘One misguided
proposal a year is my limit. I’m just curious. You’d be quite the catch, I’d
have thought.’

Understatement.

He took his time answering that. Or deciding how to. ‘What
self-respecting woman would want me and my insane schedule?’

OK, they were going with flippant, then. ‘I think you’d find
your postal code and credit limit would be sufficient compensation for many
people.’ Not to mention the body.

‘Many? But not you?’