AND THEN THERE'S SIR ALEX. Every time I messed up—and that was every two seconds—he stepped in behind me. Warm. Tall. Stoic. Knightly. Basically illegal.
He'd lightly touch my wrist to adjust my grip. And every single time: I hyperventilated.My soul left my body.My brain forgot the alphabet.My heart said BA-THUMP-PA-THUMP-WE-WILL-DIE-TODAY. But I PRETENDED to be okay. Professional. Calm. Unbothered.
Meanwhile Sir Alex? He was pretending not to notice my internal collapse. The man was made of honor, granite, and denial. And whenever I flirted—even the tiny, innocent, barely-there teasing—HE STIFFENED LIKE A SPOOKED DEER. Absolutely terrified. He looked like he needed divine intervention. I swear if I winked too aggressively, he'd probably run straight into the woods and never return.
