![]() ![]() ![]() Okay, not a drop of it, but if she could keep pace long enough to get her balance, she could relax the death grip of just one of her hands and smack-press, she meant press-the electronic panel of buttons on this very-very-expensive piece of leased equipment. ![]() “Oh crap!” She grabbed the padded side bars, an instinctive move purely intended to keep from face-planting on high-speed rubber, with little actual athleticism involved. “Ooof!” The belt started moving under her feet. Anyone, probably even the sunbathing mastiff, could figure out how to push a few buttons and. “I mean, how hard could it be?” A rhetorical question of course. She turned her attention forward again and stared at the electronic panel of the Jog Master 3000. “I know that look,” she called out, loud enough so he could hear her through the thermal, double-paned glass. Riley glanced through the sparkling windowpanes of the hand-stained, sliding French panel doors to the extended, multilevel tigerwood deck-complete with stargazer pergola and red cedar soaking tub-straight into a pair of familiar, sober brown eyes. Later, she would blame the whole thing on the cupcakes. ![]()
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