Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Sarah
No.
No no no.
Mr. Never Mind is here ?
Mr. Never Mind is my yoga teacher?
Mr. Never Mind is wearing tight yoga shorts that remind me of last night. My taste buds retrieve the memory of Mr. Never Mind's nicely outlined, uh...
Tab A.
Slot B begins to throb.
Where's the pregnant chick who normally teaches this crazy six a.m. class? Marley? Mona? Something like that. She was a perfectly fine instructor, and friendly enough that I was just starting to pump her for background information on the studio.
Now I have to start over.
Except... not really.
Because Mr. Never Mind and I already started.
And started.
And started ...
How many starts did we have again?
“Hey.” He jumps down off the stage like a parkour expert, lithe and lean, muscles pushing him toward me as if he's trained them with military precision. “What're you doing here?”
Uh… that’s right.
He’s English .
Oh, that accent. Combined with that third glass of wine, it’s basically a pussy crowbar.
“Not following you! I swear!” The words come out frantic and I want to eat them back up.
He extends his palms in a gesture of supplication, but it looks more like he wants to feel me up.
“Never accused you of that, Sarah.”
At the mention of my name, I realize I don't know his.
At all.
Calling him Mr. Never Mind isn't going to cut it. Mr. Tab A won't, either. Have to fake it, act like I know who he is, not reveal my sickening error.
Who sleeps with a guy they met in a bar and then doesn't remember their name?
This girl.
Apparently, this is who I've become. That third glass of pinot was the devil.
“Right. Good. Um, this is...”
“Awkward.” He leans in. “I'm the teacher today. Filling in for Maisie. Can't say I'm sad about the coincidence.”
“I'm, uh – I've been coming here for a few weeks. I swear I had no idea you worked here.”
“I don't work here.”
“Huh?”
“I own the place.”
And just like that, I know his name. Not because I remember him telling me last night.
Because I've researched the hell out of this company.
“Casey.” I have to work hard not to make it a question.
“I prefer Case, but yes.” The side-eye I'm getting from him makes adrenaline shoot through me. Puzzle pieces click into place, details swarming around me with buzzing intensity in my mind.
The text.
The text from... oh, God.
Case.
C.
“You texted me.”
“Yes.”
“I didn't know who it was,” I confess. “So I blocked you.”
“Which means you didn't get my other text, inviting you out for coffee later today.”
“You want to see me again?”
“Is that a problem?”
“I thought one-night stands were just that. One night. Done. Neat and simple.”
“You didn't tell me that's all you wanted last night, Sarah.” His eyes narrow as he reaches for my wrist. “And I don't think that's all you really want.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because after our third time last night, you said so.”
“THIRD TIME? We had sex three times?” My mind races, calculating all the hot scenes I'm cataloguing. There are a lot.
Slot B has quite the database.
“Mmmm, technically, if you include that thing you did with your tongue, and the other thing I did with my pinkie finger, we could call it four –”
I cover his mouth with my hand and look around furiously. Brightly amused dark eyes meet mine. Clean-shaven, he showered somehow in the short time between leaving my apartment and this yoga class, smelling like coconut and cotton. I like the feel of his lips on my palm, but I can't tell him that.
Sounds like post-coital, third-glass-of-wine me told him plenty already.
“Do not talk about our sex life in public, Case,” I hiss at him.
“Mmmph mm ufff umph.”
“What?”
He pries my hand off his mouth, laughing. “I said, so now we have a sex life? That's more than a one-night stand. When do we get to leave toothbrushes in each other’s medicine cabinets?”
“What, exactly, did I say to you last night?”
“Well, after you showed me your Polly Pocket figurine collection in your closet –”
“I did not!”
“Sarah.” His even look makes my stomach sink.
I did. I really did.
“– and after you told me how unfair it was that iCarly had the best hair –”
I groan. I groan because this too is, sadly, believable.
“– then you pulled out your 'secret stash' of chocolate and shared it with me because you could tell I had soulmate potential.”
“Oh, God.”
“You talked a lot about Him, too. Or maybe to Him? Because every time I made you come –”
He gets the palm over the mouth again.
“Look, Case. Can we just forget last night happened? I'm here on ass –”
Oh, no. I can't admit I'm here on assignment.
“On ass... what?”
“On ass... duty. Ass duty! I need to get this ass toned.” Smacking my own butt, I catch the eye of a few fellow students, two of whom nod in agreement.
“Your ass is absolutely, positively perfect as is,” he says in a crooning voice that makes Slot B heat up so much it's sending smoke signals to Case. Fire alarms will go off soon. Sprinkler systems will be activated.
Although I'm plenty wet already.
“We can talk more about your ass over coffee later today.”
“You're serious.”
“I am. I like you.”
“What?”
“I said, I like you.”
We're already looking at each other, but the gaze deepens. Direct and no-bullshit, Case means it. He's telling me how he feels about me. There's no subterfuge.
Who does this?
Apparently, Case does.
“I – I like you too.”
“See? That wasn't hard. And you didn't even need that third glass of Pinot Grigio to do it.”
“Hey! How did you know... Oh. Right.”
“I was there. I saw you before you drank it.”
“You were watching me from afar?”
“That's a lovely way to say it. You and your friends came in. I liked you the second I saw you.”
“You did?” I reach up for my messy bun. “Me?”
He strokes my cheekbone with one finger. “Yes. You. Now, I don't know if you've noticed, but we have an audience.”
Looking around, I see what he means. All the students are now watching Case's finger on my jawline, and I count four women and two men who look pretty pissed about what they're seeing.
“Ahem.” I step out of his magnetic reach. “I'll go take my position over there.”
“I like when you take positions.”
My glare just makes him laugh.
Slinking to the back of the class, heart racing and Slot B now ready to secede from my body like it's Quebec, I unroll my mat, set my water bottle next to it, and start to stretch.
Ignoring all the curious looks.
“So help me, Moira, if that newbie over there bags Case, I'm going to scream. She can't even touch her toes with a straight leg!” I overhear as I instantly change my pose, the back of my knee rebelling against the flesh touching the plastic mat.
Maybe it doesn't like BPA.
Yeah. That's why I can't stretch all the way.
I have no idea who said that, but if reading faces is any indication, almost a third of the class hates me for seeing Case touch me like that.
Great.
So much for being inconspicuous.
Good investigative reporters fade into the background. They don't get intimately close, in public, to owners of the company they're investigating.
I've really, really screwed up, haven't I?
And gotten screwed, too. Three times, apparently.
Four, if you count whatever Case described involving that tongue and pinkie finger, which sounds like it got the Slot B Seal of Approval.
Maybe even Forbidden Zone C.
“Good morning, everyone!” Case says into the mic attached to his ear. “Welcome to Chakroga123, and our morning hot yoga class. We're at capacity today, with thirty-five determined souls coming here to access the inner divine, improve your physical being, and kick some yoga ass.”
He winks at me.
My ass approves.
And then he leads us in a series of slow stretches, my eyes on him nonstop. Case has a body honed by true dedication, long lines, thick muscles, and core strength beyond belief. You know those guys in videos who do pole dancing, but they can defy gravity? He's like Zac Efron in The Greatest Showman , only stronger.
Bigger.
Hotter.
I feel like a water buffalo in an aerobics class as I mimic his moves, until he's standing on one leg, the other pointed to the sky, his hand holding his ankle.
Tab A is on display and oh, my.
It's like SpaceX ready for launch.
It's getting hot in here.
And not just because the goal temperature is 99 degrees.
“Hey, kid.”
I turn toward the voice to find the old dude next to me – John? – looking wobbly.
“Yeah?”
“Got water I can drink? I left my bottle at home and I'm, uh...” In warrior pose, he crumples, fortunately hitting his mat. Quicker reflexes than I realize I possess kick in, and I get my hand under his head just before it hits the ground.
Pandemonium ensues.
Case looks down, rushes to stage left, and jumps in a grand arc off the edge, like a stuntman in an action-packed thriller, except this is real. John’s fainted, in my hands, and thank goodness Case is holding a small First Aid box. As he gets closer, I see it's an AED, for jump-starting hearts.
Except John is opening his eyes now, gaze coming into focus quickly.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “Anyone have juice? Need juice.”
“Diabetes?” I ask, my brain trawling through memory to find Junata Gordon, a fourth-grade classmate, being allowed to eat from our teacher’s secret stash of chocolate as she waited for the school nurse to arrive.
John nods, eyelids fluttering, deep wrinkles sagging over bright blue eyes as he begins to shake.
He reminds me of my grandpa back in Scranton.
“Here.” I thrust my bottle at him. “It's coconut water.” Carefully supporting his head, I help him lift up and take a sip.
“Need more sugar,” he mutters.
“Good luck finding that here,” one of the yogaletes mutters.
“We're getting an ambulance,” Case says, crouching down, reaching for John's hand. “You okay?”
“Hand me my bag,” I say firmly to him, Case reacting instantly, sliding my loose yoga mat carrier at me. Hopeful, I find what I'm looking for.
And start opening the peanut butter cup.
Someone in the background snorts derisively.
“Good thing you're not a purist,” Case says to me as John takes the chocolate disc and slowly starts eating.
“Orthorexia is overrated,” I reply loudly, earning a mix of offended huffs and giggles from the crowd.
Downtown Boston at six a.m. is a surprisingly fortunate place to need an ambulance. A crew appears in minutes, the emergency medical team well-equipped.
Someone in a Chakroga123 purple t-shirt appears with a clipboard, shoving it straight at Case. “Incident report. You know how this works. Corporate liability.”
“Of course I do, but let me be human first.”
She snorts, then pushes a strand of long, black hair off her face.. “You know how to play that role?”
“Cut it out, Rory.” Case jogs over to the receding medics as Rory gives me a once-over.
“Are you the reason for his porny smile this fine, fabulous morning?”
“His what?”
She shakes her head and walks away.
Case returns with ink written on his forearm in a loose, shaky scrawl, and an intense scrutiny of my face. “You okay?”
“Me? I'm fine.”
“You made all the difference in the world. Catching his head before it fell, having that candy bar –”
“My secret stash of chocolate isn't confined to my apartment. I am a mobile, non-organic, inflammatory goodie factory.”
He grins, wide and a little forlorn. “That could have been far worse. John's a regular. Been here since I bought the place. Really nice guy. Thank you.”
“I didn't do anything special.”
He seizes my arm, the touch a bit desperate. “You did. You showed an old man great kindness.”
“ And you saved Case’s ass from a liability standpoint,” Rory says as she walks by, carrying a stack of yoga blocks.
“That's secondary,” he snaps her way, turning back to me. “Look, let's upgrade that coffee date.”
“We never had a coffee date planned!”
“Fine. Twist my arm, then. It's a dinner date now.”
“I didn't – what are you –” I sputter.
“Pick you up at seven tonight. I know where you live,” he says with a wink before jogging off, back on stage, clapping his hands to get the crowd calmed down.
So much for being inconspicuous.
I've failed at Investigative Reporting 101.
But as Case resumes warrior pose, gorgeous ass in profile, it hits me:
My one-night stand is my yoga teacher. My target for my big journalistic break.
And...
My dinner date for tonight.
I've either done something really, really right, or –
Horribly wrong.