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After rubbing Toby’s soft ears she donned her running clothes and headed for the park. Then she saw Harvard Guy again. She instantly turned onto a side path.
Strange how familiar he seemed. There was something about his eyes that reminded her of…
Holy Cow.
Nicole stumbled and righted herself before she went down. Harvard Guy was Jordie Masters.
Jordan, she reminded herself. As a bratty neighborhood kid he’d been known as Jordie, then in high school he’d insisted on being called Jordan. Now he was a popular newspaper columnist. He’d changed a lot. She’d had no idea he lived in the Seattle area and knew there wasn’t any way he could have been at her house by accident. Nicole got a sinking feeling that he was the reporter doing the articles for PostModern.
Though she’d avoided Jordan whenever possible as a kid, she had a few vivid memories, such as when she was seven and wanted to learn how to skate. She’d put on her sister’s roller blades and started down the block, doing pretty well until Jordie had run into her. Nicole had always suspected it was deliberate. At the very least, he’d thought it was hilarious.
The resulting black eye had caused panic because she was supposed to model fancy dresses at a fashion show that weekend. They’d switched her to active wear and everyone had thought the black eye was makeup. The buyers had loved it. But after that, she wasn’t allowed to skate or bike or do anything active besides working out. Her parents had only agreed to let her take up running because it was good for her figure.
Fuming, Nicole continued her run. A black eye twenty-three years ago was unimportant, as were the other clashes they’d had as kids.
What concerned her were the articles.
Once friends, their mothers now hated each other, and except for one evening when they were in high school, Jordan had always acted as if he despised her. Obviously that was a long time ago and he might have put her out of his mind the way she’d done with him. But his columns were based on his observations and opinions and loaded with his dry wit, so the question was whether he’d changed enough to be impartial.
She shook her head, not wanting to think about it. At the moment she needed to release her tension, and she wasn’t going to let his presence in the park keep her from doing so.
Drat. There he was again, heading toward her. Determined not to let him put her on the defensive, she stepped onto a wide part of the path to let him pass. He stopped as well.
“Hi, Jordan,” she said coolly. “Cute trick, but the beard only fooled me for a while.”
“I wasn’t trying to trick you.”
“If you say so.”
He shrugged. “I’d come over to say hello since I’m doing the articles for PostModern.”
“I figured you were the one when I recognized you, but I thought you were a newspaper columnist, not a magazine writer.”
“The editor is a friend. She knows we grew up together and since I live up here, too, she asked me to do it.”
Nicole tried to remember if she’d ever heard where Jordan was living. She’d periodically read his columns and recalled that one of them had raved about tropical climes. If there had been any other indication about his home base, the information hadn’t stuck.
“Why didn’t you introduce yourself earlier, when it was obvious that I didn’t recognize you right off?” she asked.
“I planned to, but I got that phone call and you left for the hardware store.”
“Hmm.” Nicole narrowed her eyes.
It was possible it had been a simple slip-up in communication. She’d been distracted by the paint and hadn’t wanted to delay getting what she needed. Since Adam was in town helping with the agency for only a few days, she’d have less free time to work on the house after he was gone.
“Okay,” she said, deciding not to get into an argument…at the moment.
Nicole cocked her head and studied Jordan. It was hard to say how much he looked like the boy she remembered. In high school he’d had a military-style haircut, but now his dark brown hair was longish. The beard he wore was scruffy, rather than neat and trimmed. His Harvard sweatshirt was gone, and except for high-quality athletic shoes, his running clothes were on the worn side. For the most part he’d fit in with the guys who stood on a street corner with a sign, asking for money.
