Page 52 of Spin Control

We start at an easy pace and the music reflects that—though there’s an edge to the instrumental song, it isn’t heavy or loud. After we’ve put in a couple miles, Elizabeth speeds up as the music shifts to pulsing dark pop. I focus on the beat, letting my thoughts drift away as I follow Elizabeth’s pace and playlist.

I don’t usually achieve mental peace on runs. I think about each step, if my heart rate is steady, if my breathing is even, what my endurance metrics look like, if my hydration levels are off, whether my left knee is acting up or if I’m just in my 30s. But today, I’m entering that zone where everything just works; where I trust my body, my instincts, and everything around me.

I’m certain it’s all because of the woman leading me.

I’m not good at giving up control. It isn’t natural for me. But there’s something about Elizabeth that makes me want to cede it all to her. I trust that while she’ll control the situation, the playlist, me, she won’t take advantage. I feel safe with her.

When we start to slow, the sunrise is striping the sky in soft pinks, illuminating the white sand, the seagrass, the deep blue of the Atlantic. It’s a lovely morning, and we’re not the only people taking advantage of it. We pass plenty of other runners, couples walking their dogs, and groups in golf carts, off to the course.

I’m startled when my watch buzzes. I typically can’t keep my eyes off it during runs, but today I forgot about it entirely. “That’s ten,” I announce.

“Want to keep going?” Elizabeth asks, as if running ten miles on an empty stomach is child’s play. Hell, maybe it is for her.

I laugh. “No. I want to collapse in the sand, take a nap, and then have a massive pancake breakfast.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I’m guessing that’s not what’s on the agenda.”

“Very unfortunately, it is not.” I bend over, resting my hands on my knees. “I’m going to stretch, eat a banana or two, down some electrolyte water, and then go to the gym.”

Elizabeth nods, then starts her own stretching. It surprises me. I thought she’d jet off, leaving me in her dust. But she didn’t. She stayed here. With me.

I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know what to make of her anymore.

“Tell me something true, Elizabeth W. Jacobs.”

“Is that your way of asking what my middle name is?”

If I didn’t know her, I’d say her tone was emotionless. But now, I hear the droll note in it. “What you share is up to you.”

She looks out at the water for so long that I don’t think she’s going to give me anything. But then she takes a deep breath. “I would do unspeakable things for one hour with my sister, just the two of us.”

I blink, surprised she’s confided in me.

I want to tell her that she shouldn’t have to make a deal with the devil to spend time with her sister. That I’m sorry Todd is such a toxic asshole. That I wish she could have everything she wants. But I don’t want to push my luck. I don’t want to turn this lovely, surprisingly vulnerable morning into something she regrets. So instead I lean toward her and pitch my voice low. “Unspeakable things, you say?”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. But there’s also a small grin on her face.

As Camden pushes me through a grueling training session, the thing that keeps me going is that I know precisely how to grant Elizabeth’s wish.

23

I’m reading the updated draft of Arjun’s article when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call, expecting it to be Wes interrupting my work the way he always does at the motorhome. To my delight, it’s Jane—and she’s alone.

“Lizzy,” she says, an unmistakable thrill in her voice. “Can you be ready to leave in 10 minutes?”

I sit up straight. “Of course.”

She smiles. “Good. Because we’re going out.”

“We are?”

She nods as she moves further into the room and perches on the end of the bed. “Wes told me to take the night off. He said he’d help Todd with the kids.”

A riot of emotions floods my body. In a moment of vulnerability that I can only attribute to a runner’s high and a lack of caffeine, I told Wes I’d do unspeakable things for an hour alone with my sister. And here he is, just, making that happen. For far more than an hour, it seems.

Heat pulses through me as I consider precisely the type of unspeakable thing Wes Grant might want in exchange for this—but I quickly bat it away. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?