Page 31 of The Thinnest Air
“Groin kicks are going to let you keep your distance. If someone’s getting too close to you, this allows you to counterattack and leave.” Ronan demonstrates on me before taking the kick pad and asking me to do the honors.
Ronan demonstrates a few more moves on me. I try my hardest to pay attention, but I’m so distracted by ... everything. His voice, his deftness, his confidence, his passion. The way he commands the room.
And when he lets his touch linger a little too long on my hip, I can’t be entirely sure if I’m imagining it or not.
When class finishes, I grab my duffel and head for the exit while Ronan’s caught up in conversation with a circle of women who make no effort to hide their innocent infatuation.
I’m glad it’s not me. Everyone finds him charming.
“Meredith, wait up,” he calls in front of the gabbing ladies. “I need to talk to you before you go.”
One of the women lifts her brows and nudges her friend. They smile, watching the two of us like it’s something special in the making.
Feet planted, I wait for him to approach me. Taking a swig of water and grabbing a small towel to wipe his brow, he maintains eye contact with me, and when he finally makes it over, there’s a familiar gleam in his deep chocolate eyes.
I’ve seen it before.
Men see me, they get this look on their face. It’s like a lion stalking a gazelle, planning their approach, clearly interested. It’s like I provoke something in them. Something on a primal level.
“You want to grab a coffee?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. Every part of me is screaming,No, no, no. This is a bad idea. Don’t do it. Don’t go down this path.
But there’s something about human nature that makes us shameless opportunists. We stumble across a chance, experience the tiniest taste of something we want, and we can’t say no.
We literally can’t say no.
“Um. Okay.” This is bad. This is very, very bad. I’m going to hell.
“There’s a place right next door,” he says. “Best coffee you’ll ever have in your life.”
“Is that true?” I fight a smirk.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.” His mouth pulls wide, and my gaze lands on a perfect row of pearly whites flanked by two of the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen.
Ronan’s dark hair is styled into a fresh crew cut, his skin creamy, clear, and smooth, with a slight flush on his cheeks.
In an irrational flicker of a second, I imagine a life by his side. It’s an innocent little daydream. He and I on road trips, backpacking through Europe, hiking with a Bernese mountain dog in tow. In my reverie, I’m not wearing designer dresses and a full face of makeup, and he can’t keep his hands off me. And he loves me just the way I am. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not because he can’t get enough of the person I already am.
I follow him outside, waiting as he hits the lights and locks the door to the community center, and we amble toward a little shop called the Peaceful Bean. The sign is hand-painted in crooked lettering. If Greer ever saw it, she’d have a fit. Such a perfectionist. But from the outside, the place seems defiantly unpretentious—which is shocking in a town like Ridgewood Heights.
Ronan gets the door, following me to the register, and I order myself a London Fog, for which he insists on paying.
We find a quiet corner in the back of the shop, behind a tall bookcase filled with games likeScrabble,Monopoly, andSorry!
“You doing okay?” he asks after our drinks arrive a minute later. “With the incident and everything? You don’t seem as shaken up about it as you were yesterday.”
I lift my mug to my lips. “Guess I do a good job of hiding it. See these dark circles?” I point beneath my eyes, where I’m sure my concealer has worn off. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. Tossed and turned. Kept hearing things, little noises in the house.”
“Your mind was playing tricks on you,” he says. “It’s common after a traumatic event.” Ronan glances around the near-vacant shop before returning his attention to me. “It’s good you came to class tonight. If anyone tries to mess with you, you’ll be prepared. Peace of mind is priceless.”
“You think that stalker guy is going to mess with me?”
He shrugs. “No way of knowing. Violence is either spontaneous or premeditated. If you’re prepared, what’s it matter?”
I sip my drink once more.
“The thing with stalkers—if that’s what we’re dealing with here—is that their motivations and how far they take things are usually determined by how they interpret your behavior and reactions,” he says. “You just never know, Meredith. You’re not dealing with sane people here. They don’t think the way we do. They’re not driven by the same things we are.”
