Page 84 of Brazen Mistakes

Each hit she lands makes me happy for all the layers between us, her respect for the lines I’ve drawn. Because I’m realizing that I’m running out of self-control when it comes to this slip of a girl across from me.

Walking her through some combinations, it’s obvious I need to correct the movement in her hips. I want to step behind her and drop my hands onto the gentle swell that looks built for my palms. But I can’t.

Or more accurately, I shouldn’t.

Instead, I clear my throat, pausing her sequence. “Don’t forget to snap from the hip at the end. But don’t offset your balance on the reach. Strength will never be your priority, but rather speed. And if you lose your center of gravity, it’ll slow you down.”

“Got it.” She does the sequence a few more times, and my fucking libido whines when she figures it out with just my words—no hands-on assist needed.

I don’t know if I should be happy or pissed about it.

Finally, she slows, sweat trickling along her hairline, pushing me toward pissed.

“Better?” I ask, knowing that’s a dumb question, but not able to stop it from popping out.

“No. But my arms feel like jelly, so that’s a change, at least.” She collapses onto my chair, and I perch on the bench at the foot of my bed across from her. As she wipes her forehead on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, my pissy libido points out that she’s wearing pajama pants tonight.

I’m so fucked.

She picks at the tape, so I reach over and start unwinding it, the same quiet closeness falling over us. My damn heart is pounding loudly enough I’m worried she can hear it.

“Thanks,” she says, the heat of her gaze burning my face while I refuse to look up from my self-assigned task.

“What keeps you up at night?” she asks.

I swallow down the shock of fear that surges through me. “Memories.”

“I’m sorry, Trips.”

It’s a factual statement. If she’d said that with an ounce of pity, with regret or tears, she’d be out of this room before she finished speaking. As it is, I answer, “Me too.”

With both of her hands free from the tape, I run my fingers under her palm, wanting to hear that soft intake of breath again, just a little taste to keep me from doing more. The gasp she makes is only a minuscule pressure valve for the ache inside of me that just wants to destroy all my rules. To take the risk with her. “You should get to bed. And maybe take RJfor a run in the morning. I’ve found that exhaustion is the only way to make it through the night.”

“Good to know.”

She sits there, waiting for more, but I don’t have anything else for her. I can’t without risking everything. Without risking her. Sighing as she stands, she pulls my pen from her hair, turning to set it back on my desk. With the thing an inch above the wood, she whips back and holds the pen out for me to take.

I look up at her, wrapping my hand around the pen, interlacing my fingers with hers before she lets go. Her eyes shimmer in the dim light, something between a smile and a frown flickering in the corner of her mouth. “Good night, Trips.”

“Night, Crash.”

The soft click of the door behind her reminds me to exhale. And when I bring the pen to my nose, her scent of spring flowers brings the same fucked up combination of pain, longing, and acceptance to me.

This is for the best.

It has to be.

Chapter 32

Clara

RJ and I stumble to the front porch, our breaths creating a cloud above us as we finish our run. “Do you know what the plan is for today?” I ask, stopping on the bottom step to stretch my Achilles, caution having me scan the road behind us yet again, even though my Bryce alert hasn’t gone off.

He halts next to me, mirroring my actions. “No, but I got permission to use the dojo today, if you’d like to learn some self-defense.”

I swallow down a flutter of fear. “That sounds good. I’m hoping if I tire myself out enough, I might sleep better.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try.”

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