“I normally do, yeah, but forgot them when I came down a few nights ago to let off steam.”
Looking down at his hand again, I’m uneasy and unsure if I should take his word for it, or if that white splint-looking bandage came from something else. Or rather,someoneelse.
But I don’t ask.
If he wants to tell me, he will.
“You okay?”
“Hurt like hell, but I’m fine.”
“No more boxing for you,” I tease.
He grins, rubbing his thumb over my ankle. “No more boxing for me.”
“There’s always yoga.” Seeing his ass in the air, taught with spandex stretched around it is a sight that would definitely turn my day around. It’d make my entire year.
“No way in hell am I squeezing into tight spandex like that.”
“Why not? You don’t like them?” I taunt, running a hand down my leg to show off my spandex clad thigh. I’m wearing a simple gray pair tonight. No daisies printed on the fabric. There’s not even an insert for my phone.
His eyes fall down my body, and slowly, inch back to my face. His tongue wets his bottom lip. “Oh, I like them. Just not on me.”
“That so?”
He smirks. “Extremely so.”
I lift my shoulder, hoping there’s not a blush coating my cheeks. Minutes ago, I was sulking, not wanting to talk to a damn soul. Now look at me. Red-faced over flirty insinuations.
“Pretty sure you could get away with wearing just about anything if you really wanted to try it,” I say more seriously,ignoring the way he just checked me out because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
“You still offering to teach me?”
“If you’re up for the challenge,” I nod at his hand. “Can your finger handle it?”
He flicks one of my toes with his good hand. “What do you think, smart ass?”
“I’m not so sure…” There I go again with the teasing. How the hell did my mood flip so rapidly?
“It can handle it,” he assures, pushing up to his feet. He extends a hand, and I take it, appreciating the way his large palm envelopes mine as he gives me a boost to my feet. He doesn’t let go but draws me closer. My heart staggers, jumping between slow and fast beats as his eyes lock with mine. “But only if you’re my teacher.”
My stomach somersaults, and it’s like standing on the shore when the ocean waters lap close and you’re waiting for the moment the cool water touches your toes. Specs of sand imprint themselves on my skin, and holy freaking hell, I’ve never been so fascinated over the tiny bite they cause. Over the fantasy of his lips brushing against mine.
His fingers sweep against the back of my hand. “Name the time and the place. I’ll be there, but there’s a stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
“Be my date for a thing my aunt is having.”
“What’s the thing?”
“A fundraiser.”
“You’re being vague. Who are we trying to fund?”
“Giving addicts a second chance.”
“Addicts? Like…” My words trail off because I’m not sure how to phrase it without it coming across offensive. That’s the last way I want it to sound or for someone to perceive me. I’m not against people getting second chances. Well, not usually.
