I clear my throat. “So does this mean we’re friends now? Or what?”
“Or what, I think.” His wink tells me he’s kidding.
I’m overheating again. Something about this office makes me sweaty. It’s stuffy and small and way too full of him.
“Well, anyway, thanks for this.” I hold up the key chain and move to get up, avoiding his eyes. “I’m feeling safer already.”
“Or you could just let me walk you,” Ben says casually. “The offer still stands.”
My heart jumps. “Oh no, you—I mean, I don’t . . .” Speak words, Kate. “I actually have plans tonight. Going out with some girls from the office. Well, some girls and Stephen,” I amend.
It’s not a lie—I actually do have plans tonight. It’s one of the girls’ birthdays and we’re taking her out for drinks. While I’d usually beg off—screaming over loud music is something I was happy to leave behind in college—I’ve decided it’s time to start putting myself out there more. I’m hardly going to meet Mr. Right if I’m home watching last night’s Shondathon.
“Ah. Well, have fun.” The way he’s eyeing me is so strange, but he sounds sincere at least.
I start to stand, then pause again. “Okay, can I just say one thing? You need to deal with this mess,” I say, motioning to his desk. “No wonder you’re stressed-out—these piles could drive the Dalai Lama to a psychotic break.”
“I find other ways to relieve stress.” His eyes on mine are so green and intense, I get flustered and have to look away.
“H-how’s that?” Smooth, Kate. Stammering like a teenager. I may as well be wearing a neon sign that says, I’M THINKING DIRTY THOUGHTS.
He eyes me strangely. “Running.”
“Running?”
“I run the Mall on weekends,” Ben says, turning back to his computer and tapping a few keys. “If you’d like to take a rematch to the streets.”
Wait, is he inviting me to run with him now? I’m getting whiplash from all the twists and turns of this conversation. I respond the only way I know how—with snark.
“Oh, you like being embarrassed? I’ll see if I can rustle up an audience this time.”
“I start at nine at the Capitol. Don’t oversleep, Goldilocks.”
I narrow my eyes at the nickname and his lips twitch. Now that I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me, though, I won’t give him the satisfaction. “I’ll think about it.”
As I turn to leave, the AC kicks on and his blinds flutter at the window. I glance over, and something about the way his eyes track mine hot-wires my brain and I pause midstep. My intuition coaxes me—pay attention—and when he subtly straightens in his chair, I know.
Could it be? All this time, I’ve never stopped to think about what Ben’s looking out on. I cross to the window and yank open his blinds.
I’m looking directly into my own office.
My window is less than fifty yards from his, my blinds wide open as if to say, Come have a look! I can see everything: my jacket hanging on the back of the chair; my FEMINISTS ARE THE MAJORITY poster propped against the window; the STOP THE DRILLING Capstone Pipeline bumper sticker tacked up on my bulletin board. I can even make out the brand of my water bottle from here. How long has he been watching me?
“You are kidding me.” It comes out in a strangled gasp.
“Took you long enough to figure it out.”
“How would I have figured it out? Your blinds are closed!” I slap my hand so hard against the glass, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
“All the better to spy on you.”
I whirl around and he’s chuckling. “This is how you’ve known what to send me.” It’s all falling into place. I’m such an idiot. “I thought you’d bugged my office. I accused Stephen of being a mole!”
“You’ve been watching too much TV. The answer was always right under your nose.”
I point at him. “You’re a cheater.”
He raises his hands in the air. “I did not cheat. Can I help it that I’m more skilled in psychological warfare? We all must utilize our God-given talents.”
“You’re worse than a cheater. You’re a peeping Tom. A peeping Ben!”
If possible, his smile grows wider. “I haven’t seen you changing your clothes, but do me a favor and give me a heads-up if you’re going to.”
I growl and smack his blinds open the rest of the way. They hit the wall with a satisfying thwack. “You’re a pervert and a cheater. These are staying open from now on.”
“Thanks, I’ve been dying to let a little light in.”
I shoot him a death glare as I spin on my heel and yank open his door.
“Nine a.m. sharp, Goldilocks!” Ben calls out behind me. “I wait for no man! Or woman!”
I flip him the bird.
Chapter 7
I spend the night tossing and turning, trying to decide if Ben’s covert activities provide just cause for standing him up—but when Saturday morning dawns uncharacteristically warm and sunny, I decide the universe must be trying to tell me something. Once I don leggings, a tank, and my Apple watch to track my run, I’m out the door.
The route Ben mentioned, the National Mall loop, spans about four miles of prime DC real estate: the Capitol Building down to the Lincoln Memorial and back up the other side, encompassing such iconic landmarks as the Washington Monument, the World War II Memorial, and a handful of Smithsonian museums. It’s a popular route for locals and beautifully scenic, especially in April when the cherry blossoms bloom.
When I arrive at the Capitol just before nine, I spot Ben immediately, stretching by the large, currently bone-dry fountain out front. I’m able to observe him for a moment undetected and the thought that springs to mind is: different. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about his easy, relaxed demeanor, the alternate environment, or maybe just the shedding of his suit feels intimidating in a new, more personal way.
He waves when he sees me approaching and I relax a little; I’d wondered if he might regret his impulsive invitation in the light of day. I’m still not sure what to think about him—are we friends or frenemies? I’m used to needing body armor in his presence, but last night, he’d been almost . . . nice? I wonder which Ben I’ll get today.
“You made it, Goldilocks. Was your sleep just right?”
In one sentence, my question is answered.
“I couldn’t resist the idea of beating you twice.”
He grins. “Easy, tiger. We’re out of the office—how about we drop our weapons for today? Just two people out for a run on a beautiful March day. What do you say?”
I shrug my assent and we set off at an easy pace, both of us quiet and getting our bearings in this unfamiliar territory outside the office. We’re not the only ones out enjoying the weather—as we jog we’re dodging other runners, bikers, strollers, and leashed dogs, but I don’t mind. The rare sun has everyone out to play, pasty legs be damned.
He breaks the silence first. “So how was your big night out last night?”
I make a face. “It was all right.”
Truth be told, it was pretty lame. Although I was part of Operation: Score Hot Men (Stephen’s working title), I spent the majority of my time talking to . . . Stephen. Not exactly a night that will make it onto my Insta stories. “How about you?”
“Watched the Caps game and fell asleep, so I’d say my night was a winner.” He nods at my watch. “What’s your pace?”
“Let me check.” I glance at my watch. “Well, look at that, it’s none of your business.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you’re so worried about me beating you, let’s sync our watches. Then we’ll know for sure who’s faster. Think about it, we could compete all day long. Who takes more steps. Who climbs more stairs. Who burns more calories.”
I eye him suspiciously. “What other information d
oes it share?”
“Not much, just your social security number. Bank account info. All the notes you’ve written about me in your diary.”
“Should be fascinating reading for you.”
His eyes spark. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t. You’d end up sobbing in the corner.”
He turns the full spotlight of his smile on me and I can’t help but smile back. Am I actually having fun? Running with Ben is like a dual workout—one for the body and one for the mind.
“That’s all right. If you’re too intimidated by me, I totally get why.” He lifts his shirtsleeve and flexes his biceps in my face. “Do you know where the weight room is?”
I catch a whiff of his skin, that enticing musk-spice mixture of sweat and male. My body hums to life like rusty machinery.
“Quoting Tommy Boy, huh? How original.”
He casts me a rare look of approval. “Look at that, you’ve surprised me. The Princess knows her comedies.”
“I was an only child. I watched a lot of TV,” I say dismissively, though I’m reminded of something I’ve been wondering. “Where did you go to school?”
“University of Virginia. And you, a Chapel Hill grad. Are you as basketball obsessed as everyone who goes there?”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “How do you know where I went to school?”
“There’s this little thing called the internet? Social media? Maybe you’ve heard of it. A rather useful tool when you’re trying to gather incriminating information on your opponent.”
How is it possible I didn’t think of this? I am the world’s worst spy. “So you Facebook-stalked me? Guess my friend request must have gotten lost in the mail.”
“I know, it’s so weird how Mark Zuckerberg hasn’t incorporated enemy requests yet. Such a missed opportunity.”
I shake my head, mildly disturbed that he has this information advantage over me.
“So what made you choose North Carolina?” he inquires as we pass by the golden dome of the Museum of Natural History.
There’s a lot of dysfunction wrapped up in that answer, so I give him the sanitized version. “I wanted to get away from Tennessee, try something new.”
“Overbearing parents?”
“Not really,” I hedge. “I just wanted to start somewhere with a clean slate. I loved all the games, the social scene. My sorority.”
He makes a face.
“What, you have something against the Greek system? I would have bet money you were a frat guy. Cocky and obnoxious. Cargo shorts and popped collars. Keg stands.” I peek over at him. “You’re very fratty.”
He looks offended. “Uh, no.”
Huh. “That surprises me. UVA is such a big Greek school.”
“I’m a nonconformist. Groupthink doesn’t interest me.”
I bark a laugh. “Says the Republican.”
“I think for myself.”
“Sure you do.”
There’s a break in conversation as we weave our way through a cluster of backpacked teenagers, and for the first time, it occurs to me how evenly matched Ben and I are. Both athletes, from the South, went to East Coast schools, doing similar jobs. I’m sure if we’d met under any other circumstances, we would have gotten along swimmingly. It’s too bad he works for the wrong side.
“Don’t you think it’s weird we never met before?” I muse aloud once we clear the crowd. “It’s not like you’re easy to miss.”
“I’m sure if we’d met, you never would have given me the time of day. Since I’m the enemy and all.” There’s something funny in his voice. He must still be bent out of shape about my elevator rant.
“Oh, please. I’m very tolerant and open-minded, especially when it comes to misguided folks like yourself.”
“Right. So open-minded, you seek out Democrats-only dating sites.”
“I did not seek out . . .” I heave a sigh. Forget it. “Whatever. We all have our deal breakers.”
“You might have deal breakers, but I have . . . sort of a reverse list. Criteria I’m looking for in a woman.”
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.” I wonder how Corinne fares on this “ideal woman” list. “Wait, let me guess. She’s tall and thin with double Ds. She stays home and does your laundry. Doesn’t talk back.”
He ignores me. “She has to be smarter than me.”
I can’t resist. “Smarter than I am, you mean?”
“Looking to throw your hat in the ring?”
His smirk tells me he set me up on that one. Damn it, I have to stop underestimating him. Those muscles are a smoke screen.
I groan inwardly. “All right, what else?”
“Mostly the things you’d expect: she has to want kids, should like to travel, have a good sense of humor, should enjoy active pursuits.” He coughs. “You know, like running.”
I give him the side-eye. “And I’m sure she’ll be a conservative,” I add, thinking of Corinne again.
“Empirical data would suggest,” he concurs. “Then there are sillier ones like . . .” He thinks for a second, then snaps his fingers. “She has to love queso. That’s a big one. Friday night with my girl, a margarita, and some queso. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?”
“Queso? As in cheese? That ranks as most important on your ‘ideal woman’ list?”
“Nah, not the most important. That’s only for me to know.” He taps his temple, something unidentifiable hooding his eyes. It’s gone in a blink. “But queso’s right up there.”
Before I have a chance to delve further into this absurdity, my watch vibrates with an incoming FaceTime call. I tap Ben’s elbow to let him know I’m stopping, then unzip the hidden pocket on my leggings and pull out my phone.
He looks bewildered. “Where on earth did your phone just come from?”
“It would be very unsafe for me to go running without my phone, Ben. I’m surprised you wouldn’t know that.” He makes a face as I shush him. “This’ll just take a second. My mom demands that we FaceTime every weekend, and if I don’t answer, she’ll assume I’m dead in a ditch.”
“Ah, so she must be aware of how you get home at night.”
I shoot him a dirty look as I answer. “Hi, Mama!”
“Katie Cat! Where are you? Show me on the screen!”
“Katie Cat!” Ben hoots behind me. Great.
“I’m out for a run on the Mall.” I flip the camera and rotate slowly to give her a panoramic view.
“It’s so beautiful,” she says wistfully. “You’re so lucky to live in such a gorgeous place. All that history!”
I shake my head, laughing—she says this every time we talk. I flip the camera back toward me, and with no warning, Ben crowds onto the screen, jamming his head on top of my shoulder.
“Mrs. Adams? How lovely to meet you. Wait, you’re Kate’s mother? You could be her sister.” If only he knew.
My mom laughs merrily, thankfully choosing not to enlighten him about the less-than-savory details of my birth. “Well, who is this? And please, call me Beverly. Or Bev!” Then she giggles. Actually giggles.
I wrench the phone away. “That’s just Ben.” I struggle to explain him, my mind cycling through the possibilities: He’s my colleague. My archenemy. The Incredible Hulk. The bane of my existence.
“He’s my running buddy,” I finally tell her. I see his features pinch in irritation out of the corner of my eye.
My mom raises an eyebrow. “A running buddy? Well, I’m so sorry to interrupt.” Her exaggerated wink could induce facial paralysis.
“Mom, stop. You’re not interrupting.” Ben smirks in my peripheral vision, and I swing the other way so I can’t see his smug mug. “Can I call you when I get home?”
“Sure, honey. I wanted to confirm some times with you before I book my ticket, but just call me later. Have fun on your
run and be safe. It was nice to meet you, Ben!” she calls out, her voice teeming with pathetic hopefulness. She’s about as subtle as a freight train.
Ben presses his face back into the nook of my neck. “It was nice to meet you too, Bev. And don’t worry about Katie Cat. I’m keeping a very close eye on her.”
He’s cackling as I hang up.
“Boy, am I glad I overheard that. Katie Cat is so much better than Princess. And think of all the iterations: Kitty Cat, Scaredy Cat, Kitten, Purrrrrincess—”
I take off running while he’s still midsentence. My watch dings with a text a minute later.
Mom: How have you not mentioned this guy?? He’s so cute!
* * *
We make a pit stop at the Lincoln Memorial water fountains, and while I’m catching my breath Ben launches into a circuit of superhuman calisthenics: running the stairs, lunges and squats, then sit-ups and push-ups—the impressive kind, with clapping in between. If I tried to do it I’d probably fracture my face, but he makes it look easy, setting a breakneck pace. He’s clearly in better shape than I am. Yet another reason to hate him.
I do some stretching of my own, but once I’m done there’s not much for me to do besides stand there and wait for him to finish. As he completes his jumping jacks with military precision, my gaze zeroes in on the sliver of stomach revealing itself on every up-clap: ripped abs, flat belly, tan skin, the lightest smattering of dark hair at his navel.
Holy smokeshow.
He abruptly stops jumping and I hastily avert my eyes—but not before he catches me.
His smile is a slow build. “See something you like?”
“Just thinking it’s amazing what steroids can do.”
“No muscles on your Donkey Dates, then?” He tsks. “Damn shame.”
“Keep that up and you’ll be swimming in the Reflecting Pool.”
“If you want me in a wet T-shirt, all you have to do is ask.”
“Pass.”
He’s chuckling as he approaches me. “Aren’t you worried you might be missing out on something?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Missing out?”
Meet You in the Middle Page 6
