Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

12. Miles

Chapter 12

Miles

I can’t stand fighting. Arguments make me uncomfortable, and physical altercations are even worse. And yet, here I am, throwing punches at Owen like we do every week, pretending to fist fight as a means of exercise. I make no sense.

On so many levels.

As averse as I am to confrontation, I do try to keep an open mind, so I didn’t immediately shut him down when he first invited me to the gym. It seemed like a big concession at the time. I’ve never been very athletic, and most team sports are beyond my interests or abilities. But eventually, he got me in here, and it turns out I kind of like throwing punches. In a fake, completely controlled way.

I wouldn’t say I’m skilled at it, and I’d never want to have to translate this into an actual scuffle, but I enjoy our weekly training sessions. We’ve been doing this for over a year now, and I have enough muscle memory for the moves that most of my brain goes offline and my body reacts on instinct while we spar. It’s a nice antidote to overthinking.

Usually.

Tonight, not even the threat of one of Owen’s jabs can keep me focused. I’m stuck on my afternoon with Georgia a few days ago. How close we were. Her soft little touches. The mystery of whatever she stopped herself from asking me.

The tantalizing question of whether she’d ever allow me to touch her the same way.

A sharp smack to the shoulder brings me back into the present.

“You’re not paying attention,” Owen barks. “Do you want me to drop the mitts and find your focus?”

That’s the other thing that keeps our sparring enjoyable—the punches only fly in one direction.

I land a hit on his right mitt. “Your threats aren’t as motivating as you think.”

“You’re concentrating again. My methods work.”

We spar for a while longer, and I manage to keep my mind from zeroing back in on Georgia. More or less.

When we finish up, we take off our gear and sit on a bench along one wall of the gym. It’s a bright, clean space that’s found a mix of clientele. On any given night, you’re just as likely to find a burly, tattooed man decimating a punching bag—ahem, Owen—as a mother of three moving in sync with a trainer.

“Do I need to ask what’s distracting you tonight?” he asks. “Or should I say, who ?”

I drain half my water bottle, breathing hard from the exertion. “You don’t need to ask.”

Owen nods. “What happened?”

A group class works through their moves in the center of the gym, but they’re far enough away I’m not concerned about being overheard.

“We had a…moment.”

He laughs. “That’s nice and vague.”

I don’t want to be more specific. Those few minutes were mine alone. “It wasn’t anything, but it was everything.”

“Huh. You’re sure you’re a writer?”

I exhale a laugh, unsure how to explain. “It gave me a stunning amount of hope. That’s all I can say.”

A hope I’ve been clinging to for days now.

He runs one hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Can I ask exactly what you’re waiting for? I mean, I get it, you don’t want to ruin your friendship. It’s hard to risk, all the rest. But do you ever think you’re waiting for her to pass a test she doesn’t know she’s taking?”

“It’s not like that.” I don’t like the implication I think Georgia’s failing at something. I’m not testing her. If anything, I’m testing myself. “She has solid reasons for being wary of relationships. Family stuff. I can’t force her to work through that on my timeline.”

“And?”

Owen’s quiet but perceptive. He sees a lot more than he lets on. Which can be surprisingly annoying when you’re used to cruising under the radar like I am.

“And…I don’t want to be that friend-zoned guy who’s only waiting around for her to change her mind and date him. I value our friendship for what it is now. I love being around her even if nothing romantic ever develops between us. I don’t want to make her question my motives or think our entire friendship was a lie because I was hoping for more.”

It would rip me to shreds if she discounted the last few years because of my feelings for her.

“I get that. But you are hoping for more.”

I sag against the brick wall. “It’s kind of a Catch-22.”

“I think she’ll know the difference between you and the type of guy who abandons the friendship the minute he’s rejected.”

I would love to believe so. “Except proving that theory requires getting rejected. ”

“Right. That part’s tricky.”

We drink our waters, listening to the rhythmic thumping as the class moves through their strike routine. It’s louder than I like, but it almost becomes white noise in my head.

“On the bright side, you took an apple for her. That’s got to prove something.” Owen smirks beneath his thick beard.

“All right. You already had your laugh about it.” For a full five minutes when I showed up tonight. Such a good friend.

“When you inevitably tell the story about the apple around town, don’t mention that I train you. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’m sure that will be people’s first question. ‘But who’s your trainer?’”

“Exactly my point. ‘Shouldn’t Owen have prepared you for fruit-related dangers?’ I don’t want to deal with the gossip.”

I laugh, but it’s not really a joke. People will ask about the fist-like bruise on my face. And if they don’t ask me directly, they’ll at least talk. Clearly, I can’t go see my aunt at Hair and Now until it’s completely healed.

“Will you be at Fiesta Village tomorrow night for games?” I ask.

He nods. “Wouldn’t miss it. Grams says it’s her favorite part of the week. That was a really good idea you had.”

I shrug it off. It wasn’t that difficult to find volunteers—spending a couple of hours every other week at one of the local retirement complexes playing board games isn’t a hardship. I’m just glad they scheduled game nights during the evening after Dogeared is closed so I can join in.

Even if, lately, I don’t have a whole lot of time to spare for games no matter the time of day.

“They like visitors and new activities. Maybe you could teach the residents how to kick box.”

I’m teasing, but some of Fiesta Village’s residents would probably take him up on it. Feistiness is the name of the game over there.

“I don’t know if I could handle them.” He chugs the last of his water and gives me a look. “Any news on the setup front?”

“The first one was not a love connection. Georgia’s still looking for date number two.”

He shakes his head at me.

With all the apple-related excitement at the Harvest Festival, Georgia didn’t have a chance to ask me more questions as my wingwoman. It’s unlikely the reprieve will last, but I remain optimistic. “Maybe she won’t come up with anyone and we’ll coast through until the end of October. Then I’ll just take her as my date.”

A man can dream.

“That doesn’t sound like the tenacious woman you’ve described to me.”

No, it does not. “If I know Georgia, she’ll have another date set up before the next week is out.”

“This is a weird mess to be in, man.”

I’m well aware.