The Foxe & the Hound

I have a tiny refrigerator, like half the size of a normal one. I’d complain to Mr. Hall about it, but y’know, beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, I make do. I shove all my food inside of it and carefully stack it in a way that it doesn’t come tumbling down if I open the door slowly enough.

Adam, of course, didn’t think to do that, and now he’s bent over picking up my yogurt and apples.

“It’s a small fridge,” I offer lamely as I try to help.

“Yeah, sorry, I was trying to get some water and didn’t think to prepare myself for an avalanche.”

I look up to find him smiling.

“Are you mocking me?”

“I feel like someone has to. The amount of accidents that happen to you on a daily basis must break some kind of Guinness World Record.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I stand and start shoving food back into the fridge before I hand him the water pitcher.

“There you go, Mr. Hydration. Have as much as you want.”

He accepts the glass I hand him and then leans back against the counter. I lean back against the opposite one, and my galley kitchen feels small with him inside of it. I mean, it always feels small, but now it feels microscopic. If I reached my foot out just a little, I’d bump his shoes. I wonder what he thinks. He’s probably used to something a little more spacious, more up to date. My appliances are from the stone ages, and the dishwasher, though intact, doesn’t even work. I store my winter clothes in it because I’m resourceful like that.

“You can come running with us if you want.”

I refocus my attention on his face, having just stared at his legs for the last thirty seconds. Have I ever cared about a man’s legs before?

Adam is smiling, mocking me still.

“I’d rather get stuck on a deserted island with Lori.”

He laughs.

“Not much of a runner?”

“My brother got the running genes. I got—”

“The clumsy genes.”

I smirk. “Exactly.”

He finishes off his water and turns to open the dishwasher. This time, I react fast enough to stop him.

“Oh! No worries,” I say, retrieving the glass from his hand. “I hand wash everything.”

Mouse goes crazy once I grab his leash. Adam hooks it to his collar and then salutes me on his way out the door, promising not to be gone too long. I close the door after them, press my back to the door, and then slowly, my gaze falls on the one thing I forgot to clean: my dirty clothes hamper in the middle of the living room. It was in plain view for Adam, and sitting right on top is a sheer pale pink bra I bought ages ago and only pull out when I have no other options. It only takes a second for me to calculate the odds of Adam having seen it—100%. Perfect. Now he probably thinks I put the hamper out there on purpose, like I’m trying to seduce him with my delicates. I groan and carry the hamper into my bedroom then force myself to pull up a workout video on YouTube. It’s either that or continue to clean; I can’t watch TV while Adam is out exercising my dog. It feels wrong.

By the time he knocks on my door 45 minutes later, I’m lying in a heap on my floor, sweating and refusing to stand.

The yoga video I picked was called Intermediate Yoga, or so I thought. A quick check after I’ve finished proves that I read it wrong. Insanity Yoga is listed in the description box, which, to me, seems like an oxymoron.

Adam knocks again and I know I have to get up off the floor. I try to move my legs, but they don’t budge. I groan and try again, forcing myself to get up. Every step to the door is painful, and my forearm burns as I turn the handle.

Adam, bless him, looks like a sweaty God on my doorstep with his t-shirt clinging to his chest and arms. Mouse stands beside him, panting and happy as a clam.

“Looks like you two had fun,” I say, opening the door wide enough for them to step through.

“Did you just take a shower?” he asks, amused by my current state, no doubt.

“Insane yoga,” I whisper on a pained breath.

He laughs. “Sounds like you should have just come running with us.”

He unhooks the leash and Mouse takes off for his water bowl. I limp into the kitchen and pour Adam another glass of water then get one for myself as well. We’re back to standing across from each other in the tiny space, just like earlier, except now we’re both dripping with sweat and I think I need to tell Mr. Hall the air conditioning in my unit is on the fritz again because the air is hot, stagnant.

Neither one of us talks as we finish our water, and I’m not brave enough to meet his eyes. Instead, I focus on Mouse, who laps up water from his bowl and then plops down right between us.

“Was he a good running partner?” I ask Adam.

“Terrible at first, but after the first mile, he seemed to get the hang of it.”

I smile down at my dog. “Hear that Mouse? You were only terrible at first. That’s progress!”

Mouse wags his tail.

Adam laughs and I brave a glance up to him. He’s watching me—studying me, more like. I want to smooth my hand over my hair. Fix my ponytail. Tug my tank top up a bit. I think it shifted while I was working out and I can’t be sure, but I think I’m now rocking a little more cleavage than is appropriate. But, if I adjust my tank top, I’ll be drawing more attention to my breasts, and that won’t do. After the sheer bra fiasco, I’m trying to convince Adam I’m not desperately trying to seduce him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, tilting his head.

That damn smile is there. So confident. So appealing.

I look away. “What? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your eyes almost looked like you were…”

Turned on?!

“Bored,” I quip, moving around him to drop my cup in the sink. We need to move out of my kitchen. I’ve never thought so before, but it’s basically a muggy sex den. Such a confined space, with all those pots and pans and spatulas…I shiver.

Adam’s phone rings and I tell him to take the call, but he shakes his head.

“It’s not a call, it’s a reminder I set a week ago to alert me about a chamber of commerce meeting I have to attend tonight.”

“When is it?”

“In 20 minutes. Shit.”

He probably doesn’t have time to go home and change.

“I still have my work clothes in my car…” he says, thinking out loud. Then his gaze drags to my bathroom, and I catch on after an awkward amount of time.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, do you want to shower here?”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to intrude. I just completely forgot about this thing—”

I wave away his concerns. “No, you aren’t intruding. You just exercised my crazy dog! The least I can do is let you shower.”

He thanks me and runs out to his car for his clothes. I use the thirty seconds to scramble around and confirm that nothing embarrassing is left in my shower. When he walks back in, I’ve just finished hiding my bikini trimmer. I whip around and smile.

“Sorry, I don’t have any manly shower products. You’re going to end up smelling like lavender.”

R. S. Grey's books