“Kate?”
I swivel as if I’ve been caught red-handed. Brandon watches me, chest heaving. He blinks a bead of sweat from his eyes, wiping his brow with a glove. We stare at each other for a long moment.
I’m tethered to the doorframe until the inky roses on his shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. His mouth turns crooked, and he finally puts me out of my misery.
“Back so soon for another lesson, Katie Cat?”
A tiny sob almost flies out at how nice he’s being, but I swallow it with a jerky nod.
His crooked grin splits into a smile, and I force myself not to run to him. The absent look in his eyes today was enough for a lifetime, and it scared me to think he may never smile at me like this again.
I trudge over, holding out my free glove like a petulant child off of time-out.
“Oh no,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even learned how to put on your gloves. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
A laugh forces its way through the hard lump in my throat. “Nope. Maybe you’re not as great a teacher as you think.”
“Or maybe you’re just a terrible student.” His dimples punctuate his hollow cheeks. “You do know that it’s almost one a.m..”
“I know. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
I study him as he eases off his own gloves. Brandon is slicked with almost as much sweat as me, but he doesn’t smell bad. If anything, whatever woodsy-scented deodorant he wears mingles with his natural scent in a concoction that’s making me re-think my life decisions.
A little voice in the back of my head laughs maniacally at my commitment to stay “friends.” I remember Brandon admitting as much over the phone before that first boxing lesson.
“The friend zone is a place neither you or I would last long in, and you know it.”
Brandon appraises me before nodding toward one of the heavy punching bags. “Let’s see what you’ve learned, smart alec.”
But my laugh catches as Brandon’s searing fingers capture my wrist. They brush the sensitive skin across my pulse point as he slides on my last glove.
Any amusement melts away as he flicks his eyes upward. The expression meeting mine is ocean deep, a current of unknown depth, before he drops his eyes to my bouncing left knee. The corner of his mouth quirks the tiniest bit. Brandon backs away, and I fight the absurd urge to stumble after him.
He nods toward the bag. “Show me what you’ve got, scaredy Kate.”
The tension snaps, and I roll my eyes.
I plant my feet in front of the bag like Brandon taught me, staggering my stance in the invisible quadrants that now live rent-free in my mind.
I send a glove flying toward the leather surface. It smacks into the bag in what I hope is a decent right-cross. The room is quiet enough that the punch sounds deafening.
“Again.” Brandon’s voice is low, practically scraping the mats toward me.
I roll my shoulders back, lift my fists, and obey.
My right glove sinks into the leather before I follow it with a jab from my left. It felt off-kilter, even more so than usual. My sense of gravity pitches and rolls, likely tied to the man behind me.
“Stop.”
His command is little more than a growl, and a delicious prickle skirts across the nape of my neck. The tiny hairs there vibrate with awareness that Brandon is suddenlymuchcloser. The heat of his chest radiates across the exposed skin between the back of my sports bra.
“Why?” I breathe, not daring to turn around.
Seconds tick past agonizingly slow in the heavy silence.
I suck in a tiny gasp as Brandon’s calloused palm wraps around the bare skin of my waist. His hand is massive, fingers curling across my stomach. Every cell stills beneath his touch.
