“Okay, lunges first,” I say.
“Perfect,” she says sweetly. “Critique my form as much as you want.”
“That sounded flirty.”
“It wasn’t,” she says innocently. “I just really want…good form. And a nice you-know-what.”
“Je ne parle pa Français.”
“Oh. So youdidunderstand me the other day.”
“I have done a little research between then and now.”
“Oh. So I inspired you to learn French, did I?”
“Always wanted to go to the south of France.”
“Oh? Not Paris?”
I swallow. “Alright. Step forward. Keep your chest up.”
She lunges.
Her balance is good.
Her core engages.
Her leggings—Jesus Christ—were engineered in a lab to end me.
“Is this good?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “Also, I noticed you ignored my France comment. Don’t think I didn’t.”
My voice breaks.
“I—uh—yes. That’s good.”
“You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Okay, do it again.”
She does.
Slow and controlled.
Too slow. Like she’s enjoying me watching her.
“Better?” she asks.
I clear my throat three times. “You’re…very strong.”
“Is that code for ‘you’re staring at my butt’?”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
“That was a joke.”
