Page 2

He wolfs down the rest of his breakfast as I tie my running shoes.
I look up. “Why the rush if your flight got pushed back?”
“I want to go running with you.”
I laugh. Because in all the times we’ve done this—which adds up to what, a dozen? Two?—he’s never gone running with me. He’s always on an early morning flight back to Florida.
“You?” I chuckle again.
He throws a small decorative pillow at me. “I run, Al. I run all the time. I run in ninety-degree heat.”
Eyeing his two suits hanging in the corner and his more casual khakis draped over the chair, I ask, “In what, exactly? Chinos and a Ralph Lauren button down?”
He shrugs. “There’s a shop downstairs. I’m sure they have something.”
“Ok, fine,” I huff, noting his still full cup of coffee. He’s a slow drinker. “Finish your coffee. I’ll run down and get something.”
“You don’t know my size.”
“Asher, I’ve had my arms around you a dozen times. I think I’ve figured it out by now.”
“Fourteen.”
I look at him oddly. “I didn’t know guy sizes were in the teens. I was thinking thirty-four waist and large shirt.”
“Impressive.” He nods. “You got it exactly right. But you said you had your arms around me a dozen times. It’s fourteen. We’ve met here fourteen times, not including the two times we hooked up at your place.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll be right back.”
I quickly leave, not knowing what to think about this new piece of information. He’s been counting the times we’ve been together? Or maybe he just knows how many trips he’s made to New York City.
Down in the hotel shop, there isn’t much to choose from. I smile when I come across a display of cheesy touristy T-shirts. I pull one out and check the size. Then I grab a pair of athleticshorts, choosing the ones with the shortest inseam. The man has nothing if not amazing thighs.
Back in the room, Asher is coming out of the bathroom with freshly washed hair.
“Most people prefer to showerafterthey run,” I say, shoving the bag at him.
“Most people didn’t have their head between the legs of a beautiful naked woman half the night.”
I put my hands on my hips, pouting. “Are you saying I smell bad?”
“I’m saying I don’t need to get a whiff of you when we’re running and end up with a hard-on in the middle of Central Park.”
I giggle at the thought. Especially considering the thin running shorts he’s about to be wearing.
He rummages through the bag and pulls out the shirt. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Pickings were slim.”
He shakes his head in mock disgust but slips on the shirt anyway. It’s now when I realize this man could make anything look good. Even a T-shirt emblazoned with a huge red apple with a bite taken out of one side.
Shedding the towel around his waist, he pulls on a pair of light-gray boxer briefs and then the running shorts. He looks down at himself. “I thought you said you knew my size. Allie, my legs are way too long for these.”
“I know your size, Asher.” I walk around him in admiration, then I pinch one of his butt cheeks.
Deep rumbles of masculine laughter bellow out of him. “Okay, Montana. But just know, payback can be hell.”
“Do your worst, Mr. President.”