The Next Mrs Russo

I give the governor’s mansion a cursory glance as I head in the opposite direction down Eagle headed for Madison. Normally I’d head over to Lincoln Park and do several laps around the perimeter of the park, but I need to exert way more energy than that, so Washington Park it is.

I’m halfway down Madison when I feel someone fall in place beside me.

Oh, come on.

Of course it’s Warren Russo. Ruining the jog that I had to take to burn through all the sexual tension he caused me last night.

Yeah, yeah, it was a dream. He’s still responsible.

“You’re out early,” he comments as he waits for the crosswalk at the intersection where Madison and Lark intersect, allowing us to cross. I glance longingly at the Dunkin’ across the street and contemplate ditching the jog right now to self-medicate with donut holes instead.

Probably a bad idea.

Besides, he already caught me jogging. I can’t very well detour into a donut shop now as if I got dressed like this just to run around the corner for donuts.

“Yeah,” I agree with an exhale, turning to face him while we wait. It’s a bad idea. Looking at him. He’s in navy running pants and a gray t-shirt with a New York Port Authority emblem across his chest. I drag my gaze up and my thighs burn at the dream memory of his beard scraping against them last night, the images of his head between my thighs popping back into my mind clear as day. Bad. Idea.

“Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not!” I object, whirling around to punch the crosswalk button with my fingertip. The more you punch it, the faster the light changes. “I’m just sweaty.” I cross my arms across my chest to keep myself from tapping the crosswalk again and risk a glance back at him in time to catch him dragging his eyes away from my spandex-clad ass.

Hmm.

“Those pants are something,” he comments, lifting his brows as he tilts his head a fraction in their direction. The added hint of a smirk confuses the hell out of me.

Is he making fun of my pants or appreciating how good my butt looks in them?

“Are you stalking me?” I deflect for lack of a better idea. He really is ruining the entire point of this jog.

“Nah.” He shakes his head with an indifferent shrug, stretching his arms as he does so. The movement raises the hem of his shirt just enough for me to get a glimpse of his abs and all directions to my brain to think about anything but sex are interrupted. “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.