Something flapped in the corner of my eye, distracting in the gym, like the wings of a flesh-colored dove. It was a hand. I almost missed a step in my run. Scowling, I planted my feet on the treadmill boards and popped out the buds from my ears.
"Hi."
The hand belonged to a guy. A cute guy. Killer cheekbones and Cupid's bow lips, longish, wavy hair. On the treadmill next to mine. Looking chipper and fresh with a fine sheen of sweat at 6:30 in the Monday morning.
Wait. Working out at ass o'clock was my thing. In the eight months since I'd moved into St. Tropez Court, I'd never encountered anyone using the gym at the same time as I did. Which I preferred.
"What's your best time?" he asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"How fast can you run a kilometer?"
It was a strange thing to be asked at ass o'clock, but whatever. "About five minutes."
He frowned at his machine, giving me a moment to study him. He was tall and lean, muscles flowing elegantly from a racing singlet and aqua fitness shorts. The singlet was a souvenir from last year's Urban Destroyer marathon, in which I'd finished 18th in my age group.
"I think my best time's 4.45," he said.
"Road or terrain?"
"Road," he laughed.
"Good for you." I moved to tuck my earbuds back and resume cardio, but he let out a 'Het-et-et-et' that made me stop and stare. "What the heck was that?"
He blushed. "Wait––"
He looked at my chest, realized what he was doing, glanced at my face. My expression made turned his face horror-struck, which made me burst out laughing.
"If this is a pick-up attempt, I'm sorry to say but it's very poor," I said.
He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, I didn't mean to come off so creepy. My name's Kiko. Kiko Trinidad."
"Jane Adriano." I shook his offered palm.
"I wasn't checking you out, really. I mean, in that way."
"So... you were checking me out, but in a different way?"
"No––I mean––Like, you're––" He coughed and scratched his neck. "Never mind. I just noticed your Takbo Para sa Ilog jersey and figured you were a runner, like me. I'm new here. Trying to make friends."
"Ah, an extrovert."
"Is that weird?"
"Been here eight months and all I know is Kuya Gibby, the morning gym instructor, and Mang Bart the handyman." I was quite proud of that.
"Ah, an introvert."
I nodded. "Incidentally, this is my time to use the gym. 6:00 to 7:15AM, before I get breakfast and go to work, and before the 8AM Zumba class––which, I have to warn you, neighbor to neighbor, is kind of like a wildebeest stampede." I crossed my arms. "What I'm saying is that you're in my turf, Kiko."
His mouth tipped up at the corner in a playful, almost feline grin. "My energy is at its peak in the mornings, so I don't know what to tell you, Jane."
The looping treadmill belt caught my attention. "First person to finish one kilometer gives the other a thirty-minute head start at the gym tomorrow?"
He shook his head. "Don't you exercise before work? Is your boss going to be okay with you coming in thirty minutes later?"
"Ooh, cocky. I like that. Just don't cry when I wipe the floor with your best time."
He let out a peal of laughter. "Listen. I'll call your bet, but let's adjust the terms. Winner buys breakfast."
"Oho, scared, are you?" I gave my best game face, but he was right––I couldn't afford to be thirty minutes late at work, just in case he beat me. Breakfast was a pleasant compromise.
"Nope, just hungry." He was still grinning like a cat that had gotten away with stealing a jug of cream.
I stretched out my hand. Hegrabbed it. "You're on."