Twenty-two almonds, raw: 152 cal., 18 minutes running.
Half avocado, raw: 161 cal., 19 minutes running.
Eight ounces of fresh orange juice: 112 cal., 13 minutes running.
As I did every morning, I watched my spreadsheet automatically calculate what I'd need to run to burn off my breakfast. At 5'8" and 120 pounds, I could burn 8.5 calories for every minute I ran, or 84 calories in a mile. I'd long ago memorized these numbers. After so many months of this hell, I barely needed the spreadsheet anymore.
But I finally had enough time for my run this morning, thanks to the party that had been cut short the night before. I hadn't gotten up this early on a weekend in weeks.
Leaving the laptop in my second-floor office, I grabbed my camera and tripod, lugging them downstairs into the kitchen. By habit, I glanced out the window. Beautiful blue sky, with little cloud cover. I smiled; with a little luck, I'd have a great shoot later tonight. Energy coursed through me, putting a spring in my step. I'd put that down to actually getting eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for once.
Positioning my equipment took moments. I'd long ago mastered the art of placing my camera at just the right angle to take the most flattering shots. One of these days, I might even enjoy doing it. Ha. That would never happen.
I'd already partitioned my breakfast the night before, and I munched contentedly on the almonds as I made my cup of green tea—no calories, and refreshing enough to give me an always-needed boost of energy in the morning. Not that I needed it today, though. I glanced down at the cup in my hand, wondering if I might be pushing my luck with all this caffeine. I shrugged; it would make a good prop.
Grabbing my phone, I scrolled through my music app until I found a song sufficiently uplifting to get me through the shoot without poking the fork in my eye.
I delayed another few minutes by taking a few shots of my morning avocado. The green and yellow contrasted nicely with the slate color of my marble countertop. After a few shots of it sitting there sadly on the counter, I threw in a couple almonds to give it some friends, because no sane person only ate half an avocado for breakfast—except me, of course. I added some orange juice to bring out the two different shades of yellow in the avocado.
It was all very pretty, but useless. No one gave two shits about my breakfast. In all likelihood, these photos would never see the light of day. I delayed the inevitable another four minutes by actually eating the food, even though I knew better than to eat before a shoot.
After I'd finished, I procrastinated some more by throwing the avocado waste away and washing the dishes by hand, finally wiping the counter down to its previously spotless state. My camera stared at my back, mocking me.
Sighing, I did one last check in the mirror I'd put next to the sink, frowning at the slight crease on the corner of my cheek. I'd have to hide it with my hair. So much for the messy bun I'd spent half an hour crafting. I watched as my hair fell down and over my left shoulder, mostly hiding the crease.
Perfect. No one would see it now, and my hair was still just curly enough from last night to present a tempting, I-just-woke-up look.
I sighed. There was nothing more for me to do.
Like always, the first shot broke through my general discomfort. I proceeded through the other shots I'd planned out the week before, including the one with the damn green tea, and culminating with me standing directly in front of the camera in nothing but my matching bra and thong, a spatula tapping the corner of my mouth as I grinned saucily at the camera.
This bullshit lasted most of an hour. I'd gotten about 100 shots; I'd be lucky if I could use four of them. I was just putting away my equipment when I finally remembered one small, but important detail.
My electricity.
I raced back into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door. Everything appeared normal. I poked my milk carton, then stupidly remembered that the orange juice had been cold.
Huh. It looked like my asshole neighbor had actually fixed whatever it was he had done to screw me. If only he knew how much I myself loathed those parties. But unfortunately, unlike him, I couldn't exactly avoid them—and Jared would surely make the situation worse after last night's little fiasco. He'd stop breathing if he went more than 24 hours without partying.
My mind returned to the night before. So that had been my neighbor, the man I'd called the cops on when he blocked our road, the guy whose yard I'd used as a pad for an inflatable castle and a parking lot. The man who'd called the cops on me twice. We'd been going back and forth for so long now, slowly escalating our behavior, that I'd been fully prepared to loathe the very sight of the man the moment I finally got a good look at him.
But those brief moments I'd spotted him from across the yard over the last two months hadn't prepared me for how blisteringly hot he was up close. Any woman with eyes could tell the man was damn attractive, even if he was a bit of a grump.
And I was a woman with eyes.
I peered out the window, recalling how his chocolate-colored hair had swept down into his deep brown eyes the moment he'd leaned into me. I'd nearly thrown myself at him when his scent tingled my nose. Musky, with an undeniable hint of man and something sharp like pine. Shoulders that broad should be illegal. He was attractive enough to almost make me regret all the shit I'd done to him. Almost.
But I had no time for distractions. And as fun a distraction as he'd likely be—I was tempted to find out just how grumpy he really was—I just couldn't afford to, quite literally.
Not when every moment of my life consists of a constant grind to earn enough to feed myself, I thought bitterly.
But that was enough of the pity party. With a little regret, I turned away from the window—he was still sleeping, anyway—and returned to my bedroom, stripping out of the stupid lingerie so that I could pull on the running clothes I'd already laid out.
Fifty-seven minutes and six miles later, I returned from my run, high on endorphins. I made for the garage, intending to pass through the kitchen so I could stretch in the backyard, but I ground to a halt when I realized someone was pacing in my driveway.
I'd been wrong; my neighbor was also an early riser.
I had to admit, he looked good. More than good. I studied him curiously in the brief moment before he noticed me. I couldn't quite detect what it was, but there was some sort of ... vitality about him. He moved with a predatory grace, strength radiating from his broad shoulders. I could have sworn he was talking to himself, gearing up for whatever fight we were about to have.
For once, his hair looked like it had actually stayed in place after he'd combed it. I sighed; such a waste. I'd always loved men with messy hair. Although, there was something to be said for being the one to mess it up in the first place ...
I unintentionally kicked a stone, the small rock skittering across the pavement, annoyingly loud in the quiet morning. His head instantly snapped toward me, and he finally stilled. The queerest expression flickered across his face for a brief moment, before he hid any emotion he might have been feeling behind the irritated mask I'd come to know and love.
No. Not love. Recognize.
He sprang forward, closing the gap between us in three long strides as I skittered back a step, startled by his speed. I pulled my earphones out, disappointed that my runner's high was surely mere seconds away from evaporation.
He finally stopped about a foot from me, resting his hands on his hips as his gaze swept up and down. I nearly missed the lust swirling in his eyes before he hid that too. Interesting. Clearly this guy had a lot of experience controlling his emotions, and I couldn't help but wonder why—or what I'd need to do to rile his calm surface.
Twenty-two almonds, raw: 152 cal., 18 minutes running.
Half avocado, raw: 161 cal., 19 minutes running.
Eight ounces of fresh orange juice: 112 cal., 13 minutes running.
As I did every morning, I watched my spreadsheet automatically calculate what I'd need to run to burn off my breakfast. At 5'8" and 120 pounds, I could burn 8.5 calories for every minute I ran, or 84 calories in a mile. I'd long ago memorized these numbers. After so many months of this hell, I barely needed the spreadsheet anymore.
But I finally had enough time for my run this morning, thanks to the party that had been cut short the night before. I hadn't gotten up this early on a weekend in weeks.
Leaving the laptop in my second-floor office, I grabbed my camera and tripod, lugging them downstairs into the kitchen. By habit, I glanced out the window. Beautiful blue sky, with little cloud cover. I smiled; with a little luck, I'd have a great shoot later tonight. Energy coursed through me, putting a spring in my step. I'd put that down to actually getting eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for once.
Positioning my equipment took moments. I'd long ago mastered the art of placing my camera at just the right angle to take the most flattering shots. One of these days, I might even enjoy doing it. Ha. That would never happen.
I'd already partitioned my breakfast the night before, and I munched contentedly on the almonds as I made my cup of green tea—no calories, and refreshing enough to give me an always-needed boost of energy in the morning. Not that I needed it today, though. I glanced down at the cup in my hand, wondering if I might be pushing my luck with all this caffeine. I shrugged; it would make a good prop.
Grabbing my phone, I scrolled through my music app until I found a song sufficiently uplifting to get me through the shoot without poking the fork in my eye.
I delayed another few minutes by taking a few shots of my morning avocado. The green and yellow contrasted nicely with the slate color of my marble countertop. After a few shots of it sitting there sadly on the counter, I threw in a couple almonds to give it some friends, because no sane person only ate half an avocado for breakfast—except me, of course. I added some orange juice to bring out the two different shades of yellow in the avocado.
It was all very pretty, but useless. No one gave two shits about my breakfast. In all likelihood, these photos would never see the light of day. I delayed the inevitable another four minutes by actually eating the food, even though I knew better than to eat before a shoot.
After I'd finished, I procrastinated some more by throwing the avocado waste away and washing the dishes by hand, finally wiping the counter down to its previously spotless state. My camera stared at my back, mocking me.
Sighing, I did one last check in the mirror I'd put next to the sink, frowning at the slight crease on the corner of my cheek. I'd have to hide it with my hair. So much for the messy bun I'd spent half an hour crafting. I watched as my hair fell down and over my left shoulder, mostly hiding the crease.
Perfect. No one would see it now, and my hair was still just curly enough from last night to present a tempting, I-just-woke-up look.
I sighed. There was nothing more for me to do.
Like always, the first shot broke through my general discomfort. I proceeded through the other shots I'd planned out the week before, including the one with the damn green tea, and culminating with me standing directly in front of the camera in nothing but my matching bra and thong, a spatula tapping the corner of my mouth as I grinned saucily at the camera.
This bullshit lasted most of an hour. I'd gotten about 100 shots; I'd be lucky if I could use four of them. I was just putting away my equipment when I finally remembered one small, but important detail.
My electricity.
I raced back into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door. Everything appeared normal. I poked my milk carton, then stupidly remembered that the orange juice had been cold.
Huh. It looked like my asshole neighbor had actually fixed whatever it was he had done to screw me. If only he knew how much I myself loathed those parties. But unfortunately, unlike him, I couldn't exactly avoid them—and Jared would surely make the situation worse after last night's little fiasco. He'd stop breathing if he went more than 24 hours without partying.
My mind returned to the night before. So that had been my neighbor, the man I'd called the cops on when he blocked our road, the guy whose yard I'd used as a pad for an inflatable castle and a parking lot. The man who'd called the cops on me twice. We'd been going back and forth for so long now, slowly escalating our behavior, that I'd been fully prepared to loathe the very sight of the man the moment I finally got a good look at him.
But those brief moments I'd spotted him from across the yard over the last two months hadn't prepared me for how blisteringly hot he was up close. Any woman with eyes could tell the man was damn attractive, even if he was a bit of a grump.
And I was a woman with eyes.
I peered out the window, recalling how his chocolate-colored hair had swept down into his deep brown eyes the moment he'd leaned into me. I'd nearly thrown myself at him when his scent tingled my nose. Musky, with an undeniable hint of man and something sharp like pine. Shoulders that broad should be illegal. He was attractive enough to almost make me regret all the shit I'd done to him. Almost.
But I had no time for distractions. And as fun a distraction as he'd likely be—I was tempted to find out just how grumpy he really was—I just couldn't afford to, quite literally.
Not when every moment of my life consists of a constant grind to earn enough to feed myself, I thought bitterly.
But that was enough of the pity party. With a little regret, I turned away from the window—he was still sleeping, anyway—and returned to my bedroom, stripping out of the stupid lingerie so that I could pull on the running clothes I'd already laid out.
Fifty-seven minutes and six miles later, I returned from my run, high on endorphins. I made for the garage, intending to pass through the kitchen so I could stretch in the backyard, but I ground to a halt when I realized someone was pacing in my driveway.
I'd been wrong; my neighbor was also an early riser.
I had to admit, he looked good. More than good. I studied him curiously in the brief moment before he noticed me. I couldn't quite detect what it was, but there was some sort of ... vitality about him. He moved with a predatory grace, strength radiating from his broad shoulders. I could have sworn he was talking to himself, gearing up for whatever fight we were about to have.
For once, his hair looked like it had actually stayed in place after he'd combed it. I sighed; such a waste. I'd always loved men with messy hair. Although, there was something to be said for being the one to mess it up in the first place ...
I unintentionally kicked a stone, the small rock skittering across the pavement, annoyingly loud in the quiet morning. His head instantly snapped toward me, and he finally stilled. The queerest expression flickered across his face for a brief moment, before he hid any emotion he might have been feeling behind the irritated mask I'd come to know and love.
No. Not love. Recognize.
He sprang forward, closing the gap between us in three long strides as I skittered back a step, startled by his speed. I pulled my earphones out, disappointed that my runner's high was surely mere seconds away from evaporation.
He finally stopped about a foot from me, resting his hands on his hips as his gaze swept up and down. I nearly missed the lust swirling in his eyes before he hid that too. Interesting. Clearly this guy had a lot of experience controlling his emotions, and I couldn't help but wonder why—or what I'd need to do to rile his calm surface.
