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And then Dean had entered it...
Emotions swirled again, and she left the changing room and headed back to the gym, where she halted on the threshold, frozen into immobility.
Just great!
Marcus, too, had changed—into tracks
uit bottoms and a T-shirt that seemed moulded to his upper torso. Honed muscles were on display, and suddenly her mouth was dry and her lungs seemed to have forgotten their function.
‘Hey.’
He smiled at her and she forced herself not to close her eyes.
‘I thought it would be easier if I show you the best way to do this, as well as explain it. There are some things you need to know before I can let you loose.’
His common-sense tone was exactly what she needed to make this whole situation less surreal, and she listened as he explained, his deep voice full of reassurance as he reiterated the importance of not tensing up and maintaining balance.
‘So now I’ll show you...’
April tried to treat it as a lesson, tried to focus only on the technical aspects, but it quite simply wasn’t possible. Not when the sheer glory of his sculpted body was on display and his grace, agility and clean movement as he jabbed the punch bag caused havoc with her insides.
‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
With an effort she calmed her breathing, tried to pretend this was all research for an article, but for once her brain let her down, left her unable to formulate sentences.
‘I’ll tape your hands to protect them, and don’t forget—’
‘To keep my wrists straight,’ she finished.
However hard she tried, she couldn’t disguise the tremble in her fingers as she held out her hands—couldn’t hold back the audible intake of breath as he wrapped the tape around them. Every movement felt like a caress.
‘OK. You’re good to go. Remember—not too forceful the first time.’
She pulled back and hit the bag, jarred her hand.
‘Keep it easy. Imagine getting rid of the anger, the grief, but remember you’re the one in control—you’re in charge.’
The deep timbre of his voice washed over her, calling to something inside her. The punch bag came into sharp focus, and somewhere inside her feelings began to burgeon. Grief rolled out its black carpet alongside anger...rage that life had inflicted such tragedy on her, fury with herself for her own culpable part in it.
The punch bag seemed to swirl with images—images she wanted to destroy, to pound into oblivion. Again and again.
Then suddenly she was being held back, contained. ‘Whoa. Time to stop, April.’
The images faded and she blinked the sweat from her eyes, pulling herself back into the present, where Marcus held her in a loose grip.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘No need to apologise. I only stopped you because I was worried you were overdoing it. I don’t want you to damage your wrists. How are you feeling now?’
He released her and stepped back as she turned to face him, tried to assess how she felt.
‘Drained.’
The anger and grief had gone. She knew they’d be back, but for now they had released their hold.
Meeting his gaze, she ventured a small smile. ‘Better, I think.’
