Page 65 of The Thought of You

That’s the last thing Owen said to me before sliding my leggings into place over my hips and walking out of the dance studio two nights ago.

And those words have been on repeat in my head ever since.

“Miss Lockhart?”

I hear my name somewhere in the back of my head as if I’m asleep, but really, I’m lost in Owen Land as he leads his class into a series of stretches.

He’s touching his toes, his loose hair dangling over his forehead.

Many quietly mind his instruction, while some complain of soreness from running up the bleachers earlier this week.

To those, Owen says, “If your muscles are sore, that just means this class is working.”

It makes me smile.

And the fact that his round ass is on display, with his black sweats stretched tightly across each curve, well, that just makes me bite my smiling lip.

“Miss Lockhart?”

I turn back to my students, wide eyes staring back at me from the bleachers. Their books and notebooks are open in their laps and on the seats next to them, the patterns staggered and a bit like a college auditorium–style room instead of the traditional rows of desks we had in my currently destroyed classroom.

“Hmm?” I blink, completely dazed and confused. What in the world were we talking about?

I struggle to force my internal compass to point north when something hits my back and practically launches me into the present again.

“I’m so sorry!” Behind me, on the other side of the volleyball net, a young girl covers her mouth as she visibly shrinks in embarrassment.

Owen jogs over, the short sleeves of his thin shirt nearly fused to his biceps as he pumps his arms forward and backward. He retrieves the ball at my feet while I continue staring at him.

Actually, I’m gawking.

I clear my throat and wave to the girl. “It’s fine.”

Owen holds up the ball, flashes a smirk that I feel between my legs, then jogs away, calling out to his class to focus on the placement of their strikes. “We’re learning the skill of precision and coordination here.”

My throat dries as his knowing eyes find mine.

He runs to the other corner of the court as the students resume their volleyball warm-up, and I can’t tear my gaze away from Owen.

His hair is free from the confines of a hat, and the strands bounce with every stride.

Each time he lifts his hands to rest on his stocky hips or run them through his hair, thoughts of the other night in the dance studio transport me right back there—in the middle of my class!

Oh, Lord.

This is not the time nor the place to let this man rile me up, no matter how ruggedly, sinfully, frustratingly sexy he is.

“Miss Lockhart?” Mary Ellen raises her hand.

I nod for her to go on, and immediately, her words rush out.

“Cody is comparing Nathanial Hawthorne to some gamer nerd on YouTube. It’s an outrage.”

“It’s symbolism,” Cody shoots back.

Mary Ellen scoffs. “A video game has nothing to do with Hester’s scarlet letter.”

Hester Prynne.

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