“Merrr,” I mumbled and stuck my hands out in front of me, stiffly, doing my best Frankenstein impression. One more cup and I would be eighty percent functional. After I’d tossed and turned last night, replaying the great sweater demise and wrestling with the fact that Brogan wasn’t completely convinced he’d made the right choice hiring me, it was well past three by the time I fell asleep.
“Did you eat anything? That rocket fuel’s going to burn a hole through your stomach on our run.” She pushed a Tastytart (or as I deemed it “cardboardtart” in terms of flavor) across the counter, and I just stared at the foil-wrapped pastry. Off-brand food sucked when I’d been spoiled the first twenty-three years of my life. Which automatically made me feel guilty for that thought crossing my mind, because the least I could do was give up Poptarts to save money for my mom.
“Run?” I feigned ignorance. Maybe if I played dumb, she’d take mercy on me, and I could get away with not working up a sweat before heading to the office. My strategy had succeeded a total of two times, both while Zoey was recovering from a wine bender. Chances weren’t looking too good at the moment.
Her lips twitched, but she held her ground, her hand planted on her unfairly perfect hourglass waist. “I distinctly remember you promising to be my running partner this morning.”
I pointed my Tastytart at her and took a bite out of the corner. “You took unfair advantage of my wine-induced state last night.” It was cruel and unusual to ask promises from a person taking pulls directly from a box of Franzia. We kept it classy.
Even though I was currently feeling the not so pretty after effects of all that wine, I had a hard time saying no to Zoey. We’d always ran together in college, since our campus wasn’t always the safest at night and early morning, and the routine had stuck when we moved to Seattle.
“I didn’t realize my best friend would leave me to fend for myself to get abducted on the streets of Seattle and end up on an episode of Dateline. They’ll find my body parts chopped up and stored in the freezer of some guy who neighbors describe as ‘nice, but just a little off.’ Do you really want that for me?”
Good lord she was in fine form today, laying on the guilt thicker than extra-chunky peanut butter. Really, it was impressive. Sixteen more ounces of coffee and I’d be able to come up with a worthy retort. Until then, it was zombie nation up in my noggin. “Fine. One more cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.”
“Sorry, cutting you off. Can’t have you yacking all over when we run the waterfront.” She grabbed my mug and poured the rest of my coffee down the sink.
“The service in this place sucks,” I jeered. I scooted off the stool and headed toward my room to get dressed while Zoey chuckled to herself in the kitchen.
Waterfront Seattle was devoid of the usual hustle and bustle at six in the morning. Much like Portland, a lot of the active business professionals ran along the water. The November chill cut straight through my bones until we were well into our second mile along the bay.
Zoey hated running—something I never understood because she was always so excited up until the point our feet hit the pavement—and she was puffing along with short, shallow breaths.
I’d run cross-country in high school and college, and when I ran, everything fell into perspective. I hadn’t been able to get out all week because of my crazy schedule, and the twitchy desire to let off steam had become so bad that I was willing to sacrifice an extra hour of sleep for some much needed exercise.
I was contemplating my goal of finding another deal on Black Friday in a few weeks when Zoey elbowed me in the ribs. I tore out one earphone and shot her a look. “What?”
“Look at that tall, dark, and give me some of this.” She nodded toward a man running toward us, and I fumbled a few steps.
No.
Why?
Of all the spots in the city at the crack of dawn, not just any tall, hot guy was running my way. No, that would be totally awesome and fair of the universe. This man with the sweat soaked gray T-shirt, the material plastered to a set of nicely toned abs, was none other than the friendly neighborhood anti-antichrist.
A dog loped beside him, pulling at the leash to go faster. At my estimation, we’d intersect in the span of fifty steps.
Crap. I knew it was pure coincidence, running (oh, the irony) into him on a morning jog, but my personal vanity would not allow him to see me in such a disheveled pre-makeup, pre-hair-taming state.
This chance meeting could not happen—no, would not happen—if I could help it. I pushed Zoey off the paved path and into a grassy area with a few large oak trees and waist-high shrubs.