“I was just going for a jog.”
I nodded. “I can see that.”
He smirked. “What with you being a detective and all that.”
“You don’t have to get nasty.”
He shrugged. “It’s what I do. It’s what wedo.”
I held out my hand. “Truce?”
He stared at the proffered appendage. He blinked. He sighed. He took my hand in his. Flesh met flesh and a million tingles shot through my arm and went boingdead center at my crotch. “Temporary ceasefire. For now.” He released my hand. “You can borrow a pair of shorts. Hurry. I have to be at work in an hour.”
“I hate jogging.”
Again, he shrugged as he let me in. “And I hate you, but what can you do?”
I laughed. I walked inside. Place hadn’t changed. Wehadn’t changed. I, of course, had changed, but only into a similarly revealing tank top and running shorts. Jeff watched me change. Jeff, in fact, pulled my shorts open and stared at my dangling willie for a few seconds. “I missed it,” he explained. “That part of you and I always got along.”