Page 40 of Save Your Breath

I can barely speak now.

“You… Mia, you…”

I wonder if she can feel my erection.

I wonder if she’ll push me away and gasp in horror and call me a creep.

But she doesn’t.

She breathes harder, her chest rising and falling, her eyes locked on my mouth now.

“What?” she asks on a breath, gaze snapping up to mine before she’s watching my lips once more.

You’re beautiful.

You’re sexy.

You drive me wild.

You make me feel something I’ve never felt before.

But I don’t get to finish my sentence, because the sliding glass door opens, and Mia and I break apart like we’ve been caught red handed at a crime scene.

Mia jets over to her notebook, pretending like she just had a lyric idea and scribbling it onto the page. I blow out a long breath and sink to the bottom of the pool, trying to calm myself.

When I re-emerge, I’m staring up through a watery haze at where Mr. Conaway is blocking the sun.

“Aleks,” he says, his voice deep and commanding. “Why don’t you towel off and come to my study? I’d like to have a chat.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, already swimming toward the stairs.

He turns and leaves, stopping by long enough to bend to the edge of the pool and plant a kiss on Mia’s forehead. I think he says something about the song she’s writing, but I can’t be sure over the ringing in my ears.

I towel off quickly, wrapping the thick fabric around my waist to hide my current situation.

My eyes find Mia’s briefly before I’m ducking inside.

The air conditioning is too cold after being in the pool and the sunshine. I shiver as I pad through the house to Mr. Conaway’s study, and when I enter it, he nods toward the door, wordlessly telling me to shut it behind me.

“Have a seat,” he says, waving his hand over the chair on the other side of his desk.

“I’m still a bit wet.”

“Sit, son.”

I don’t protest this time. I plop down in the leather chair, my back ramrod straight, hands in my lap. I almost laugh at how I was just called cocky by Mia less than five minutes ago, and now, I’m shaking like a leaf in her father’s office.

I already have more respect for this man than any other I’ve ever met.

I never knew my father. In a way, I’m glad for that. I don’t think I would have liked him.

My coaches tended to be the kind of men who demanded my respect without doing anything to earn it, as if their title alone was all that was required. I hated that kind of attitude. It made me buck like a wild horse against their reins.

But Charlie Conaway had taken me into his home. He had help from the team, sure, but he went above and beyondthat. He listened to me when I spoke. He watched me when I practiced. He offered help when I asked and stayed silent when I didn’t. He fed me, and clothed me, and showed me what it was to be a man just by living his day-to-day life.

I love how he cares for his business, for his wife, for his daughter, for this home. I love that he cares for me even though I’ve only been here a couple of months.

But as he steeples his fingers and sits back in his chair with his eyes assessing me, I realize the real measure of my respect for him doesn’t rest in love.