Running, Josie style, from It's Complicated

And, as promised, an excerpt:

She could hear the smile in his words as he said, “Want to come over? We can have a glass of wine here and then go for a walk.”

“We will never get to the actual walk part, Alex, if I come over.”

“And that would be a problem because...?”

“Because you invited me for a walk!”

“Then I am uninviting you. There. You are not invited for a walk. Come over for a glass of wine instead. 34 Windsor. C'mon.”

“You really do live close to me!” By her calculations, his apartment was about two blocks away.

“I know. If I squint and get a pair of u-bend binoculars and angle seven mirrors with SETI-like precision, I still can't see in your bedroom window.”

Silly. She needed silly right now. Silly drove her mother's acidity away. “Bummer,” she replied, yawning.

“You tired?” he asked. The sound of ice cracking filled the phone, then water pouring. “I have a bed you could sleep on.”

“If I'm in your bed, sleep is the last thing we'd do.”

“Yes, it is. The last thing after plenty of others.”

Was this an invitation for sex and for an overnight? Could Dr. Perfect be calling in a booty call? Or had the relationship shifted, a casual approach to dating evolving into a more relaxed way of meeting up?

“On the count of three,” she said.

“Oh, God, I have to chase you again, don't I?” he groaned. “Let me put on my shoes.”

“On the count of three,” she repeated, “let's run and see where we meet.”

“You're not wearing panties, are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I meant only panties.”

“No. Why?”

“Because the last time you sprinted away from me, that's how you were dressed. Now – GO!” Click. He hadn't waited for her count of three! Completely unnerved, yet tremendously excited, she ran to the front door, grabbing her keys off a hook next to the door, sliding her feet into crocs. Josie ran with about as much grace as a zombie in a 5K run. Only slower. Alex was practically at her doorstep by the time they met in the “middle.”

“Half a block? That's the best you could do?” he asked, laughing. She wore a short camisole that was a bit tight, stretched taut against her belly. He patted it, palm flat against her ribs and navel, the gesture affectionate and thrilling. “You have a runner's body,” he said, his face screwed up in a puzzled expression as she glared at him. “Don't you run?”

“Only when the ice cream truck passes by.”