“Ouch.”
My muscles constricted and I fell to the ground wincing in pain.
Why did I have to run even when I’m very aware I can’t keep up for more than five minutes. I berated myself inwardly and attempted to stand, but my legs refused the order.
Then I looked ahead, Mr. Clinton was a good distance away.
I had to be honest with myself, it definitely didn’t feel like a competition, it was more like a tortoise daring to challenge the hare.
And that tortoise was me, I lost in less than ten minutes…
Even when I was still seated on the ground, I was still huffing and panting for a few meters, a race I barely pulled off.
I stayed on the ground to catch my rough breath.
“Mr. Clinton!” I yelled for his attention; I needed help to stand. My legs refused to cooperate.
I saw him turn around and approaching me.
Damn, he looked quite hot while running, his stubble strewed all over his oval face by the gentle breeze, and my heart started drumming the music of infatuation.
When will he be mine? I really want to tell him I love him but….
“Sarah, are you alright?” He asked with a hint of concern in his voice.
I quickly concealed the shimmering lust in my eyes. “I’m obviously not alright, Mr. Clinton.” I replied stroking my ankles ambiguously.
He crouched beside me, gracing my foot with his gentle palms. I felt a hint of warmth seeping into my skin. “I thought you were an athlete,” he chuckled mockingly.
The word athlete was never in my dictionary. “Fine, I admit I’m not fit to be an athlete.”
“Come sit.” He held me up, and we sat on a bench close by. “You should exercise regularly.”
I snorted. Me… exercise… regularly… I only exercised today because of him. I wanted a steady view of those impeccable abs. “If you promise me we’ll do it together every day.”
‘That’s if you wake up on time every day.’
My inner critic woke up from its sleep to taunt me again.
“If you could wake up on time, regularly, so you won’t be late for class.” His reply caused wrinkles to appear on my forehead. Does he think I’m a deep sleeper too?
He stood up. “Let’s go back home.”
We arrived back home, and I offered to make tea. I wanted to quench my thirst; the race took a toll on me.
While I poured his tea into the mug, I accidentally splashed the hot liquid on my wrist. I almost screamed my throat out…
Mr. Clinton rushed to the kitchen upon hearing my shriek. “What happened, Sarah?”
I danced around, poking my hand out; the tingling, burning sensation was making me jerk in pain.
“Ah, ah, ah… Mr. Clint… Ah,” I quickly held my hand, “It hurts,” I whimpered.
“Hold on.” He hurried to the sink, grabbing a napkin, then switched on the tap to soak the napkin in it.
My face was painted with discomfort. I impatiently stomped my foot on the ground. “Mr. Clinton, faster, it’s burning.”
He carefully dabbed the soaking wet napkin on my skin to calm down the hotness of the burn. I gasped, wincing in pain as soon as he took off the napkin.
“Let me get ice.”
In less than twenty seconds, he returned with a bowl of ice.
I watched him closely as he tried to soothe my pain. His amiable countenance made my heart flutter, my eyes glistened seeing how effortlessly he cradled my wrist; just watching him made all the pain disappear.
“Why are you smiling?”
My jaw dropped. I didn’t realize I was smiling until then.
“You’re in pain and you’re smiling.” He looked at me incredulously, removing the ice from my skin, making the pain surface again.
“Tsskk,” I shrank, wedging my hand. “I… ice.”
He placed the ice back on the burn.
I could only hope he forgets his question because I don’t have answers for him, for now though…
“Be careful next time,” he cautioned. “you were lucky it didn’t splash on your face.”
Lucky me, I would have had a disfigured face by now…
He turned to the counter to prepare a new tea.
“Let me…”
He cut me off with a deep ‘huh, huh’.
It would still be nice to drink a tea specially made by Mr. Clinton. I shoved myself on the counter beside, waiting for the specially made hot tea.
After the heartwarming tea, he ordered breakfast, and I couldn’t object since I burnt my wrist.
After we ate, he left for work, leaving me all alone in the huge building. I had class later in the day, so I would have to roam aimlessly or play with my phone.
Then I received a call from Helen.
“Where the hell are you?” That boisterous voice again; sometimes, I get tired of hearing it on the phone.
“My phone has a loudspeaker, dimwit!” I shouted back with agitation in my voice, but instead of apologizing, she mentioned the ‘name’ I didn’t like to hear.
“You haven’t given me a valid reason for disliking Vincent.”
I rolled my eyes. My guts never agree with him. “Must there be a valid reason to dislike someone like him?”
“Sarah, I don’t like the tone of your voice,” she spat.
Wait a second, is it a must to like all the guys she dates?
“Is this the reason you called me?”
“Not the only reason, I wanted to invite you for a group late breakfast.” She answered.
I thought for a while. I had class later in the day, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
“Okay, you’ll pick me up, right? At my favorite spot.”
“Yes, and don’t be late,” she said, and the call disconnected. I got dressed and grabbed my purse, ready to leave the duplex. Then I suddenly recalled our earlier conversation. ‘Group,’ will there be a lot of guys?
“Oh, Helen, what does that girl have planned?