“Now you’re just being difficult.”
“I’m being accurate. Your left arm drifted during the lift. We’ll need to drill the catch until it’s automatic.”
“My left arm was perfectly positioned.”
“It was half an inch too high.”
“Half an inch.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You measured that while inverted and moving at speed?”
“I have excellent spatial awareness.”
“You have excellent something.” He still hasn’t released me from the fish dive. My core is starting to burn from maintaining the position. “Should we try again?”
“Yes. After you put me down.”
“Why would I do that? The view from here is spectacular.”
“Mal.”
“Isadora.”
“My abs are on fire.”
“That’s what core strength is for.”
“I’m going to kick you.”
“Unlikely. You don’t have the leverage.” But he straightens, helping me back to standing. “Another run-through?”
I glare at him, and he grins.
“Fine.” I stalk back to the starting position. “But this time, keep your left arm where it belongs.”
“My left arm is deeply apologetic for its half-inch transgression.”
“Your left arm should be.”
I run. He catches me. We lift.
This time, his arm stays exactly where it should. But this time, I make the mistake of looking at his face during the descent, seeing the concentration there, his attention trained on me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters.
My breath catches, and he notices.
“Distracted?” he murmurs as he lowers me through the fish dive.
“Focused.”
“On what?”
“The technique.”
“Liar.” His mouth is very close to my ear. “Your technique is flawless. That’s not what made you stumble.”
“I didn’t stumble.”
“You hesitated. Your breath caught. Your heart rate spiked—yes, I can still feel it.” His thumb presses against my ribcage through the fabric of my leotard. “Something distracted you. I wonder what.”
“Nothing distracted me.”
