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He does one more push-up before rolling onto his back. “I thought you’d forgotten.” He’s sprawled out and panting like he just finished a round of particularly athletic sex.
“I’ve been waiting for my moment,” I say primly. “Who was she?”
“My mother’s best friend growing up. Judy.”
“And she lives in the city? Not New Jersey?”
He levers himself to sitting, and I try to avoid watching the way his muscles roll under his skin. A shadow passes over his face. “Judy has Alzheimer’s. She lived in the city with her husband before he died five years ago. Her whole family is in New Jersey, but change is hard for her. Judy has patterns here, like going to the diner every morning. I went as a favor to my mother, and I just kept going.” He shrugs, like it isn’t heart-wrenchingly wonderful that he meets her every morning.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growls.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a do-gooder.” He practically spits the word, and I have to smile.
“Is that the worst insult you can think of?”
“Yes.”
“Doing good isn’t so bad.”
“But being a do-gooder is. At least I’m honest about who I am. I don’t pretend to be a good person and do bad things secretly.”
“So, what about training me? That's a good thing.”
“Neutral at best,” he says flippantly, pulling a smile to my lips. Jonah’s humor is there, even though it’s drier than most. “I’m behind on my workouts, remember?”
“I’m not neutral at best,” I tease. My heart is thudding, and I hope he can’t see how he affects me. My face is hot, but I can’t stop smiling.
His gaze sharpens on mine. “No, you’re not,” he finally says. And damn if that isn’t the best compliment I’ve ever received.
26
Jonah
“It’s time.”
“For what?” Callie eyes me suspiciously. We’re in the gym again, on a Friday morning. She’s wearing a pink cropped T-shirt that nips in at her trim waist. I can see the top of the dimples at the base of her spine every time she turns around. They draw my eye like I’m a horny teenager.
“Sparring. But you’re going to do the punching. Not me.” We’ve been at this five mornings now, and she’s learning quickly. She’s ready for the pads.
Her eyes light up. “Hell yes.” She moves to grab her wraps and gloves, and I watch her go, helpless not to. It’s getting ridiculous. Every time she walks into my office, my body comes alive. When she leans over to give me something, I imagine running my tongue along the tops of her breasts. I’m a walking HR violation. I’ve been jerking off in the shower every morning, which might be making it worse. Last night, I actually fantasized about sweeping everything off my desk and feasting on her. And there I go again. These thin shorts won’t do much to hide an erection.
I strip off my shirt and slot my hands into the straps on the back of the pads. If I’m going to suffer, so will she. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. There’s hunger in her eyes. The bare skin does it. I think she still hates me, but she definitely doesn’t hate my body. I’m rewarded by her mouth parting as she turns, though she brings her gaze up to my face immediately.
My back is to the wall, and I bring up my hands. “Start easy, Thompson. Jab cross. Like we practiced. I’ll raise the pad I want you to hit. No defense and no other punches. Got it?”
She scrunches her nose up like she does every time I give her an order. “Yes, coach.”
“No sass. Let’s go.”
She smacks her gloves together and we begin. She’s tentative at first, like I was the first time I hit an actual person instead of a bag. It’s easier than it looks, though, and she starts to relax. She follows through with her hip on a cross, and her fist makes a satisfying thump against the foam pad.
“Good girl,” I say, and she flushes pink. Fuck. She likes it. That was a mistake. I’m too comfortable with her. “Harder. Focus.” My voice comes out gravelly.
“I am.” She throws the next cross harder. Her hair is escaping in tendrils around her face. Her plump pink lips are parted with her shallow breaths. I want to bite them.
“Harder,” I growl. “Force me back.”
