Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1) by RB Hilliard

knocking and damn if I wasn’t answering the door.
    As I dug like a mad woman through my packed bag for my running gear, I thought about what to say to Grant. I needed to push without being pushy and to counsel in a non-threatening way. I stared down at my outfit and laughed. Who cares if it matches? I had just enough time to pull up my hair and brush my teeth before running out the door. My heart sank when I got to the lobby and it was empty. I was about to give up when I spotted Hank through the front windows of the hotel. Standing next to him was a scantily clad, very sexy looking Grant. Before they took off without me I charged across the lobby and out the front entrance.
    To say Grant was surprised to see me was an understatement. Of course, he played it off by calling me a narc and I accused him of being threatened by little ole me. I tried not to laugh when I challenged him and he blasted past me in a full on sprint. Typical man . Sporting black running shorts and a sleeveless shirt he looked like an advertisement for Runner’s World, minus the tats and hair. It was impossible not to stare at the man. He was absolutely decadent both on stage and off and I couldn’t decide which side I preferred more, his front or his back. Hank shot me a knowing smirk and I pretended innocence. While Grant attempted to prove his manliness Hank and I did a light jog and chatted away about the bus and what to expect in Atlanta. Grant eventually slowed down enough for us to catch up with him.
    “You didn’t even try,” he huffed.
    “Oh, I didn’t realize we were racing,” I playfully responded. He smiled and I felt it in places I shouldn’t.
    “That’s okay. Your bum knee would have slowed you down anyway.” He was taunting me and I wasn’t biting. “Speaking of your knee, you never did tell me what happened.” I knew he would go there again, just not so soon. Hank dropped back behind us and I suddenly felt vulnerable.
    “Tell me about rehab,” I challenged.
    “Ladies first,” he smiled, and I fought back a groan of frustration.
    When I failed to respond he picked up the pace. My knee began to protest. Instead of listening to the warning signs and slowing down, I sped up. Grant let out an evil chuckle as he passed by me and soon we were sprinting down the street. I was competitive to a fault. Apparently so was he. After a minute or so of dick measuring I reluctantly gave in and slowed down. When Grant discovered I was no longer beside him he pulled back. His concerned expression sealed the deal. Grant Hardy was a genuinely good guy.
    “You okay? I shouldn’t have pushed you. That was stupid of me,” he stammered.
    “I’m fine,” I panted, and waved off his concern. We jogged along in silence for a few minutes and finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and blurted, “I had an accident.”
    “No shit?”
    Ignoring his sarcastic tone, I panted, “Your turn.”
    “Uh-uh-uh,” he clicked his tongue, “you have to give me more than that, sweetheart.” He was a smooth talker, I’d give him that. Instead of focusing on how much I liked him calling me sweetheart, I thought about how much to tell him about my accident and decided to go with facts and not details.
    “Fine, I injured it in a ski accident when I was in my late teens.”
    “You ski?”
    Ignoring his surprised tone I dished his words back to him, “Uh-uh-uh, your turn.”
    He hesitated for a second and, just when I thought he was about to blow me off, he said, “Rehab was pointless.” I thought about how to respond. I wanted him to elaborate but didn’t want to push too hard. It was all about finding the perfect balance, if there was such a thing.
    “Pointless how?” I asked.
    “You ski?” he shot back at me. His dramatically quirked eyebrow made me smile.
    “I did. That is, I did until I hurt my knee,” I quickly retorted, and then repeated, “Pointless how?”
    “Rehab is pointless when you don’t have a problem.”
    “I have yet to