“You made it, Goldilocks. Was your sleep just right?”
In one sentence, my question is answered.
“I couldn’t resist the idea of beating you twice.”
He grins. “Easy, tiger. We’re out of the office—how about we drop our weapons for today? Just two people out for a run on a beautiful March day. What do you say?”
I shrug my assent and we set off at an easy pace, both of us quiet and getting our bearings in this unfamiliar territory outside the office. We’re not the only ones out enjoying the weather—as we jog we’re dodging other runners, bikers, strollers, and leashed dogs, but I don’t mind. The rare sun has everyone out to play, pasty legs be damned.
He breaks the silence first. “So how was your big night out last night?”
I make a face. “It was all right.”
Truth be told, it was pretty lame. Although I was part of Operation: Score Hot Men (Stephen’s working title), I spent the majority of my time talking to... Stephen. Not exactly a night that will make it onto my Insta stories. “How about you?”
“Watched the Caps game and fell asleep, so I’d say my night was a winner.” He nods at my watch. “What’s your pace?”
“Let me check.” I glance at my watch. “Well, look at that, it’s none of your business.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you’re so worried about me beating you, let’s sync our watches. Then we’ll know for sure who’s faster. Think about it, we could compete all day long. Who takes more steps. Who climbs more stairs. Who burns more calories.”
I eye him suspiciously. “What other information does it share?”
“Not much, just your social security number. Bank account info. All the notes you’ve written about me in your diary.”
“Should be fascinating reading for you.”
His eyes spark. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t. You’d end up sobbing in the corner.”
He turns the full spotlight of his smile on me and I can’t help but smile back. Am I actually havingfun? Running with Ben is like a dual workout—one for the body and one for the mind.
“That’s all right. If you’re too intimidated by me, I totally get why.” He lifts his shirtsleeve and flexes his biceps in my face. “Do you know where the weight room is?”
I catch a whiff of his skin, that enticing musk-spice mixture ofsweatandmale. My body hums to life like rusty machinery.
“QuotingTommy Boy, huh? How original.”
He casts me a rare look of approval. “Look at that, you’ve surprised me. The Princess knows her comedies.”
“I was an only child. I watched a lot of TV,” I say dismissively, though I’m reminded of something I’ve been wondering. “Where did you go to school?”
“University of Virginia. And you, a Chapel Hill grad. Are you as basketball obsessed as everyone who goes there?”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “How do you know where I went to school?”
“There’s this little thing called the internet? Social media? Maybe you’ve heard of it. A rather useful tool when you’re trying to gather incriminating information on your opponent.”
How is it possible I didn’t think of this? I am the world’s worst spy. “So you Facebook-stalked me? Guess my friend request must have gotten lost in the mail.”
“I know, it’s so weird how Mark Zuckerberg hasn’t incorporated enemy requests yet. Such a missed opportunity.”
I shake my head, mildly disturbed that he has this information advantage over me.
“So what made you choose North Carolina?” he inquires as we pass by the golden dome of the Museum of Natural History.
There’s a lot of dysfunction wrapped up in that answer, so I give him the sanitized version. “I wanted to get away from Tennessee, try something new.”
