Beautiful Boss (Beautiful #9) - Christina Lauren Page 0,18
it here this time of morning, when the air was still cool and crisp and there were hardly any people to navigate, nothing to do but shut off my brain and move my body. Will and I had jogged these trails almost every day since that first morning, and were joined by Max and Annabel soon after the little girl was born. He claimed she slept soundly on days when he took her out for a jog, but we all knew better. Max loved these moments with his daughter and Sara loved the baby-free time she got in the morning.
Today, I heard the wheels of the stroller before I saw Max headed toward me.
“Morning, Mrs. Sumner-Bergstrom,” he said, stopping in front of me. And despite my current annoyance with Will, my stomach did a little flip at the sound of my married name.
“Morning.” My cheeks warmed as I shifted blankets around and bent to kiss the adorable baby strapped into the elaborate running stroller. “And good morning to you, Miss Anna. How is the prettiest girl in New York? How is she?”
Annabel giggled, reaching for the loose ends of my hair and tugging to bring me closer.
“Well rested,” Max said. “Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the rest of us in the house.”
I let out a dramatic gasp. “Did you wake the hungover adult up, sweet baby?” I asked her, pretending to gobble up her little foot.
Max groaned. “Up at the ruddy crack of dawn and then slept the whole way here. Happy as a clam now.”
“Well wouldn’t you be?” I said, standing. Attempting to make some sense of my hair, I smoothed the tangled strands back with my fingers and used an elastic from around my wrist to secure them on the top of my head. “She’s got someone pushing her around Central Park and catering to her every whim. We should all be so lucky.”
“I’ll agree with you there. Though I imagine William would do the same for you if you asked nicely enough.”
“Ha.” I looked to the side, out at the seemingly endless stretch of trees.
“Speaking of . . . where is your Will today?” he asked, following my gaze out into the park.
“Oh . . . he’s . . . still sleeping,” I said, making a show of dusting off my knees and turning toward the trail. I didn’t miss the edge in my voice . . . I’m sure Max didn’t, either. Will was still asleep because I wanted a chance to run without fighting the urge to push him into the reservoir. I definitely wouldn’t be mentioning that to Max.
“Still asleep,” Max repeated, clearly pleased. It didn’t take a genius to know that later today he’d be either congratulating Will or giving him epic shit.
“Ready to go?” I asked, and Max nodded, polite enough to ignore my weirdness.
We started at the USS Maine statue—Max and Anna at my side—heading down the path that led to the main loop. The trail went from a downward slope to a steady climb up Cat Hill, and I concentrated on the pounding of my feet on the ground, the whir of the stroller’s tires on the pavement next to me, all the while preparing for Harlem Hill.
Harlem Hill had always been a good barometer of the kind of day I was having. On a decent morning I could make it to the top and still manage a few curse words along the way—just enough to make Will laugh. If my week had been particularly rough, I’d push on with barely a word, brain empty of all but one thought: Run yourself into the ground.
Will knew me well enough to gauge my moods, and apparently so did Max.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Bolt,” he said from just behind me.
I’d been running—flat-out sprinting along the trail—and poor Max was struggling to stay next to me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, slowing to a walk and waiting for him to catch up. “I sort of forgot you were here. And pushing a stroller. God, I’m an asshole.”
Max waved me off and we fell into step beside each other again to cool down. “I may not be in as good of shape as whatshisname, but, Jesus, Hanna, you were running like your arse was on fire. What’s wrong?”
“I got a little lost in my head,” I said, and it was only once we slowed that I noticed the way my quads were burning, the churning of my stomach. “Ugh, I feel like I’m going