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“Oh? And what is it?” I ask, genuinely curious. For such an accomplished woman, I’m guessing it’s something seriously impressive like climb Mount Kilimanjaro or dive the Great Barrier Reef.
She scoots closer, her green eyes sparkling, and murmurs in a conspiratorial tone, “Go on a date with Ethan Delaney.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
The next morning, I open my eyes to find Whiskers coiled in the crook of my neck, purring contentedly. Holding my breath, I slip out of bed, trying not to disturb her, but as soon as my feet touch the floor, she bolts awake and bounces off the edge of the mattress to follow me.
Lacking typical catlike grace, she tumbles to the ground like an action movie stunt double, and I scoop her into my arms. “Are you okay?”
She licks my face, clearly unscathed.
I carry her into the kitchen where I’m hoping to catch Brynn before she leaves for work. She’d returned from the bathroom during brunch yesterday back to her normal self, but I still feel the urge to apologize and offer an explanation, although I’m not sure I have one.
But instead of Brynn, I spot Ethan by the sink, guzzling a glass of water in head-to-toe running gear.
“Morning.” He smiles when he sees me, making my stomach do that strange little flutter again.
“You still run?” I ask, recalling his cross-country days.
“Every weekday. Do you?”
I bark out a laugh. “Only if I’m chasing a taco truck.”
“That is a worthy reason,” he says with a chuckle. “But you should try it sometime. It helps clear my mind in the morning. And if I’m mulling over a problem from the day before, a solution usually pops into my head.”
For a moment, I wonder if it would help me come up with a slogan for the energy drink campaign, which has been stubbornly alluding me, but I quickly dismiss the idea. I’ve loathed running ever since my fifth-grade gym teacher used the mile run as a punishment for the losers whenever we did team sports. Let’s just say I’ve run enough laps to last me a lifetime.
“C’mon, Wilson. Let’s go,” Ethan calls, grabbing the dog’s leash off the hook by the door. “I’m going to take him to use the bathroom before I head out on my run. I tried to take him with me once, but never again. He stopped so many times to sniff things, he gave me whiplash.”
The loveable furball bounds down the hall and slides to a stop by Ethan’s feet, wagging his entire backside in eagerness. I wish Whiskers would be that excited to use the bathroom. She’s had several accidents since I brought her home. I can’t for the life of me convince her to use the litter box, not that I blame her.
She wriggles in my arms, and as I glance down at her adorable, entreating face, a thought hits me. “Can we join you?”
He gives me a funny look, like he can’t fathom why, but says, “Sure.”
I throw on my shearling coat and slip into Brynn’s chunky “popping out for a quick coffee” boots and follow Ethan and Wilson to a serene courtyard behind the apartment building. There’s a small community garden and a fenced-in dog run, which is where Ethan lets Wilson off his leash.
He happily does his business, and Whiskers continues to squirm in my arms. Curious, I set her down on the grass. She immediately prances after Wilson, and squats to relieve herself behind the same bush.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Ethan says while I shower Whiskers with praise as she scampers back to me. “Don’t most cats use a litter box?”
“Most cats aren’t as special as this one.” Unabashedly proud, I nuzzle her cheek with the tip of my nose.
When we return to the apartment, the unlikely pair trot into the living room to play with one of Wilson’s chew toys.
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Ethan asks, tugging a beanie over his ears. “Central Park is pretty peaceful this early in the morning.”
“Thanks, but I signed up for the Big Manhattan Marathon as part of my Christmas Commitments list, so that’s enough running for me for the next fifty years or so.” I remove the canister of coffee beans from the cupboard, wondering if I can figure out the French press I saw Brynn use yesterday. It made the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.
Ethan stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. “Wait, that’s the first weekend in April, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’s a marathon?”
“Yep.”
“Which is over twenty-six miles.”
