Free Out of Nowhere by Roan Parrish Page A

run until I’m tired. Or, depending on the day, until I’m so exhausted that I can’t run anymore.
    Today I’m taking it easy, though, because when Rafe texted to invite me to go running, I’d already gone.
    It’s kind of nice to have him by my side. Every now and then, I’ll drop the slightest bit back and get a glimpse of lean calves and thickly muscled thighs, of his broad back, sweat turning his white T-shirt translucent along his spine and in the small of his back.
    When my thighs start to burn and my knees begin to complain about two runs in one day with a bunch of kneeling on cement in between, I slow to a jog, looking to Rafe, who gives me a thumbs-up.
    I jog us back to my house, and Rafe sinks onto the porch steps, breathing heavily.
    “You’re fast,” he says, quirking that broken eyebrow at me. His thick hair is bunched into a kind of knot or something, like a ponytail that he folded in half. It should look girly—like a bun or something—but it’s just the opposite. He looks like a warrior, hair tied back for battle. When he reclines on the porch, his arms and neck shiny with sweat, his legs splayed, and closes his eyes, it takes every ounce of concentration I have left not to mold myself to him and taste the salt in the dip of his neck.
    He opens his eyes suddenly and I tear mine away so he won’t see me staring, but when I look back, his gaze is steady and he’s smiling a little.
    “What are you up to now?” he asks.
    “Nothing. Gotta feed the cat.”
    “Can I say hi?”
    “To the cat?”
    “Mmhmm,” he drawls.
    “Sure.” The second I unlock the door, Shelby’s right there, attacking Rafe’s shoelaces and making little yipping sounds as the loops flop back and forth. When Rafe squats down to pet her, I can’t look away from the straight groove of his spine and the way his shorts ride up high on his powerful thighs, dark hair dusting golden skin and tight muscle.
    “You want to watch a movie or something?” he asks as he entices Shelby to jump for his wiggling fingers.
    I clear my throat. “Um, sure. Let me just shower. You can too, if you want,” I say, trying to remember to be polite, which I’m not used to. Sam and Brian just make themselves at home, and Xavier and I have known each other too long to bother with that shit.
    “With you?”
    “What?”
    “You offering to let me shower with you?”
    “Holy shit,” I say, “did you finally make a joke?” But Rafe just raises an eyebrow.
    After my shower I tidy my already tidy house to keep myself from picturing Rafe naked in my bathroom. But I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About showering with me. Because Rafe doesn’t actually seem to ever be joking. Sometimes he says things lightly, but…. So, then, what would he have done if I said yes? Does that mean he wants to…?
    I’m standing in the middle of my floor, so paralyzed by the implications of this that I guess I didn’t even hear the shower turn off. Rafe’s suddenly right next to me and the sight of him makes my stomach tighten. Wet, his hair is nearly black, waving wildly around his face, cheekbones flushed from the run and the hot water. His gray T-shirt is threadbare and molded to his muscular chest and stomach in damp spots. His jeans are the ones he was wearing on Saturday at the workshop, and his feet are bare. He’s so intensely, unavoidably here .
    “You don’t have any shampoo,” he says, cocking his head confusedly. It makes him look kind of sweet.
    “I don’t have any hair.”
    He reaches up, ghosts a palm over my nearly dry hair.
    “It’s growing out a little,” he says.
    “Yeah, I need to cut it.”
    We get hoagies from down the street and settle on the couch. Rafe’s so big that any way I sit, I’m closer to him than I’m used to with Brian or Sam or X.
    “What do you want to watch?” I ask, flipping through the On Demand channels.
    “Oh, Runaway Jury ,” he says. “I liked that movie.” I shrug. “There’s a big trial