Slow. Slow. Quick. A jumping, spinning kick moving rapidly toward the mirrors, but a quiet landing. Then transiting to the other direction, blocking, pretending she was battling multiple attackers.
Turn. A flurry of kicks, of blocks that were interspersed with control. Long, slow movements designed to show off her balance.
Sweat began to bead on her forehead, slide down her back.
Her breath came quickly, the sound of it mixing with the soft pad of her feet on the mat as she landed, shifted, punched, and kicked fiercely in the quiet space.
A few moves from the end though, her arms began to burn, her legs struggled to launch her into the air for one more jumping-spin-hook kick. But that was part of the beauty of it, part of the beauty of this sport. Pushing through, persevering. Strength, courage, grace.
She landed on the balls of her feet, completed the final flurry of punches, and then turned, stepping into the final stance, holding it for a long moment.
During the test, the judges could ask her to hold that final move for as long as they wanted.
But today she stayed in place until her pulse calmed, her breathing evened out.
That was when she felt the prickling on her nape.
Her eyes flashed up to the mirror in front of her, and her heart picked up its pace again when she saw who was staring at her through the plate glass window.
She’d raised the shades an hour before, letting the sunshine in.
But she’d also let Liam in. Or rather, to glimpse in. Tall, dark, and handsome stood on the sidewalk outside the studio, his face a blank shell, a white bag clutched in one hand, a tray with coffee cups in the other.
Her breath caught, suddenly as out of breath as she had been at the end of her form, and she spun. His face transformed from blank to amazing, and Mia watched as his lips formed the word, “Wow.” Not gonna lie, that made a curl of pleasure coil in her stomach. She was used to people watching her, spent most of her time on display, but not exactly like this.
A man with heat in his expression, his eyes slowly sweeping down her body and then back up.
That long, inching perusal set fire to the veins of a woman who didn’t deal in extras and fluff, but rather who dealt in reality, in black and white, right and wrong, A led to B.
Her body liked the fluff of that long, slow look.
It wondered why A couldn’t lead to . . . fucking.
The last thought pulled her back into herself, her mind to sharp focus. A virtual stranger was outside her door. That was creepy and pushing the boundaries, no matter that her body liked the look of his. Further, it had been a good three months since she’d been on a date, and maybe three—no, four months before that since she’d been on the receiving end of an orgasm that wasn’t courtesy of her and her vibrator.
She was pent up.
That was why she was so attracted to the first halfway decent, single man who’d showed her the least bit of attention.
Or . . . she thought he was single.
That hadn’t really been made clear.
The knock on the door made her eyes—which had been staring at the glass but not really taking in Liam because her mind was too lost in thought—focus on the man outside. He held up the coffee and bag, mouthed, “Hungry?”
She wasn’t.
She was.
But this was fluff. The attraction. The man waiting for her to make it safely out of the studio the night before. The fact that he’d brought breakfast now.
And it went against everything inside her to move toward that fluff.
“Fuck,” she muttered, annoyed with herself, her thoughts, her indecisions. This wasn’t her. Mia was a straight arrow, the straightest fucking arrow on the planet. She didn’t waver, and she sure as hell didn’t worry about fluff. “Enough goddamned fluff,” she growled, striding toward the door and glaring out at Liam. “What are you doing here?” she snapped through the glass.
He put a hand to his ear. “What?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked louder.
His hand stayed up, cupping his ear. “What?”
Later, she would realize that both of his whats were crystal clear to her ears, which also meant that her questions had to be perfectly audible to his. But she’d been up for several hours already, was sweaty and a little shaky from her form—and only her form, because she didn’t give one damn about the fact that this man was just on the other side of the glass (. . . and no she wasn’t going to examine that thought too closely because she was living in glorious delusion at the moment).
So, it was certainly either the fatigue or brain fog (and not the man), that had her sighing and reaching over to unlatch the lock.
Liam grabbed the handle, quickly opening the door, probably assuming—rightly, she could admit—that she’d regretted the move and wanted to lock it just as rapidly. But then it was unlocked, it was open, and . . . he was inside, mere inches from her.
“Morning,” he said softly, his voice a little husky and way too sexy for her comfort.
She shivered, stepped back before she caught herself. Dammit, she was a Caldwell. They didn’t retreat. They pressed forward. They bided their time before they struck—
“Why do you look like you want to punch me?” he asked, still soft, though there was a glimmer of mischief in those stormy gray eyes.
“Probably because I do,” she told him, crossing her arms.
Instead of backing off or leaving, like she half-expected him to do—she had put him on his ass twice the day before after all, so he’d be stupid not to tread a little cautiously—he stayed in place, studying her closely. “You’re tired,” he said.
Something unfurled inside her and she frowned, both at the words and the strange sensation pulsing through her.
Not desire—that seemed to be at a baseline level that made her skin prickle, her pussy throb, her breasts feel heavy and aching when within eyesight of this man.
It was . . . soft.
Fluff.
Uh-oh.
Five
Liam
He watched Mia’s face gentle for the barest second, but then gentle was gone, her pretty brown eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed flat.
“I was working out,” she muttered. “Of course I look tired.”
“No,” he found himself saying, probably stupidly because he hardly knew Mia from Eve. But . . . there was something deeply tired about her this morning, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
He hadn’t seen it last night.
She’d been impenetrable.
But in the light of the early morning, his protective instincts flared.
“No?” she asked with raised brows.
“No,” he repeated, stepping closer. “You’re not physically tired. It’s . . . you’re tired”—he tapped his chest, the spot just above his heart—“here.”
Mia shook her head. “What are you trying to do, Liam?” she asked. “Be the female whisperer? Or maybe, you’re that hard up from a lack of puck bunnies that you’re going after a normal woman like me?”
“You’re not normal.”
Outrage flittered across her face, and it wasn’t like he could blame her, because—shit—that had come out sounding a lot worse than he’d intended.
“That’s not—” he began.