Page 30 of The Thinnest Air

I let my bag drop. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“My assistant called in sick tonight,” he says. “She pulled a hamstring at kickboxing or something. You mind filling in?”

“I wouldn’t even know how—”

“Nah. I just do the moves on you so everyone else can see,” he says. “You’ll learn as you go. All you have to do is stand there and follow my directives.”

Glancing around the room, I realize almost everyone is already paired up.

“Yeah, sure.” My shoulders lift and fall, and I try my best not to picture his hands on my body.

He smiles again. “All right, cool. Head up front. We’ll be starting in about five minutes.”

Ronan leaves, making rounds and chatting with his attendees. They all adore him, telling him he looks like their grandsons and asking if he’d be interested in being “fixed up” with someone when he tells them he’s single.

He’s single.

When he returns to the front of the room, his gaze finds mine. He speaks to the class, but he’s looking at me. And when he reaches out, wrapping his hand around my wrist and pulling me closer, my heart gallops, and my skin tingles.

It’s not his fault.

He’s doing nothing wrong.

It’s all me.

I’m the broken one.

I’m the one who married some big-moneyed older man on a whim despite the warnings of my sister and best friends. They said I was too young, that I needed to find myself first before I settled with the first man who presented me with a blazing, oversize diamond ring.

But I was in love.

I still am—I think.

It’s just that that love has lost a bit of luster over the last several months. The newness is wearing off. It was bound to happen—I just didn’t expect it to happen this soon.

Anyway, I don’t know if it’s possible to love my husbandandfeel butterflies when another man looks at me, but it’s exactly what’s happening, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to stop it.

“All right, let’s get started, shall we?” Ronan claps his hands, rubbing his palms together as he scans the room. “Tonight we’re going to go over six Krav Maga techniques that are going to help you fend off a physical attack.” He paces in front of me. “First one. Open hand strike.” He slips his hand around mine once more, turning me to face him. “We’re going to focus on vulnerable areas. The head. The throat. The neck—front and back. You get the point.” His hands mock-strike me, keeping a safe distance. “This is very simple, girls. If you can push, you can punch.”

Ronan steps away from me, retrieving a kick pad from a nearby table and asking me to hold it up.

“We’re going to strike with the heel of our hand,” he says. “And lean in, steady on your feet. Pivot. Drive the energy forward. Like this.”

His strikes come at me, and I block them with the pad. He winks, tossing me an approving smirk.

Are we ... are we having fun?

“Okay, now I want you guys to try.” Ronan turns to the class, hooking his hands on his hips as he makes rounds. When he returns a few minutes later, he hands me an ice-cold bottle of water.

“I haven’t even broken a sweat,” I say, uncapping it.

He’s thoughtful. I like that.

“Not yet, you haven’t.” He turns to the class once more. “Moving on. Groin kicks.”

Some of the women in the back chuckle, proving that kicking men in the balls can be humorous at any age.

Good to know for future reference.