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With This Man (This Man, #4) by Jodi Ellen Malpas Read Online (FREE)

This Man (This Man, #1) by Jodi Ellen Malpas Read Online

Read With This Man (This Man, #4) by Jodi Ellen Malpas full novel online for free here.

Chapter 1

 

The pounding of my feet on the treadmill is rhythmic and comforting. The sound of Imagine Dragons’ “Believer” on my iPhone is muffled by the pulse throbbing in my ears. The hammering of my heart tells me I’m alive. Not that I need to run until I can’t feel my legs to achieve that anymore.

My pace increases, my breath beginning to become labored as my run turns into a sprint. Sweat is pouring down my bare chest as I watch the clock across the gym, eyeing the second hand slowly roll around the dial. Two more minutes. Keep the pace for two more minutes.

Yet when the time has ticked down and the machine automatically starts to slow, my legs do not. I smack my hand on the plus button to increase the pace again, my ego refusing to let me stop just yet. One more mile. I crank up the volume and sprint on for a while longer, pushing air steadily through my nose, roughly wiping away the sweat rolling down my forehead. Glancing down at the screen on the treadmill, I note my distance. Fifteen miles. Done.

I slam my fist on the button and let the machine work me down to a gentle jog, yanking the buds out of my ears and grabbing my T-shirt to wipe my wet face.

“You did it faster yesterday, you stubborn motherfucker.”

My feet slow to a stop and I brace my hands on the handles, dropping my head while I work to level out my breathing. “Fuck you,” I manage to wheeze, turning to face one of my oldest friends. John’s shit-eating grin, the one that displays his gold tooth to its fullest, makes me want to knock it out.

He chuckles, low and rumbling, throwing a towel at my chest. “Still not come to terms with it, then?”

Stepping down off the treadmill, I wipe my soaked chest before shoving the towel back at him. “No idea what you’re on about.” I’m lying. I know exactly what the bastard is on about, and I’m sick to fucking death of being wound up about it. I’m not even sure how it’s happened—where the time has gone. Because, Lord help me, I’m fifty this weekend. Fifty fucking years old. My ego is dented more each time I think about it.

I make my way over to the water cooler, John following behind.

“Fifty suits you.”

I roll my eyes as I grab a cup and shove it under the tap. “Did you want something?”

Another mild chuckle sounds from behind me as I glug down the water and turn to face the smug bastard. I don’t know what he’s so tickled pink about. John’s knocking on sixty, though you’d never know it. He’s still in prime shape, not that I’d ever tell him so.

“The new weight machines are arriving later.”