“I . . . okay. Sure.” I blink, trying to process all of this, but my mind seems to be stuck on the fact that Mitchell says I broke his heart.
It’s laughable. Stupid. Did he have a completely different memory of how things went down? Did he live in some sort of alternate universe where he told me he couldn’t be in love with me and his heart was the one that broke? Dylan walks past me and I take one more second to push the thoughts away before following him fully into the apartment. It’s bigger than mine, which makes sense since this is a three bedroom. The living room is huge, the kitchen is a decent size, and there’s a staircase that winds up to a second floor. Surprisingly, it’s neat and smells clean. Rodney walks out of one of the three doors near the living room and smiles at me.
“Hey, Misty.”
“Hey.” I smile back, then go back to looking around. “Do you guys even live here? It’s so clean.”
Rodney chuckles. “Well, you know Mitch, so I’m sure you know how anal he is about things.”
“Mitch is anal about anal,” Dylan adds with a snicker.
“I heard that, you bastard,” Mitch calls out from upstairs, making the guys laugh.
I tilt my head back, but I can’t see him from this angle. He starts coming down the stairs before I get a chance to move and I get a glimpse of a shirtless Mitch, pulling his shirt over his head and sinking his fingers into his hair as he tries to somewhat fix it. The fact that my heart leaps a little from that small display does not bode well with my plan of not letting him affect me while I do this project. He glances at me, gives me a full once-over, and meets my eyes.
“Why are you not wearing workout clothes?”
“Because I showered after someone forced me to run a mile and it didn’t feel like an athleisure kind of day.” I look at the three of them. They are definitely dressed to work out. I remember that in my half-asleep state, Mitchell mentioned a lifting session that was happening later and it dawns on me that when he said his run was a warm-up he did alone it was because it wasn’t required. “I’m not going to lift weights with you,” I say finally.
“You’re just tagging along for moral support?” Mitch raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were here to walk a mile in our shoes.”
“I just ran a mile in your shoes.” I set a hand on my hip.
“You walked half of it.” He smirks.
“I’m not the one on a sports scholarship.”
“Ohh, she got you there,” one of the guys says, while the other laughs.
Mitch doesn’t even crack a smile as his serious green eyes stay on mine and for some crazy, irrational reason it makes me want to do as he’s telling me to do, because once again, he’s not wrong. I did sign up to walk a mile in their shoes. My head battles with my heart for a moment. I’m nothing if not rebellious. I hate being told what to do. But you want to do great in this assignment. Finally, I sigh.
“I guess it wouldn’t kill me to do some squats.”
“You have three minutes.” Mitch looks at his watch. “We have to leave.”
“I’ll take two.” I’m running out of their apartment as I say it.
I change quickly into leggings, a sports bra, and a thin hoodie, grabbing my sneakers as I head back to the door. I open it as I’m putting on my lace-free sneakers and find Mitchell standing on the other side.
“Holy crap.” I take a step back. “You scared me.”
“I was just coming to let you know the guys are on their way down. We needed to leave like two minutes ago.”
“Well, I’m ready. I could’ve met you there.” I shoot him a look as we walk to the elevator.
“Then you wouldn’t be walking a mile in my shoes, would you?”
“You’re taking this more seriously than I am.”
“I’ve noticed.” He glances over at me as the elevator door closes and it starts descending. “I wouldn’t be proud of that if I were you.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like my father.”
“Well, I respect your father, so forgive me if that comment isn’t exactly cutting.”
“When did you become such a bore anyway?” I cross my arms.
“A bore?” He chuckles. “I am not a bore. I just know how to separate my work life from my party life.”
“Work life?” I let out a laugh. “You’re in college. You play baseball. You don’t have a job.”
“I can’t work right now.” He waits for me to step out of the elevator when we reach the lobby.
“Hm.” My stomach growls. I set a hand over it.
“You didn’t have breakfast?”
“You did?” My eyes widen. “When? How?”
“I had a protein shake when I got back from my half-assed mile run.”
“Well, I had coffee. And a banana. Obviously not enough,” I say as my stomach growls even louder. “Why is it so quiet in here?”
Mitchell chuckles, shaking his head as we walk out to the front, but doesn’t comment on my hunger as we pile into his two-door BMW and head to the school. The guys are talking about practice and a teammate who’s been out with an injury and may be coming back and I’m trying to absorb everything, but my growling stomach keeps me from truly paying attention so I focus on the buildings we’re driving by. Without a word, Mitchell makes a right and parks in front of a popular smoothie chain, gets out of the car, leaving the three of us confused, before he walks back out with a huge cup in his hand.
“You didn’t even ask us if we wanted anything,” one of them says behind me.
“I could’ve totally killed a Hulk right now,” Dylan adds.
Mitchell says nothing. He hands me the large cup, which I take, as he puts his seat belt on and backs out of the parking space.
“Are you going to drink it or not?” He shoots me a look as he stops the car by the exit of the shopping center.
“It’s . . . you got this for me?” I feel myself frown.
“I don’t hear anyone else’s stomach growling.”
“Mine is growling,” Dylan says. “You never buy me smoothies.”
Mitch ignores this. He continues to look at me as I look anywhere but his eyes and rip the paper from the straw and plug it into the lid.
“Thank you.” I look at him again. “I need your number so I can send you money.”
“Don’t insult me.” He looks away from me and keeps driving.
I take a long sip of the smoothie and close my eyes with a sigh. “I really needed this.”
“Yeah, tomorrow, after the mile, eat something.”
“Tomorrow?” My eyes pop open. I glance over at him. “I work at seven.”
“We run at five then.” He shrugs a shoulder like it’s no big deal to wake up at four thirty in the freaking morning to do something I absolutely detest.
“As a rule, I don’t do things I don’t enjoy.”
“As a rule.” He chuckles.
“That’s a good rule,” Dylan says from the back seat. Mitchell shoots him a look in the rearview, to which Dylan responds, “What? It’s a good rule.”
“How’d it not work out between the two of you?” Rodney asks. “That’s literally Dylan’s life motto.”