Page 121 of The Bodyguard's Fall

Coincidentally, my body now felt weaker, so I wasn't sure how he’d come to that conclusion. But I gave the jab-punch combo my best effort, despite feeling inexplicably addled.

“No. The power comes from your body, not your arm.” He got into his stance and made a spectacular show of tightening his body before throwing a jab and a punch, demonstrating his technique with impressive speed and muscle work.

“That’s exactly what my throw looked like,” I said.

I brightened at his annoyed look.

“Arms up,” he demanded again. “Hit me.”

I tried a few more times, adding as much power as I could. After every punch he blocked, his voice became more and more clipped.

“Olivia. Hit. Me.”

“I’m trying,” I spat, wiping a string of sweat off my forehead with my arm. I was still getting used to the bulk and weight of the gloves on my hands. He was quick, dodging and weaving, making it all look so easy that my frustration took hold and my swings missed the mark.

If this was a good-cop/bad-cop routine, he was nailing the bad-cop vibe. His no-nonsense and condescending attitude had my nerves completely spiked.

“Stop slapping at me,” he said, grabbing my arm to show me what he wanted. “Punch all the way through. You slow the momentum down when you get close to my stomach.”

“Don’t move, then.”

“Your guy isn’t going to just stand there and take it. Be quicker.”

I gritted my teeth and punched again. Even I could see it was a weak effort. He stopped and pulled off my gloves, throwing them to the ground. He ran a frustrated hand through his tousled hair.

He took a breath and started in a controlled tone, “You need to punch like the stomach isn’t the goal. The goal is two feet past the stomach. You need to punch hard, and don’t slow down before you get to the target.” He motioned toward me with my bare fists. “Try again.”

I balled my fists together in the way he taught me before attempting a sucker punch.

He caught my fist neatly in the air.

“You didn’t set up your stance.” He glowered.

“I was going for a surprise attack,” I protested, breathing erratically.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

With a seething breath, I adjusted my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet. I drew my hands up, tightening my abs, then bounced for a few moments, keeping eye contact before striking.

He caught my attempt neatly in his fist and all but rolled his eyes in annoyance. “You slowed down.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

That was starting to feel like a lie.

“How could you hurt me with a swing like that?”

I yanked my hands out of his grasp, frustration flying out of every pore in my body.

“You’re a jerk when you’re like this.” I turned away, determined to put some space between us.

Before I could take more than two steps, he grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me toward him.

Into him.

Into a place where time slowed down considerably.

His hand was still gripping the fabric while mine landed on his chest. He smelled like hay and pine, a combination that was unexpectedly intoxicating. Even while I was annoyed, I couldn’t help but breathe him in. His head dipped toward me.