we don’t need.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve got everythin’ I need right here.”
She knew that he was talking about gym equipment. She knew that. But she couldn’t seem to keep herself from taking his words out of context for just a moment and trying them out in a different way in her head:
…you’ve got everything I need right here.
“Oh, merde,” she whispered, sighing softly.
“Duchess?” he prompted.
“Hmm?” she asked, snapping her head up to look at him. She plastered a smile on her face and pushed her ponytail off her shoulder. “Yes. I’m ready. Let’s get to it!”
He nodded, taking a deep breath and nailing her with a hard glare. “I’m going to teach you about the eyes today. Yours first, then your assailant’s. Now…what’s the first rule?”
“Don’t ever look away.”
“Right. Why not?”
He had his feet spread apart and his hands on his hips. His sweat pants were a little big, but his plain white T-shirt was a little snug, fitting over his chest like a glove and highlighting the ridiculously defined ridges of muscle.
Umm, she thought, we don’t look away because what we see is so hot?
“Jacqueline?”
And the way he said her name…it turned her insides to warm honey. She hid a whimper by clearing her throat. “Because…”
“Because awareness is the first rule of avoidance. And avoidance is the name of the game.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“You understand what I mean?”
“I assume you mean that if you don’t put yourself into dangerous situations, you won’t need to defend yourself.”
“Exactly,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “No checkin’ out Facebook on your phone in a parkin’ lot. No wearin’ headphones unless you’re safe at home in your bed. Make eye contact to show you’re unafraid. Be aware of your surroundin’s. Anyone who’s within three feet of your person is too close.”
“Three feet,” she said, nodding.
“Do you know how much that is?” he asked, uncrossing his arms.
“From you to me?”
“No. We’re five feet away from each other.” He took a step toward her. “Now we’re three feet apart. Extend your arm.” She did as he asked, her fingertips brushing his chest. “Your arm is approximately three feet long. Does that help you gauge things?”
“I can’t go around with my arms spread wide all the time.”
“Of course not. But look at me. Look at my eyes. Look how far apart we are. Remember this distance.”
She looked into his eyes—again—but she was slightly more relaxed this time and paid closer attention. How funny, she thought. They’re asymmetrical, one slightly higher than the other. Stepping forward—approximately two feet from his person, which was, by his own definition, too close—she further noted that there was scar tissue on his face that she hadn’t noticed before. It looked like he’d had extremely bad acne concentrated around his eyes or had picked a bunch of chicken pox sores that had left small craters around his eyes and on his forehead, though something intuitive told her that neither of those reasons was right.
“What happened?” she whispered, still staring deeply into his dark-brown eyes, cataloguing the strange asymmetry and the battered, pockmarked skin.
He flinched, turning away from her. “Nothin’.”
But if his body language told her anything, it told her that the marks meant something to him.
“You won’t tell me?”
With his head still down, he shrugged. “Nothin’ to tell.”
“Gardener,” she said, taking one more step toward him. Gently, she tried to coax him to talk. “Jardinier…”
“Please,” he muttered, as though asking for mercy. When he looked up, his expression was shrouded, troubled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
But Jax wanted to talk about it. Suddenly she realized that she wanted to talk to him very much. She wanted to know this man who spoke French and planted moonlight gardens and used to “serve and protect.” He had rescued her from danger and carried her like a doll in his arms on Saturday night, even though she was positive she annoyed him. He’d tenderly bandaged her wound and, despite his initial protests, he’d agreed to teach her how to defend herself. Not to mention he was one of a very few people on Blueberry Lane young enough to be her peer, to be her friend, to maybe—possibly—help thwart her loneliness.
Yes, she wanted to talk to him. Very much. Very badly.
Mustering her fragile courage, she said, “We could—we could be friends, you know. I only live two houses away…and you’re going to be teaching me how to defend myself. I mean…we might as well be—”
He took a step back. “I don’t think so, Duchess.”
She