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“You don’t have to be a gymnast. It’s more about confidence than anything else.”
My face must have turned skeptical, because he pointed a finger at the corners of my mouth and said, “See, that right there, that’s not confidence. You’ve got to be absolutely positive that you’ll land the flip before you even try it.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Neither does kicking a tiny ball around a huge field for imaginary points, but we both still love soccer.”
I laughed, “Okay you’ve got me there.” I stood up and walked to the center of the clearing, near where Simon was still casually lounging. “Where do I begin?”
“Well,” he replied, “I begin by taking off this shirt, because it’s too sweaty.”
My breath caught in my throat as he did, sure enough, strip off his shirt to reveal that gorgeous tatted chest. If I didn’t start talking, and soon, my eyes would trace that chest for ever and ever.
“Simon?”
“Yes?”
“What do your tattoos mean?” I asked, unsure if the question made me sound young and stupid.
Instead, his face lit up, as though this was a subject he cared about.
“I don’t usually tell people,” he began, “but for you, I’ll make an exception. Each tattoo is a representation of something I hold dear to me.”
He crooked his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I was only too happy to oblige.
“This,” he said, pointing at a series of larger black and white waves, “is inspired by The Great Wave off Kanagawa. It’s for my mum, because she loves the ocean.”
He ran his finger to another, and I leaned in to see almost draft paper outlines of a handful of buildings.
Simon continued, “This is for the place I grew up. It’s called the Towers. All my mates have the same one.”
My earlier thought about his tattoos finally made sense, my idea that, though they weren’t all by the same artist, or even in the same style, they were interconnected because each was a part of his story. Simon had mapped his life onto his body, the almost literal equivalent of wearing his heart on his sleeve.
“They’re beautiful,” I murmured.
He pulled his focus from the tattoos and, seeming to remember that we were there to train, put that attention on me.
“Thanks,” he said briskly. “Now, back to this front flip…”
I moved away from his chest — reluctantly, I might add — and concentrated once more on nailing this move.
“So,” he continued, “We begin with—”
“With taking off our shirts, I know.” With a laugh, I slipped off my own shirt, revealing a push-up heather gray sports bra — okay, I’d put a little thought into what I wore this morning. Could he see my heart pounding in my chest?
“You don’t have to take off your shirt, I was just sweaty.”
I shrugged. “Me too.”
What? I was sweaty.
Okay, and a little horny.
Simon gave me a sly look, like he suspected the truth, but gamely said nothing. That was generous of him.
I deposited my shirt on the ground, right alongside his, and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
The edges of his lips resisted a full smile as he replied, “I can see that. All right. Like I was saying, we’ll begin by having you watch me do the flip. I’ll try to slow it down for you, break it into steps. Yeah?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“Let’s start by working on a handstand. Can you do one of those?”
I considered this for a moment, then shook my head ‘no.’
“That’s all right,” he returned. “It’s just because no one’s showed you. You’ve certainly got the body — I mean, the muscles — for it.”
My face reddened with pleasure, a bright crimson that surely stood out against the deep browns of the forest. So he’d been noticing my body, had he? Hmm, good to know.
Simon set himself up for a handstand, brushing aside some leaves and examining the terrain. He exhaled, bent over, placed his hands on the ground and deadlifted his legs up into the air.
I could see, with absolute clarity, his every muscle working — in his back, his arms, his abs. He was both moving and perfectly still. More annoyingly, he seemed to be exerting zero effort.
“Come here,” he instructed, and I moved only an inch closer, afraid to upset his delicate balance.
Simon must have realized this, because he added, “You’re not gonna knock me down. It’d take a tractor to move me once I’m in a good handstand.”
His voice was muffled, presumably from his entire personage being the wrong way up, but I was able to make out the directions, and in turn walked until I was right alongside him.
“Good. Do you see which muscles I’m using?”
I nodded, then remembering he couldn’t see me, said aloud, “Yeah, I do.”
“Touch my abs, and feel how I’m engaging my entire core.”
Tentatively, but with desperate longing, I reached out a trembling hand and placed it ever so lightly on his stomach. It was hot to the touch. Like he’d said, his entire core was so firm you could crack an egg on it. My hand wandered just a little bit too close to the waistband of his joggers, so I nearly jumped when he asked:
