My voice is a growl when I say, “When I was growing up, one of my friends predicted that I’d marry the first girl to put me in my place.” I’ve yet to meet that woman and the truth is, that friend was comparing me to my brother, who, until recently, was forecasted to always be a bachelor because not even a woman who could put him in his place would tolerate a world-class jerk like him.
Nope, that would be me, and proud of it too—the bachelor part, not the jerk.
He can keep that award.
“Betting is for people who have a blurry sense of objective reality.” Her voice is smoky and I detect a French accent.
Ooh la la.
However, she’s put me on the defensive. “Judgmental much?”
“No, just telling the truth.”
Despite her sharp tongue, the top of her lip is a perfect bow and the bottom is just therightamount of plump. She wears red lipstick and I’m not the type of guy who cares if I get a little on my collar.
She’s average height, but her willowy frame gives her the illusion of being taller. Despite her stature, she is every bit in command. She also moves with a feline-like grace that’s hard to ignore.
“Let me guess, you were a dancer.” A few of the cheerleaders for the team are former dancers.
“My past is none of your concern.”
“Just making small talk.”
“No, you’re trying to dominate the conversation. Identify who I am and put me in my place.” She leans over the table, plants her hands on it, and stares into my eyes. “Your objective is to conquer me.”
A long moment passes, but I prefer not to think of what I’m doing asstaring. Rather,admiring. There is nothing wrong with appreciating the fine looks of a woman, even if she is my coach for the next month, and more importantly, just called me out.
We’ll pretend that didn’t happen.
But what I can’t ignore is that she’s staring back and not at all intimidated or tripping over my brawn, fame, or what that could give her. She is not like my female fans or any of the women I’ve dated for the past half-dozen years.
When she doesn’t release me from her tractor-beam stare, I clear my throat, giving in to the impasse. “Can I have my phone?”
She holds it out of my grasp and turns it off.
I lean forward and could easily encircle her with my arms. When I was a kid, I was lanky, rangy. All arms, elbows, and knobby knees. I’ve since grown into my six and a half feet, filled out with rock-hard muscle, and am not above using it when I have to, or when I want to.
When it comes to women, that means flexing and giving them something to drool over. Without fail, that results in me getting what I want, no questions asked...and no callbacks because I like my lone wolf life; thank you very much.
She strides toward the door and sets my phone in a basket atop a small table. “We will review digital etiquette later. Until then, when in my presence, or when with anyone else for that matter, leave your phone behind or out of sight.”
“Give it back,” I order in a smooth tone, though I probably sound like a petulant child.
She inclines her head and her gaze sharpens as though shocked I’d make a demand like that.
“Don’t make me get up.”
“In this room, you obey my rules.”
I rise to my feet.
We’re close and I tower over her. She has to hinge her head back to meet my eyes.
Hers hold dark fire and I take it as a challenge.
My lips quirk with a tease, an invitation.
It isn’t that I want to frighten her. But at this proximity, I’m curious to see how she’ll react—her words tell me one thing, but I’m curious to see how her body responds. If she’s interested, the month at this school could prove to be pleasant.
