Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sienna
The villa glows in the soft golden afternoon light, which makes everything feel a little like a fever dream as I walk in, the gift shop bag swinging from my fingers.
Milo is sitting on the couch, laptop balanced on one knee, typing away like the fate of the world depends on whatever color-coded spreadsheet he’s conquering.
He glances up when I drop the bag onto the coffee table with a dramatic thud. Closing the laptop halfway, he raises a brow. “What’s in the bag?”
I flop onto the couch beside him, close enough that our thighs brush. “I don’t know about you, but I came here to relax, not contort myself into a pretzel. I had no workout gear, so I picked up something for both of us.”
I dig into the bag and pull out black athletic shorts and a gray tank top for him, then a teal sports bra and high-waisted shorts for me. The bra has a low neckline—enough to be interesting without being inappropriate.
I had a “fuck it” moment while browsing the gift shop after spending most of the afternoon at the pool with Aria. If we’re doing yoga, I might as well look hot while sweating.
Milo holds up the shorts, looking mildly surprised. “You bought me clothes?”
“Don’t make it weird,” I say, waving him off even as my stomach does a little flip at how domestic this feels, since I was the one teasing him about being domestic this morning. “Your khaki shorts weren’t exactly screaming ‘namaste.’”
His lips twitch. “Thanks. I think? Though I’m not sure ‘namaste’ is the vibe I’m going for.”
“Then what vibe are you going for?”
He shrugs, stands, clothes in hand, and heads toward his room. “Give me ten. I’m gonna shower, and then I’ll be out.”
I watch him go with that easy stride that’s somehow both relaxed and controlled. Slouching further into the couch, I bounce my knee restlessly, waiting impatiently for his return.
Twelve minutes later, he emerges, and damn. The gray tank stretches across his chest and shoulders, and the shorts sit low on his hips, revealing a tempting stripe of tanned skin as he lifts his arms.
I let out a low whistle. “Okay, I take it back. You look like you belong in a yoga ad. The kind that sells serenity and six-packs.”
He rolls his eyes, but I catch a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Your turn. We’ve got less than twenty minutes to get there.”
Fuck. Why didn’t I think to shower when he did?
Grabbing everything from the table, I head to my room, shower, and change quickly. Braiding my hair loosely while it’s still wet, I swipe on some gloss before stepping back out.
Milo is waiting on the deck, leaning against the railing, arms crossed as he stares at the ocean. When he hears my footsteps, he turns, his eyes flicking over me for a heartbeat longer than usual before he catches himself.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, clearing his throat. “Are you?”
“I hate yoga,” I confess as we start walking. “I hate the pretending-to-be-a-pretzel part, the overly serene instructor’s voice, and especially the part where they tell you to ‘listen to your body’ like mine isn’t screaming, ‘Why the fuck are you doing this on purpose?’”
His mouth twitches. “Dramatic as always.”
“I prefer honest.” I shoot back.
The beach setup looks beautiful when we arrive, with mats laid out in a wide circle and tiki torches waiting to be lit as the sun dips lower. Several wedding guests are already here, including Aria and Ethan, who look annoyingly cozy.
Aria spots us the second we get close and barrels straight toward me, pulling me into a hug. “You never told me you were coming tonight! This is going to be so much fun. We’re going to flow with the universe and all that jazz!”
“If it involves chanting, I’m out,” I mutter, peeling myself out of her death grip as the instructor glides past.
“No chanting,” the instructor assures me with a serene, slightly unsettling smile. “Just a gentle flow to help you unwind as the sun sets. Go find yourself a mat and get comfortable. We’ll start with some breath work to loosen up those knots you’re carrying in your neck.”
Aria loops her arm through mine and starts dragging me toward the water’s edge. “Let’s grab spots by the water. It’s way better to face away from the sun—trust me.”
I glance over and realize Milo has already drifted toward the guys. They’re in a loose huddle, laughing about something, but his eyes keep finding me every few seconds, like he’s watching to make sure I haven’t made a run for it.
I’m tempted, trust me.
Aria and I claim our spots directly across from the guys, with Claire and Lillian settling in beside us. I’ve barely had time to take a deep breath before the instructor claps her hands, beaming like she’s about to lead us in a spiritual group hug.
“Wonderful! Let’s begin with deep breathing. In through the nose… out through the mouth.”
I try to focus. I really do. But my traitorous eyes keep drifting across the circle to Milo. Why does he have to look that good in athletic shorts? It should be illegal.
Breathe, Sienna.
In through the nose, out through the mouth… and definitely do not fantasize about tackling him into the sand.
The instructor’s calm voice pulls me back. “Beautiful. Feel the sand beneath you and the breeze carrying away your tension. Now, fold forward—knees wide, arms extended, forehead to the mat.”
I bend into the pose and immediately regret every yoga class I’ve skipped. The stretch is equal parts heavenly and “oh my God, I’m not nearly as flexible as I thought.”
We move through a few more poses, arching and rounding our spines on all fours. The breeze cools the sweat prickling my skin. Then the instructor calls for downward dog. I groan as I push my hips up, heels digging into the sand. Blood rushes to my head as my calves scream in protest.
When we shift into a lunge—right knee bent, arms stretched out like airplane wings—I catch Milo mirroring me perfectly.
His lunge is deeper, his balance rock-solid.
A drop of sweat glides down his temple, pauses in the dip of his collarbone, then continues south, making his tank cling to his chest in all the right, deeply unfair ways.
Sweat should not be allowed to look that attractive.
I want to trace that exact path with my fingers… or maybe my tongue.
“You’re staring,” Aria whispers, leaning toward me with a knowing grin.
“I’m observing,” I mutter, lips pressed tight.
She snorts. “You’re even starting to sound like him now. This is amazing.”
Before I can fire back, the instructor claps again, far too cheerfully.
“Alright, beautiful souls! Time for partner poses. Find someone to work with. We’re doing a seated forward bend with a twist. One person folds forward while the other gently holds their partner’s shoulder or back to deepen the stretch. ”
We all pair up with our bingo partners. Milo heads straight for me without hesitation, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his tank top like he’s in a damn cologne commercial. My mouth waters at the sight.
“Guess we’re stuck together,” he says with a slight smile playing on his lips.
“Guess so,” I reply, scooting back on my mat so we’re sitting spine-to-spine. “Try not to crush me with those muscles of yours.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he assures me, his voice low enough to vibrate against my back. “Unless you ask me not to be.”
Heat shoots straight down my spine. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”
The faint dampness of his sweat soaks through his tank and onto my back, and I have to remind myself how to breathe.
When the instructor tells us to go ahead and begin, I fold forward first, reaching for my toes. Milo twists gently, with one hand on my shoulder and the other resting on my lower back.
I let out an audible groan as my muscles stretch.
“Too much?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear.
“No,” I manage. His hands feel way too good. “You’re very… handsy for a guy who makes color-coded spreadsheets for a living.”
He lets out a low, rough laugh, and the sound does dangerous things to my insides. “And you’re surprisingly bendy for someone who claims to hate yoga.”
“I said I hate yoga,” I shoot back. “I never said anything about other flexible activities.”
It’s silent for the remainder of my folding time. When it’s my turn to twist, I place one hand on Milo’s shoulder and the other on his side. His muscles shift and flex under my palm with every breath. He’s so warm. So solid.
“You’re tense,” I whisper.
“You’re the reason,” he replies in a gravelly voice.
The instructor drifts by, offering adjustments with far too much enthusiasm. “Beautiful connection, you two! Lean into each other a little more—yes, perfect! Now, whoever is twisting, give a gentle pull. And remember to communicate. Let your partner know if it feels good or if you need to ease up.”
“Trust,” I mutter under my breath. “She has no idea what she’s asking us to do right now.”
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling straight down his spine and into mine. “She has no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”
I twist a little harder just to make him grunt. “What I’m doing to you? And what’s that, exactly?”
“You’ve got a death grip on my shoulder,” he replies. “If I end up folded like a pretzel, I’m blaming you.”
“Blame away. Pretzel sounds ambitious,” I tease. “I was going for ‘mildly uncomfortable but still ridiculously sexy.’”
He snorts so loudly he nearly collapses out of the pose. “Sexy? I have cramp in my left butt cheek. This is the least sexy thing I think I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
“Your butt cheek is currently pressed against my spine,” I grin, though he can’t see it. “And I’m having a full-blown religious experience over here.”
“Lucky you,” he grumbles.
When the pose ends, and we finally separate, the ghost of his touch still lingers on my skin. The rest of the class passes in a hazy blur of stolen glances, burning muscles, and way too much sweat on one unfairly attractive man.
By the time we reach the final pose—savasana, lying flat on our backs with the sunset painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges—I’m a complete mess.
I sneak one last look at Milo. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily, sweat glistening along his throat and collarbone.
The golden light makes him look annoyingly beautiful.
When the instructor ends the session, we all sit up. Milo wordlessly hands me a water bottle. I thank him, twist the cap off, and chug half of it in one go. Before I catch my breath, Aria plops down beside me with a knowing grin.
“You okay over there?” she giggles, her breath even, like we weren’t just doing a whole workout and a half.
I nod, catching my breath. “That was intense.”
“The yoga or the eye-fucking?”
I nearly choke. “Aria.”
“What?” she laughs. “He kept looking at you like you were the only person on the beach. And you were staring at his chest like it was on tonight’s menu.”
I swat her arm. “Go away.”
She laughs, and we end up play-wrestling in the sand like children until we’re both breathless and covered in sand.
When things settle, Aria invites us to dinner, but I shake my head. “I’m socialized out. I’m ordering food to the villa and staring at the ocean until I pass out. Rain check?”
She pouts dramatically, then nods. “Fine, but you owe me a girls’ night tomorrow. Milo?”
Milo glances at me for a beat, then nods. “I’ll be there.”
Aria grins. “Yay! See you both later—well, see you later, Milo. Sienna, enjoy your quiet night… alone.”
As Aria and Ethan head off, Milo and I walk back toward the villa. Halfway there, I nudge him with my elbow. “Scared of being alone with me?”
He looks at me, his eyes steady. “I’m always scared when it comes to you.”
I tilt my head. “Why?”
“A lot of reasons.”
I study him for a second—the way his tank clings to his chest from sweat, the way his eyes linger on mine a fraction too long. A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle to swallow. I clear my throat and look up at the darkening sky.
“Care to elaborate on those reasons?” I ask.
He unlocks the villa door, then turns to look at me. “Maybe later. I’m going to shower and head to dinner.”
He disappears into his room, and the soft click of the door echoes in the suddenly too-quiet space. I stand there for a long moment, fingers tracing the glittery heart still on my wrist, the ocean roaring beyond the deck. It feels like the room holds its breath after him.
The silence feels heavier than it should, like it’s waiting for something I can’t name.