“Just got lucky,” he adds with a quick smile, like both of us are having a normal conversation in which one of us is not imagining the other naked. “Seriously though, what in the hell are you wearing?” He doesn’t bother to hide a long, slow perusal of my leggings-clad legs.
“Joy,” I reply drily, because he’s totally poking fun at me. “I’m wearing joy.” And a zebra on my ass, if I recall the print placement on this pair of leggings correctly. They’re Lilly Pulitzer and sure, they’re a little bright, but a bit of pink never hurt anyone. Besides, the bold prints do a lot to camouflage imperfections. Win-win.
“Joy,” he repeats back as the light finally changes and we cross the street. I take a deep breath as we pass Dunkin’, hoping for a secondhand sugar rush. No luck. Resigned, I kick up my speed until I’m back to my regular jogging pace. Warren falls into place beside me, so I guess we’re a fake couple who jogs together now.
“I’m probably going to slow you down, if you want to go ahead,” I offer once we reach the entrance to Washington Park.
“Nah, I’m good.”
We jog in silence while Warren thinks about the state budget and I think about having sex with him. I know this is true because I ask him what he’s thinking about and I already know what I’m thinking about.
Total waste of a jog. Fitness, blah blah. I only went on this jog in order to take my mind off of Warren Russo. And now I’m jogging with Warren Russo. Which only gives me the opportunity to sneak glances at him and admire the way he looks in that t-shirt and listen to him breathe and—yeah, fine, that last one was weird.
Total. Waste.
I’m sweating for no good reason. And not for nothing, but I could think of a few good reasons for sweating, because they’re still imprinted in my brain from my sex dream.
I groan.
“You okay?” Warren glances at me.
“Yup.” I nod my head. “Stubbed my toe.”
“Without breaking stride?”
“I’m an accomplished stubber.” That made perfect sense. I groan again and slap my palm against my forehead for good measure. “Oh, wait!” I come to an abrupt stop and eye the flower bed a few feet off the paved running trail. “One second.” I count the steps from the trash can to the flower bed and then two feet in. Humph.
“Did you lose something?” Warren asks from behind me.
“Do you think a mouse would be happy here? It’s a pretty good spot, right?” I gesture at the flower bed and the nearby trash can. “A place to hide, a food source.”
“I suppose so.” Warren shrugs and I try not to notice that someone clearly works out between legislative sessions. “Unless it got eaten by a coyote,” he adds.
“What is wrong with you?” I gasp.
“Was that the wrong answer?” He’s looking at me like I’m insane, which, fine. Fair point.
“Why are coyotes even allowed in the park?” Oh, my God. I’m a monster. I thought I was rehoming the mouse in an idyllic park setting and instead I’ve dropped him off in the Wild West to fend for himself. I crouch down to see if the half-apple I left him with is still here. It’s gone. That’s good, right? He probably ate and then moved on. Probably met a girl mouse and found a little tree stump to live in.
“Do you think a mouse could carry half an apple?” I ask as I turn and rejoin him on the jogging path.
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.” I roll my eyes in exasperation. “Yes, honestly,” I add a bit testily as we pick up our jog.
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? You know everything.”
“Do I?”
“Well, I’ve never once heard you reply ‘I don’t know’ during a press conference. You always have a thoughtful and thorough answer like ‘Yes, reporter, a mouse can carry three times its body weight due to having an extraordinary strength-to-weight ratio.’ Then you’d add a sports metaphor about some baseball player who died forty years ago.”
“Would I?” His voice is teasing and I risk a glance in his direction.
“You would.”
“Well then, I’ll have to circle back to you with an answer on that.”
“See that you do,” I retort with all the seriousness that a woman can when talking about the wellbeing of a mouse. “And do something about the coyotes while you’re at it. They’re obviously a menace.”
“For mice,” Warren clarifies.
“Right.”
“Should I take care of the