Ninja at First Sight

Part 3: There once was a ninja from Nantucket...

"You're a gymnast."

I flinched, my hands flew up, and gasped with startled fright at the owner of the voice.

"Sorry." Greg hovered at the entrance to the suite looking so handsome he made my chest hurt; I hadn't heard him come in.

I released a calming breath, my heart still thundering, and laughed at myself. "No, no. It's okay. I didn't hear you come in."

I saw he was wearing dark blue jeans that hung very nicely on his narrow hips and a long-sleeved grey thermal that made his eyes look almost black. Over his shoulder was a backpack. His dark hair was wet like he'd just showered, longish, yet achieved the effect of careless and wayward spikes. It needed a trim. I liked it.

"You're a gymnast," he repeated, edging further into the room.

I studied him, looking for some trace of a hangover or sign in his features that he was the same person who'd shown up the night before, knocking on my door and admitting he wanted to be my first everything.

But I didn't...or I couldn't. His gaze was back to its curious yet cautious state, the rest of his expression untroubled, calm.

"Yes, uh—well, no. I mean, I used to be a gymnast."

I wasn't calm. I couldn't seem to take a deep breath. Once again I felt the palpable current, a crackling awareness, and this time I knew it wasn't one-sided.

"How did you know?" My words were breathless, and I was staring at him, unable to look away.

"Fern told me. Can you still do a somersault?"

I nodded, no longer trusting my voice.

"A back flip?"

I nodded.

He examined me for a long stretch, giving nothing of his own thoughts away. Meanwhile, I burned under his dark gaze. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his attention moved over my body, marked with suspicion or something like it. I was still wearing my workout clothes because Dara and Hivan were in my dorm room solving world hunger.

Just kidding. They were having sex. Loudly.

I'd come back from a late afternoon trip to the gym to find my door closed and locked, Dara's suitcases piled up in the suite, and a sock on the doorknob.

I was waiting them out, rather than sneaking in, to grab some clothes.

Their sexcapades were gloriously awkward background music for my current conversation. I began to feel self-conscious of my yoga pants and sports bra in a way I'd never experienced before, wishing I'd left on my jacket.

Finally he said, "Prove it."

"Prove it?" I croaked.

"A back flip. I want to see a back flip."

I shook my head, holding his unreadable gaze, and feeling irritated by his complete lack of outward emotion, especially since I'd been waiting for him since early morning. When he hadn't shown by 4:30 p.m., I'd decided to burn off my frustration with a workout.

It was now past dinner time, and I was currently experiencing an uncomfortable and unfamiliar sense of discomposure. My body felt taut and primed; my heart was racing like I'd just finished a marathon.

He continued to look me over. His perusal affected me, heat spreading up my chest and spine. Then Greg claimed Dara's seat, setting his elbows on his long legs. He placed his backpack on the floor between his feet, and leaned toward me.