Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

STEPHANIE

B reathe in light; breathe out tension.

Breathe in love; breathe out fear.

That’s my mantra on Friday afternoon, as I quietly chant through my meditation. The late afternoon stillness wraps around me like a blanket, offering peace before I jump back into teaching for several more hours.

Well, something close to peace anyway…

Mr. Sniffles, my gold and gray pug, snores with impressive volume from his bed next to my yoga mat, occasionally emitting a snort so loud it threatens to shatter my Zen and the space-time continuum. But that’s okay. His little round body rising and falling with each snore is its own kind of mindfulness reminder.

My phone buzzes on the floor beside me. Twice. Three times. Four.

I ignore it. The messages will still be there when my fifteen minutes of recentering are over.

The phone buzzes six more times in rapid succession.

I crack a lid.

It buzzes twice more.

So much for enlightenment…

With a sigh, I pluck it from the ground.

Drake. Ugh, of course it’s Drake, the only person I know who would text a dozen times without waiting for an answer.

I should ignore him. I promised myself I would ignore him. I promised Bree I would ignore him.

Eight more buzzes.

“Geez, all right, you maniac,” I mutter, snatching the phone and scrolling to the top of his stream of textual diarrhea.

From the texts of Stephanie Love

and Drake Barrow

Drake: Hey Steph, you up there? Come down and see me, baby.

Drake: Steph, I know you’re up there. Your window is open.

Drake: Only YOU would have your window open when it’s 80 degrees outside.

Drake: Steph?

Drake: Stephanie?

Drake: STEPHANIE LOVE ANSWER ME PLEASE. Are you napping?

Drake: Sorry to wake you if you’re napping, but I need to see you. It’s important.

Drake: Really important.

Drake: Like life-changing important.

Drake: I’m literally right downstairs. All you have to do is buzz me in.

Drake: I have something for you.

Drake: Come on, I’m burning up out here. It’s hot as balls today.

Drake: Please? Just answer?

Drake: Are you still mad about that thing with Willa?

Drake: I told you, baby, it wasn’t my fault. She was being super flirty and acting like she was dying for me to ask her to hook up. I swear, I thought you two had talked and decided to share or something. I mean crazier things have happened.

Drake: Women are wild these days.

Drake: Especially in Portland. You would not believe some of the kinky shit I hear about. It’s like…normal now to have threesome and throuples and shit. I was just being normal!

Drake: Come on, Steph. Buzz me in. The neighbors are staring…

I roll my eyes so hard it makes my brain ache a little. Drake Barrow—real estate sleaze, professional liar, and the human equivalent of a car crash I’ve had a stupidly hard time looking away from.

He is, without question, the worst decision I’ve made in my adult life.

Yet somehow, I can’t quite bring myself to block his number. Knowing him as well as I do—all his bluster is just a cover up for how deeply insecure he truly is—it just feels mean.

And I don’t enjoy being mean.

With that in mind, I type a quick response:

Stephanie: I’m not home. And I’m busy. Please stop texting me. We’re broken up, remember? For real and forever, this time. And Willa was not flirting with you, btw. She doesn’t even like men.

The response is immediate:

Drake: Dude, I know! That’s why I thought you two had worked something out together to like…share. That we would both share YOU, because you’re the sexiest. But honestly, I was high and not thinking straight. But I’m crystal clear now. I promise. I haven’t smoked in a week. I’m locked the fuck in now, baby, and you’re all I can think about. Please, Steph, I’m sorry. I promise I never meant to hurt you or cheat on you. I was just high and confused.

For one ridiculous moment, I feel my resolve waver. Not because I believe his nonsense about “sharing” me or that we’re ever going to work as a couple, but—God help me—I’m frisky. And Drake isn’t bad in bed. Not great, but not even close to bad.

Maybe it would be okay to invite him over one last time…

Just to take the edge off before I commit to a life of celibacy as I get my dating house in order…

But no…

I shake my head.

I’m stronger than that.

And I need peace way more than I need orgasms.

Stephanie: Goodbye, Drake. Take care. Don’t text me again.

There. Done. No more nonsense. I silence my phone, set it face down, and close my eyes again.

Breathe in calm; breathe out Drake.

Mr. Sniffles chooses that moment to wake up, stretching with a dramatic groan before waddling over to my mat and planting himself directly in the middle of it, one paw on my ankle.

I open my eyes to find him staring up at me, his eyes bulging in his wrinkled face with expectation.

“Hey, buddy,” I say with a laugh, scratching behind his ears. “Ready for early old man supper?”

He snorts his agreement, and I’m forced to admit meditation defeat. For now. But my four o’clock beginner flow class is a chill bunch. They’ll be happy to spend a few extra moments in savasana at the end of class, giving us all time to recenter before I dive into my hot yoga class at five-thirty and an inversion intensive with my advanced students at seven.

I scoop Mr. Sniffles into my arms, carrying him to the small kitchenette at the back of the studio, where I set him down next to his bowl. While he chomps happily on his grain-free organic meal (which costs more per pound than anything I feed myself), I grab a protein smoothie from the mini-fridge and head back toward the lobby.

On my way, my phone buzzes in the side pocket of my yoga pants, but I ignore it, having had my fill of Drake drama for the day.

Instead, I focus on sweeping up in the lobby, lighting candles, and confirming private appointments for next week via email, including a few sessions with NHL players—and wannabe players—who have become my special niche.

At first, teaching yoga to a bunch of professional athletes was like trying to herd cats. Big, muscular cats who thought flexibility was for “girls and goalies” and meditation was a waste of time that could be better spent grunting in the weight room. But over the past few years, I’ve won most of them over. They’ve discovered that better balance means fewer falls on the ice, better focus means fewer penalties, and better recovery means fewer injuries.

Plus, I don’t take any of their macho bullshit, which they secretly appreciate.

Finished with email, I give in to the urge to check my phone—5 more ridiculous messages from Drake, which I swipe away without reading—before taking Mr. Sniffles out to the small back garden to do his business.

I’ve just returned inside when the rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the peaceful ambiance in the studio. It’s a distinctive sound—deep, powerful, with that unmistakable Harley growl that vibrates up through the floorboards.

Through the front windows, I watch as a matte black motorcycle pulls up to the curb. The rider is tall and broad-shouldered, clad in worn jeans and a leather jacket despite the August heat. Even with his face obscured by a helmet, there’s something magnetic about him, a confident ease in the way he swings his leg over the bike, a casual strength in the way he props it on its stand.

I’m not proud of the little flutter in my stomach in response.

After Drake, I promised myself I was done with “bad boys,” done with men who radiate danger and complications. I’ve spent the last four months purging that attraction from my system, focusing on stable, centered energy.

But damn if this guy doesn’t look…delicious.

Mr. Sniffles lets out a suspicious snort beside me, as if reading my thoughts and judging them. Harshly.

“I know, I know,” I whisper. “I’m just looking. Window shopping is still allowed.”

The rider removes his helmet, and recognition strikes like a meditation bell ringing through the air, shocking me from my wayward thoughts. That sharp jawline covered in dark stubble, those intense eyes, the scars that cut through different places on both his eyebrows, giving him a permanent “don’t fuck with me” expression…

It’s Theodore “Tank” LiBassi, Shane and Bree’s brooding friend, the one I briefly chatted with at happy hour earlier this summer. The one who lurked at the edges of the beer garden, nursing a single Pale Ale, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than in a garden on a sunny day, surrounded by good friends and great music.

The one who declined my invitation to dance with a grunt that might have meant “no thanks” or “I’d rather eat glass, leave me alone, you weird woman.”

So, basically, exactly my type of trouble, historically speaking. The kind of man I have decided to avoid at all costs. And now, he’s walking up the steps to my little brownstone studio, apparently not in the neighborhood to hit the motorcycle bar down the street or the army-navy surplus on the corner.

Nope. He’s coming here.

Inside. Right now.

Shit!

I smooth down my tank top and flip a stray braid over my shoulder, reminding myself that I’m a professional. If he’s here for my beginner flow class, I’ll treat him like any other student—with respect, patience, and absolutely no thoughts about how nice those tattooed arms of his would feel wrapped around me.

Zero thoughts.

None whatsoever.

The door chimes as he enters, his presence immediately making my peaceful lobby feel several sizes smaller. He fills the space, not just physically—though at well over six feet with shoulders that could block out the sun, that’s part of it—but with an energy that’s so intense it crackles in the air around him.

“Hey there,” I say, my voice coming out lighter and perkier than intended. “Welcome to Love Lotus. Theodore, right? Shane’s friend?”

He grunts—apparently not pleased that I’ve remembered him—then clears his throat. “Tank. You can call me Tank. And you’re Stephanie. We met at happy hour.”

I nod. “Yes, I was the one dancing. You were the one looking annoyed by the dancing.”

Surprise flickers across his face.

Then, irritation.

I wince. “Sorry, I was just teasing. I understand that dancing isn’t everyone’s thing. It’s not a big deal. Sorry.” I suck in a breath and force a smile. “So, what can I do for you? Are you here for a class or…”

He grunts again and glances around the space, his gaze lingering suspiciously on the hammock full of pillows in the corner, as if he suspects it might be hiding a sniper. “Yeah. Doc Peterson said I should try yoga and gave me your card so…” His scowl reaches new, scowly depths as his focus returns to my face.

“Lovely.” I keep my smile fixed in place, refusing to be intimidated. “So, you’re here for the four o’clock beginner flow, then?”

He grunts yet again, a slightly more affirmative sound, this time.

“Great. We have a small group of experienced students today, perfect for your first class.” I gesture to the cubbies along the wall. “You can store your things there, the bathrooms are down the hall, and the studio is through that door. Once you’ve changed, just grab a mat from the hooks on the wall, find a spot, and make yourself comfortable.”

He sets his backpack down, pulling out a pair of mesh basketball-style shorts that give me pause. “Did you bring pants, by any chance?” I ask.

Tank blinks. “Pants?”

“Yes, or shorts with spandex underneath?” I ask, pushing on when he continues to look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, “You’re going to be getting into a lot of unusual positions. With normal shorts, everyone will be able to see straight up the legs to all your bits and pieces when you’re in downward facing dog. Which can be…awkward. For everyone. I have some pants you can borrow from the loaner bin if you’d like?”

His expression is so horrified, I have to fight a laugh. “Um, sure,” he says. “Yeah. Thank you.”

I return a moment later with the largest pair of pants I could find in the loaner bin to see Mr. Sniffles investigating our new student, sniffing enthusiastically at Tank’s boots as he slides them into a cubby.

Tank scratches at my pug’s wrinkly neck with a soft smile that makes him easily a hundred times more attractive. He’s sexy when he’s all scowly, but he’s action-movie-star irresistible when he smiles.

Be still my bad-boy-with-a-sweet-side loving heart…

“That’s Mr. Sniffles,” I say, as I drop the pants on top of his cubby. “Studio mascot, emotional support animal, and generally wise and wonderful beastie of my heart.”

“He’s a champ, I can tell. Aren’t you, Sniffles?” Tank asks, the warmth leaving his voice as he reaches for the pants. “Thanks for these. I’ll change and find a place in the back. Out of the way.”

“Set up wherever you’re comfortable,” I tell him, waving as Hattie, one of my senior students climbs the steps outside. “Like I said, this is a small class, full of great people. You’re in for a lovely first practice.”

He grunts, and I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to tease him about his language of grunts.

That would be too much like flirting, and I refuse to flirt with a client.

Or a bad boy.

Or any combination of the two.

Within ten minutes, the entire class is on their mats—three middle-aged women who come each week together, a college girl recovering from a gymnastics injury, Hattie, my senior queen, and Old Pete, who started yoga after his heart attack last year. They’re all eyeing the massive, cranky beast in the back row when I walk in, clearly curious about the newbie.

Or maybe they’re concerned for their safety…

Tank’s scowl is even more ominous than before.

“Everyone, this is Tank. He’s joining us for his first class today,” I announce as I place Mr. Sniffles in his special corner bed and offer everyone a welcoming grin. “Tank, this is the Friday afternoon dream team. Welcome to our weekly happy hour. Let’s start in child’s pose today, lovelies.”

I take my place at the front of the class, demonstrating the pose before turning to study my students, including Tank who appears to have fairly open hip flexors for a musclebound guy.

“Close your eyes if that feels right,” I add, “and bring your attention to your breath. Just observe, at first. See where you might be holding tension, where things feel free. Be aware of any thoughts or feelings that might arise with the breath, and gently let those go. Arrive here and now, taking a moment to be grateful for this time on your mat.”

I guide them out of child’s pose, into cat and cow poses, before taking our first, gentle, bent-leg downward facing dog.

My regulars follow along easily, their bodies familiar with the routine. Tank lags a few seconds behind, but catches on quickly, the way most athletes do.

But the poor man clearly has a boatload of tension in his shoulders. Even after three rounds of sun salutations, he’s still as stiff as he was from the first forward fold.

“Now back to downward dog and hold for five long inhalations and exhalations,” I say as I make my way toward him. I crouch beside his mat as I whisper, “May I offer an adjustment?”

“What?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“An adjustment for your form,” I repeat. “I think it might help with the pain in your shoulder.”

“I…” He trails off with a sigh. “Sure. Can’t feel any weirder about having my ass up in the air than I do already, I guess.”

I smile. “Everything new feels a little weird at first, right?” I move behind him, gently gripping his hips, keeping my focus on my professional obligation to a student, not the fact that Tank is so muscular his glutes are practically bursting through his borrowed pants.

The man is a seriously impressive specimen.

“Okay, bend your knees,” I murmur. “Perfect, a little more. Good. Now engage your core and shift back, putting more weight in the heels.” I guide his hips closer to the wall behind him. “Push through your fingertips, paying extra attention to your pointer finger and thumb. Brilliant.” I move back to crouch by his mat, resting a light palm between his shoulders. “Now let your chest sink toward the ground. Perfect! How does that feel?”

He grunts. “Better. Good, actually.”

“Amazing,” I say, giving his shoulder blades one last, encouraging rub. “You take direction very well. And just remember, there should never be pain during your practice. Discomfort is fine, as long as you can keep your breath fairly even, but if you feel pain, back off, and I’ll come help you find a version of the posture that works.”

To the rest of the class, I guide in a louder voice, “Now, bend your knees, look up to the mat between your hands, and step or lightly hop to the top of your mat.”

As we move through the rest of the standing sequence and transition to our seated poses, I keep a surreptitious eye on Tank. He struggles with any posture requiring flexibility in the shoulder girdle and upper spine, but there’s a stubborn determination in the way he approaches each new form that I can’t help but admire.

Though he really needs to remember to breathe…

“Inhale,” I murmur, stopping beside his mat again as he leans into a seated forward fold. “Inhale,” I repeat. “For real, Theodore, I need you to pull in a deep breath.”

He shoots a dangerous look my way. “Tank,” he whispers. “Unless you want me to call you Stephie.”

I arch a brow. “Point taken, but I really do need you to breathe. The breathing is the most important part. The breathing is what we’re here for.”

He sniffs in a begrudging breath.

I nod and smile. “Good, now let’s see if you can inhale for three seconds. Relax your belly and pull air in from the base of your ribs all the way up to the top of your rib cage.” I hum in approval as he gives it his best shot. “Now exhale for a count of four, emptying the lungs completely.” As he releases the air, I gently push at the small of his back, moving him deeper into the forward fold.

He makes a sound somewhere between a groan of protest and a moan of relief that makes Hattie chuckle on her mat beside him. “I felt the same way my first time,” she whispers encouragingly. “She’s a tiny tyrant, but you’ll feel so much better when we’re done.”

To my surprise, Tank glances her way, a small smile curving his full lips as he admits, “I actually feel better already.”

“Amazing, that’s so great to hear,” I say, warmth spreading through my chest.

This is why I love what I do. Yoga isn’t just exercise. Every time we show up on our mats, we’re healing, growing, and expanding our hearts and minds.

“Moving on to our favorite part, lovelies,” I say, standing to address the group. “Savasana time. Lie down, close your eyes, and take a few minutes of stillness to allow your body to integrate everything it learned today.”

I turn up the ambient music until it throbs in the room and return to my mat at the front, watching over the precious souls in my charge. When I’m here at the end of class, holding space for my students so they can relax and let go, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. This path hasn’t always been easy—my parents were both profoundly disappointed when I bailed on college to study yoga, and I know I’ll never be as financially stable as my friends who finished their business degrees—but there’s so much joy here.

In this room.

In this practice.

In knowing I’m doing exactly what the universe put me here to do.

When I’m in the teaching flow, the doubts that haunt me in other parts of my life fade away, leaving me in a place of peaceful gratitude.

After I’ve brought the class into a final seated pose and we’ve closed our practice with three loud, proud chants of “om,” I remind everyone about the headstand workshop coming up next month and wish them an amazing rest of their Friday. As the other students roll up their mats and filter out with quiet thank-yous, Tank lingers, staring down at his borrowed mat like he isn’t sure what to do with it.

“You can just leave it on the floor, and I’ll clean it before I hang it back up,” I say, smiling as I cross the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” he says, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “But also calm and…cleaner. On the inside. If that makes sense.”

“It totally does, and that’s fabulous,” I say, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “And it only gets better, the more you practice, I promise. I was already seeing a huge change in your shoulder mobility between the beginning of class and the end.”

He nods, a frown wrinkling his forehead as he rolls his left arm in a circle. “Yeah, it feels better. Better than it has in a while, actually.” His frown deepens as he emits another of his signature grunts.

I cock my head. “And that makes you angry because…”

His lips twitch. “Because now I have no excuse to bail on more of the breathing and stretching. I guess you’d better sign me up for a class pack or whatever that sign on the door said.”

I pump a fist, beaming as I say, “Yes! Another yoga convert. A reluctant one, but I’ll take it.”

He laughs—just a faint huff of amusement, but I can already tell that’s a big deal from Tank—and shrugs. “Sure. I guess I am a convert. Sorry for coming in with my mind made up. My stubbornness is a strength, but it’s also a weakness.”

“No worries,” I say, softening toward him. “That’s true of most strengths, honestly. But yoga helps with that, too. The more you learn to be present in any given moment, the more you’re able to access exactly the amount of effort you need. No more, no less.”

His grunt is dubious this time.

I laugh and give his arm a friendly squeeze. “Got it. I’ll reign in the esoteric stuff for now. I just can’t help myself sometimes. I’m such a yoga nerd.”

“It’s okay,” he says, a gentleness in his gruff voice I haven’t heard before. “I like nerds. Of all kinds. Nerds are important.”

Softening toward him again, I bring my hands to meet at my chest in a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you.” Our gazes catch and hold, and for a second I have impure thoughts about this man with the soulful eyes.

Thoughts I banish as quickly as they arrive.

He is a student.

A student! And I am a professional.

Composing myself, I motion for him to follow me into the lobby. “Come on. Let’s get you set up with a class pack before my five thirty folks start to arrive.”

From his bed in the corner, Mr. Sniffles lets out a plaintive whine and oozes off his cushion onto the floor. Tank glances his way, that ghost of a smile appearing once more.

“Dog yoga?” he asks as Mr. Sniffles stretches into full sploot with a whimper.

I sigh. “No, just garden variety begging, I’m afraid. Hattie used to give him a treat after every class, but I had to ask her to stop. Mr. Sniffles is already a big boy.”

“Big boned, you mean,” Tank counters, crouching to extend a hand toward my pitiful pup. “Isn’t that right, buddy?”

Mr. Sniffles scoots eagerly across the floor on his belly, snuffling in excitement. When his head collides with Tank’s hand, he lets out a happy grunt and rolls over to offer his belly.

“He sounds like you,” I tease. “With the grunts.”

Tank shoots me another dark look, this time with an edge of playfulness—and heat—that makes my stomach flutter. “I resemble that remark.”

I bite my lip. Shit.

Looks like Mr. Tall, Cranky, and Grunty has a sense of humor, after all. Which means resisting the awareness simmering between us just got at least five times harder.

A sense of humor on a sexy man is my kryptonite.

Before I can offer a flirty comeback—or retreat to the lobby to get my head on straight—the front door chimes. I glance toward the open studio door to see a familiar figure sauntering into the lobby.

An unwelcome familiar figure…

It’s Drake, wearing his usual “I’m a genius rock god forced to sell real estate for my rich father ” outfit of torn black jeans and a vintage band t-shirt, his dark hair artfully tousled in a way I know takes ten minutes and three different styling products.

“There’s my queen,” he exclaims, spreading his arm wide. “I was hoping I’d catch you between classes.”

My entire body tenses. “I told you I was busy, Drake. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to?—”

“I know, I know, but it’ll only take a few minutes. We always talk things through better in person. You know that.” His eyes dart to Tank, who’s still crouched on the floor petting Mr. Sniffles, before sliding back to me. His tone is notably cooler as he adds, “I didn’t realize you had company.”

Tank says nothing. He simply stands up, rising to his full height in one smooth, measured motion. But I swear, I can suddenly feel his energy prickling across my skin, vibrating through my bones, his presence expanding to fill the entire room.

This man has an aura unlike anything I’ve experienced in real life, and a part of me instantly decides he could benefit from a Reiki treatment to help him hold onto some of that power instead of letting it pour out of him like an energy tsunami.

The other part of me just wants to stand in the path of his energy and let it wash over me until I’m tingling all over…

Reminding myself how much trouble “tingling all over” caused me the last time I started crushing on a bad boy, I prop my hands on my hips and say firmly, “My five thirty students will be arriving any minute, and I have to get a new student set up with a class pass. Whatever you need, Drake, it’s going to have to wait.”

Drake’s features shift into that wounded puppy expression he’s perfected, the one that used to be so good at making me feel like the bad guy. “Relax. This won’t take long. Just give me five minutes.”

I sigh, but before I can respond, Tank murmurs, “She said she’s busy. You should leave.”

His voice is low, casual, but carries an unmistakable warning.

Drake blinks, clearly taken aback, but his temper doesn’t flare the way it usually would.

But then, he isn’t used to being the smaller man in a room. Drake is a massive guy, but Tank is even bigger, a fact my ex takes a moment to soak in, his eyes flicking over Tank’s imposing frame, lingering on the tattoos visible beneath his t-shirt, his scars, the set of his jaw.

“And who are you?” Drake asks, but his “tough guy” voice is thinner than usual.

“Doesn’t matter who I am. It matters who she is. And she’s a business owner who’s busy and deserves to have her boundaries respected.” His tone—calm, matter-of-fact, but with that undercurrent of steel—sends a shiver down my spine.

Or maybe it’s the fact that someone’s bothering to stick up for me besides me that has my knees feeling weaker than they did a moment before. My entire life, I’ve been the only one who had my back. I moved around too much as a kid to make ride or die friends, and my parents were the kind of people who preached “turning the other cheek” religiously.

And I agree. Most of the time, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I almost always turn the other cheek. But when I can’t, when I have to draw a line in the sand…

Well, it’s always hard. Stressful.

But when Tank does it?

It’s weirdly not anxiety-provoking at all. It’s actually kind of nice.

Drake exhales a sound somewhere between a snort and laugh. “Seriously, Steph? You’re going to let this guy speak for you? That doesn’t seem like the proud black queen, I know.”

I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. If another white guy never calls me a “proud black queen” again it’ll be too soon. Especially Drake. You don’t get to ignore my request to leave me alone and praise my “proudness” at the same time.

I’m just done with his nonsense. Totally done.

I point to the door. “Go. Now. If you do, I’ll call you when I’m done with class. If not, I’m blocking you, Drake.”

“But Steph, I?—”

“Goodbye, Drake,” I cut in, widening my eyes, hoping he can see that I mean business.

After a tense beat, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll be up late. Call whenever.” He backs toward the door, shooting one last glare Tank’s way before he turns and charges through the lobby, slamming the door behind him.

When he’s gone, I exhale, willing my jaw to relax and my shoulders to drop away from my ears. “Thanks for the back up,” I say.

Tank’s expression darkens. “Your ex?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He come by unannounced a lot?”

I shrug, trying to make light of it. “Sometimes. He’s just…persistent, but ultimately harmless.”

Tank makes a skeptical sound, but doesn’t press further. Instead, he nods toward the studio door. “Want me to stick around until your next class gets here? Just in case he decides to come back?”

“Oh no, of course not,” I say, moving into the lobby with a forced laugh. “I’m fine, honestly. And I apologize. This isn’t the first impression I want to make with a new student. Things aren’t usually this dramatic around here.”

“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, moving in front of the welcome desk as I slip behind it and wiggle the mouse, stirring my computer to life. “And you made a good first impression. Aside from the chanting stuff at the end.”

I smile. “Not a fan of making noise?”

“Not that kind of noise. I’ll do the twice a week one,” he says, plopping his credit card down on the desk. “I prefer to know what I’m saying.”

I arch a brow as I run his card and quickly get him set up in the system. “Well, we can talk about the meaning of ‘om’ sometime, if you want. It’s actually pretty beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, making my jaw go slack with shock. “And too good for that guy. Don’t let him fuck with you if you don’t want to be fucked with.” He motions toward his lower half. “I’ll wash the pants at home and bring them back next time. Thanks for the loan and the class. It was good.”

And then, before I can pull myself together, he turns, collects his things, and walks out the door.

I stand, still gaping as he dons his helmet, swings confidently onto his motorcycle, and rumbles away, all without sparing me another glance.

“Well, shit,” I mutter, my heart racing.

Mr. Sniffles waddles over, looking up at me with a smug expression on his wrinkled face as if to say, “I knew you couldn’t resist that guy. You’re a sucker for the broody ones.”

“Don’t judge me,” I say, bending to scoop him into my arms. “I’m going to resist him. He’s just…sexy.” I exhale. “Really sexy.”

Mr. Sniffles snorts in what sounds like agreement.

I grin. “Yeah? You think so, too? Were the neck scratches that good?”

He sneezes. Then yawns, letting out a high-pitched honking sound from his flat nose that summons a laugh from Zelda, a friend from my early days in Portland, as she breezes through the door.

“Same, Mr. Sniffles!” she says, a breath of fresh, feminine air in her white linen dress and arm bangles after all the testosterone of the past few minutes. “I’m exhausted. What a day, huh, buddy?”

“Agreed,” I say, grateful that she’s the first student through the door for the next class. I could use a little girl talk before I put on my professional hat again. “You just missed Drake. He’s been texting non-stop.”

She rolls her big green eyes. “Girl, no. Block him. You’re too nice. He doesn’t deserve another second of your time or energy.”

I nod as I exhale a freeing breath. “I was just thinking the same.”

The irony that it took another “bad boy” to make me positive it was time to cut Drake loose isn’t lost on me. But then maybe Tank isn’t that “bad,” after all.

As my hot yoga students file in and I turn up the thermostat and the infrared lights on the ceiling, my mind keeps drifting back to that final moment before he left and the frank way he’d said that I was beautiful…

I shouldn’t be focusing on that part, or tingling for a student who screams “complicated” from his motorcycle boots to his wounded eyes, but sometimes the heart has a mind of its own.

So does the va-jay-jay.

And my va-jay-jay is definitely intrigued by Mr. LiBassi.

Very intrigued, indeed.

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