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“Better.” Mac watched for another moment, then stepped behind her. Jodie’s concentration wobbled.

Knock it off.

He was helping her shoot. That was all.

“Can I move your shoulder?” he asked, close enough now that his breath moved a wisp of her hair.

“Sure.”

His hand settled lightly on the top of her right shoulder, above the stock, warm against bare skin, and she thanked Five AM Jodie for deciding on the tank top. He guided her shoulder down and back a fraction.

“There. Feel the difference?”

“Yeah.”

And she did. She also felt every square inch of his palm sliding against her skin, making her wonder how it would feel sliding up her⁠—

Stop your dirty mind right there. He’s touching you because you asked him to help you, not grope you.

Right. Of course. Just friends.

Mac removed his hand, much to her chagrin, and stepped around her to check her stance from another angle. His attention stayed on her feet, her shoulders, the rifle. Entirely professional.

Jodie should’ve been relieved. Instead, disappointment poked at her.

Oh, get over yourself.

“Your hips are still turned a little,” he said. “That’s probably the ankle again.”

She tried to correct it.

“Almost.”

Jodie shifted.

“No. Hang on.” Mac moved in behind her again. “May I?”

She sucked in a tiny breath.

“Yeah.”

His hand came to her hip and rested there. Every coherent thought in Jodie’s head vanished.

Mac gave her the slightest pressure, guiding her back into alignment. Nothing suggestive about it. Nothing lingering. His other hand touched her shoulder to keep her upper body from following the movement.

“Right there,” he said. “Don’t twist away from the ankle. Keep your hips under you.” His lips were so close to her ear, his breath tickling it.

Jodie swallowed.

This is ridiculous.

He was teaching her, helping her. Being Mac, who was kind and helpful to everyone.

That’s all this is, Jodie. Don’t turn it into something it isn’t.

Both his hands left her.

“Bring the rifle up again,” he said.