He flashed an appreciative glance down my figure. A nice glance—not a leer or an ogle. The appreciative part was good, too. After that dream, I was certainly in the mood for it. I even returned it, though more discreetly. He was wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing his muscles. Good-looking in a wholesome, athletic way, nothing to stop traffic, but enough to invite the gaze to linger…and enjoy.

He plucked at the sweat-sodden front of his T-shirt and pulled a face. “I definitely need to start doing more cardio myself. Soon, or I’ll be skipping ski season this year.”

“Cross-country or—” I stopped. “Sorry. I guess that’d be prying.”

Quinn whooped a breathless laugh. “That’s what happens when you hang out with Jack. You start thinking ‘What do you take in your coffee?’ might be too personal.”

We turned the corner, then Quinn continued, “Sure, you have to be careful, but there’s still stuff you can talk about. What are you going to do, say, ‘Hmmm, I know Jack likes James Dean movies, nachos with chicken, and Bob Dylan,’ and plug it into some national database to figure out who he really is? Even if I knew his name and social security number, what the hell would I with it?”

“If you were caught, you might find a use for it.”

“Cut a deal, you mean? Considering what he knows about me, I’d be nuts to do that. Anyway, I don’t think that telling you I like to ski is a major security violation. So, yes, I ski. Downhill, as you were about to ask. I keep meaning to try cross-country, but I never get around to it.”

“Cross-country is a good winter substitute for jogging, though it can’t beat downhill for the adrenaline rush. I always think of them as opposite ends of the spectrum. Downhill for getting the heart pumping, cross-country for relaxing.”

We crossed at the lights, nearly getting knocked down by the draft of a car whizzing around the corner.

“Cross-country’s more peaceful, I bet,” Quinn said. “Without the crowds of hot-doggers racing around you.”

“God, yes. Find a nice quiet trail through the woods, go out at night with the moonlight glistening off the snow—perfect.”

“There’s this club I go to, up in Vermont. They’ve got a trail along the river, and every year I tell myself I’m going to try it, but I can’t get my buddies off the hills…or off the snow bunnies.”

“Not many snow bunnies on the cross-country trails.”

“Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Last year, we met this group of girls. They must have blown a grand each on their outfits, but they couldn’t even lace up their boots right. We…”