Instead, I go to the gym on the floor right below. It’s got ellipticals and treadmills, squat racks and free weights.

Raylan joins me working out so, as he puts it, “I don’t turn into a lazy ass just sittin’ around watching you work.”

The treadmills all face the bay of floor-to-ceiling workouts so you can look down over the city as you run. Raylan takes the treadmill next to mine and sets it to a steady jog, keeping pace with me easily.

I like running. Dante and I used to go for runs together in the nicer spring and summer weather. It’s getting too cold for it now.

I can go for a long time. Running suits people with slim builds. It’s easier for me to go on and on, versus someone like Dante or Raylan with more muscle. That’s a lot of weight for them to carry.

I notice that Raylan sets his pace and incline to match mine exactly. He’s probably doing it to annoy me. Or to prove something to me.

To test that theory, I turn my pace up from 6.5 to 7.2, and I increase the incline to 2%. Sure enough, he does the exact same thing, tossing me a wolfish grin.

“You can’t outrun me,” he says. “We’re right beside each other.”

“Oh, really?” I say, and I crank it up again, to 8.0 and 3%.

Raylan copies me. We’re running at a decent clip now, both of us breathing harder and getting a little red in the face.

After five more minutes, I up the speed to 8.5. Raylan does the same.

“I can go forever like this,” I tell him. That’s not exactly true, but a little psychological warfare never hurt anybody.

“So can I,” he says, winking at me.

I have to admit . . . the wink is kind of sexy.

I’ve been telling myself that Raylan is not that attractive, and definitely not my type. I have no interest in a mercenary who wears flannel shirts and takes pleasure in teasing me like an annoying older brother. I like men who are dignified and respectful. Men I can take seriously.

Despite those absolute facts, I find my eyes drifting over to Raylan and the way his t-shirt is starting to cling to his broad chest as it soaks through with sweat.

I whip my head straight again and turn up the treadmill to 9.0.

Raylan matches me stride for stride. He’s grinning at me, despite the fact that he’s breathing hard and a little drop of clear sweat is running down the side of his face.

“Really putting me through my paces, huh?” he says.

“You can stop anytime you want,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not out of breath in the slightest.

“No fuckin’ way,” he growls.

The growl sends a shiver down my spine.

To chase it away, I turn the treadmill up to 10.0.

We’re really sprinting now. I’ve got long legs, but so does Raylan. I have stamina, but apparently he does, too. Neither of us is talking now. We’re staring straight ahead, pumping our arms, both ridiculously determined not to give up.