Page 48 of The Faking Game

He sets down the weight. “You made it.”

“Yes. You want us tobox?” I put my water bottle on a side console. “I thought we needed to get our stories straight.”

“We can do them at the same time.” He looks at me with that focus again, the one that makes my mouth dry. “Have you been taught self-defense?”

“The basics.”

“Tell me what they are.”

I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring his stance. This feels like a pop quiz. “Prevention, really. Always share my location with others. I have a smart watch with a button I can use to call for help quickly. Yell loudly for help. One of the guards I had in Paris told me that the best self-defense isn’t to fight. It’s to run and run fast.” I give him a triumphant smile. “You know I’m good at that.”

He runs a hand through his hair. It looks a darker shade of brown today, like it’s damp. Did he shower before this? “And if you’re cornered?”

“Then I suppose I’ll fight. If I have to.”

“But no one has taught you how to.”

“No.”

His face sets in disapproving lines. “Why did Rafe not get you a private instructor?”

“He always told me that the stalker wouldn’t get that close.”

“He won’t.” West’s voice is steel. “But you knowing how to defend yourself is foryourpeace of mind. Knowing you can get physical if need be.”

I run a hand along the back of my neck. I put my hair up in a ponytail, and I feel strangely exposed. “Yeah. I guess… there’s logic to that.”

“The other night. You didn’t push me away at the end of the date, so we’ll practice that today.”

“If you want me to knee you in the groin over and over again, I will,” I say. But there’s a nervous ball in my stomach, and I glance at his broad shoulders. This would mean getting to touch him. Putting my hands directly on his chest.

Feel if he’s as firm as he looks.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.” His lip is curved. “I want you to have some muscle memory. Have you ever pushed away a guy who tried to kiss you when you didn’t want to?”

I pick up my water bottle and focus on unscrewing it rather than meeting his gaze. Because no. Of course I haven’t. I’ve avoided situations where that might even happen, said no to dates, and on a few rare occasions, let a guy kiss me for a bit before I extricated myself with a polite smile.

“Fucking hell,” he groans.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to. Right. Let’s start by warming up.” He picks up a pair of boxing gloves and hands them my way. “These are probably too big for you, but they’ll do.”

“We’re boxing.” I look at the large, vinyl things in my hands.

“Yes, to start with.”

“I know you and Rafe do this. It’s… it’s James’s thing, right?”

“Yes, he’s obsessed with self-defense.” West rolls his neck, like he’s preparing himself, and holds up his hands, large palms facing my way. “And for good reason.”

“I bet you wish I was his problem instead of yours,” I say. “Imagine how much time you’d have on your hands.”

West’s jaw tenses. “Bend your knees a bit,” he instructs, like I haven’t spoken. “Yeah, that’s it. Now I want you to hit my hands. A jab and a cross.”

“Your hands? Shouldn’t you have a pad or something?”

“I can take it,” he says. “Want me to get a pad? Prove to me that you can hit hard enough for me to need it.”

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