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“You’re tall,” I manage, awkward as fuck; I dare a glance up at him.
He nods. He lifts his arm off me, but doesn’t step away.
I fold my arms around myself and watch his brows scrunch, like I’m a bug and he’s a scientist.
“Thanks for the cake,” he says again. He puts his hands in his jeans pockets, casual although his eyes on mine feel hot. “I meant to tell you, the kick was good.”
I laugh, widening my eyes up at him. “Really?”
I have to struggle not to stare at his muscular arms, showcased by the way he’s got his hands in his pockets. We’re standing close enough that we could be eighth-graders at a school dance.
He smiles, dimples and all. “You have surprisingly good form, considering your ankle.” His smile falters.
I press my lips together. “What about my ankle?”
“You have pins…right?”
I make an “o” of my mouth, tres dramatique. “How the hell do you know that?”
He crouches down by my feet and tips his head up, giving me a view of mostly his curls and his eyes. Then he looks down, laying his hand over the outside of my ankle. “Pins and maybe a screw or two on this side?”
“What are you? Some kind of Fucked-Up Ankle Whisperer?”
His hand curls around my leg, making my body burn so hot I worry I may spontaneously combust. Then he stands, shaking his head. “A friend of mine had similar range of motion. Not as good as yours, though. He did one tour after that—after the surgery to put the ankle back together—and that was it. It wouldn’t hold. He’s an instructor now.”
I wonder what that means—what kind of instructor?—but I don’t ask. I nod.
“I noticed you as I walked by,” he goes on slowly. “I had stopped to watch you, how you moved, and when I saw you saw me, I thought I’d come and introduce myself.”
I bring a hand up to my face and nod my head. “That makes sense.” My tone sounds sarcastic, even though I’m not. I’m just embarrassed.
He doesn’t speak, just looks down at me with one side of his mouth curved in a sympathetic kind of look.
“I’m glad you could appreciate the kick.” I step away from him, because my cheeks are burning—again.
He shrugs. “I’ve done some martial arts instructing.”
“What? So—wait a second. How’d I get the drop on you?”
He blinks. “I didn’t block.”
“You what?”
“Your ankle,” he says, his dark brows arched. “I didn’t know how your landing would be if I threw you backward. You had so much height on the kick…” He lifts his right shoulder.
“You didn’t know, so you let me kick you in the head?”
Now he’s smirking. But it’s not a smirk, is it? He looks maybe embarrassed.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“You would have spun back this way.” He turns his big body, demonstrating the trajectory. “It would have put a lot of pressure on that plate or whatever scaffolding they put in there.”
I smack my forehead, shake my head. “Holy hell. Well, you know how to make a girl feel like an asshole.”
“Why are you an asshole? Maybe I’m just nice,” he teases.
I look up at him. Hot and nice. Perfect. I nod. “Maybe so.” I want to say I think his brains are addled, but I don’t know what might set him off, so I keep my mouth shut.
