I sip it and it’s really good. “This is a great spot. Do you like it here?”
“I do,” he says, stepping up next to me in the window. “My family lived near here. I was hoping to find something in the neighborhood.”
I turn back to the apartment. “Studios are hard to find.”
His elbow brushes mine as he turns. I try to ignore the tightening in my belly at even that touch. “I was fortunate. Someone’s application had just fallen through when I was looking.”
I sip my wine and look out the window.
He steps back and looks at me. “Would you let me teach you how to throw a proper punch?”
The question surprises me. “Is that a skill I’m going to need in the next few minutes?”
An amused smile flashes over his face, but then his expression turns more serious. “I worry about you out there by yourself,” he says with a wave of his hand toward the window.
I shrug. “I’ve got the knee-to-the-balls and the finger-to-the-eye maneuvers down, so I think I’m probably okay.”
“And God forbid you should ever need to defend yourself against an attacker again, those will probably be more useful to you, but it can’t hurt to know how to deliver a solid blow.”
I nod. “All right.”
We step into a small open area between his couch and the kitchen counter and he takes my glass and sets it down. “Boxing is all about balance and leverage. You need to feel your base of support and stay on top of it. That gives you mobility and strength.” He lays his strong hands on my hips. “Don’t let me move you.”
I spread my legs slightly, and when he presses on one hip, pushing me to the side, I resist.
“Good,” he says.
He presses harder on my other hip and barely moves me, then raises his hands to my shoulders, and I hold my ground as pushes me in several directions in quick succession.
“Once you have your base of support,” he tells me, pressing his rolled-up sleeves higher on his forearms and drawing my attention to the lines of his muscles there, “you can either move or attack.” I lift my gaze to his face and know I’ve been caught looking when he raises an eyebrow. “Moving is definitely the better option. If you can run, always do. But if you’re cornered and you need to throw a punch, leverage your upper body off your solid base of support.”
“Meaning?”
He steps around behind me and gently grasps my forearms just below the elbow. “Meaning,” he says, lifting my arms, so my fisted hands are just under my chin and my bent elbows are against my ribs, “you need to keep everything close to the core until you’re ready to strike. They call it ‘throwing’ a punch for a reason. Stay balanced, then leverage off your base and throw your fist forward.”
I shoot my right fist out as fast as I can, jerking my arm out of his hand.
“Good,” he says. He draws my arm back to my side and I realize he’s pressed up against me, his whole front in contact with my whole back. I loose focus for a second when he lowers his hands to my hips. “Same thing, but snap your arm faster, then bring it right back to your core.”
I do as I’m told.
“Did you feel that?” he asks, laying his other hand flat and firm on my stomach. “If you’re strong here, in your core, that gives you a solid base to leverage off of.”
What I feel is his toned arms around me. What I feel is the irresistible urge to run my fingers over them and memorize the contours of the veins and muscles. What I feel is a tingle that zings out from my groin to his hand, low on my belly. But I’m pretty sure that’s not what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”
A shudder ripples over my skin at the feel of his breath in my hair, as if he’s lowered his face. His hands shift to my hips and his grip on me tightens. In that second, the urge to turn in his arms and stare into those dark, tortured eyes is almost unbearable. I hold my breath and wait for him to let me go. Finally, he takes a shuddering breath and steps back, clearing his throat. I watch as he reaches over the back of the couch and comes out with a throw pillow. He stands in front of me with it bunched in his hands. “Again.”
I get myself balanced and snap a punch into the center of the pillow.
“Now with the left. Same thing.”
I try with my left and it feels slower and clumsier. “Guess I’ll have to hope he doesn’t grab me by the right arm, huh?”
“You’re right-handed, so using the left will take some practice, but it’s the same thing. Solid base, tight core, and snap.”
I try again with my left and it feels a little less awkward.
“Now stagger your stance,” he says, stepping closer and drawing my left foot forward with a scorching hand on my thigh, just below the hip. I fight to keep my breathing even. “As you snap, stay over your base of support, but step quickly from your back foot to your front foot.” His fingertips stroke up my leg as he releases me, causing my breath to catch. He holds the pillow again. “That will put some momentum behind the punch.”
I snap my right arm out, shifting onto my left leg as I do it, and my fist makes a solid-sounding thud into the pillow and pushes Alessandro back a half step.
He tips his head at me and his eyes flare. “You’re a natural. I want you in my ring.”
At the image of Alessandro, sweaty in a boxing ring, my heart skips. “Better be careful what you wish for.”
There’s something sexily cynical in his smile as he holds the pillow up. “Again.”
After half an hour, I finally feel like I have it to where I might actually do some damage to something other than my fist if it was to connect with someone.
“You’re a quick learner,” he tells me, handing me the throw pillow. He gestures to the couch. “Relax. I’ll start dinner.”
I toss the pillow on the couch and follow him to the kitchen, where he ducks into the fridge and comes out with two boneless chicken breasts. He pulls down a cutting board from where two are stacked on end against the fridge and proceeds to pound the crap out of the chicken with a mallet.
“There has to be something I can do to help.”
He opens the fridge again and comes out with a bundle of asparagus, which he sets on the counter. “If you insist, you can wash and trim these.”
I wash the asparagus and snap off the ends, then stack it and the two cockroaches on a plate next to the stove as Alessandro drops a cube of butter in a cast-iron skillet, where it sizzles. He rubs salt and pepper into the chicken, then flours it.
“Anything else I can do?” I ask as he drops the chicken breasts into the skillet and browns them.
“Sit and drink your wine,” he says with a wave of his arm at the couch.
I go into the main room, taking my wine with me, and sink into the sofa. I take a long sip. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He turns and flashes me that smile again. “Are you questioning my motives?”
“Maybe.” My heart is pounding. Why am I flirting?
I’m sipping my wine a few minutes later when he picks up the plate of asparagus and starts dumping the spears into the skillet. He stops and smiles over his shoulder at me as he picks out the cockroaches. “Touché.”
I smile sweetly back at him.
He turns to the stove and I sip my wine again, but whatever he just poured in the pot smells good, drawing me off the couch and back into the kitchen. “What are you making? I ask, looking into the skillet.
“It’s a traditional Italian chicken dish.”
“What’s in there?”
“So far, just chicken, artichoke hearts, asparagus, cream, chicken broth, and wine.” He picks a jar off the rack over the stove and when he shakes it into the pot, I smell oregano.
He moves around the kitchen like a pro as he prepares the pasta and spoons the sauce over it.