Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ETHAN
TANTRIC WHAT NOW?
I should probably feel guilty about forcing Harper into couples’ activities. The yoga especially might be pushing it. But after watching her stomp away from the obstacle course, still flushed from exertion and irritation, guilt is not what I’m feeling.
I’m in my suite, showered and changed into board shorts and a t-shirt, when my phone rings. Alex is, right on schedule.
“Please tell me that video of you two falling on top of each other is strategic and not an actual workplace harassment lawsuit waiting to happen,” she says by way of greeting.
“Good afternoon to you too.” I stretch out on the sofa, still pleasantly tired from the obstacle course. “And yes, it’s strategic. Dr. Bennett and I have an understanding.”
“An understanding where she looks like she wants to push you overboard?”
“That’s just her natural expression around me.” I grin, remembering Harper’s furious whispers during the Trust Fall. “The important thing is we won the competition. Social media is eating it up.”
“I’ve noticed.” Keys click in the background as Alexis presumably checks the latest metrics. “Your approval rating among environmentally conscious demographics is up twelve points since yesterday.”
“See? The champagne incident was the best thing that could have happened.”
“Great thesis. Terrible methodology.” She sighs. “Just tell me you’re not torturing this woman.”
I hesitate a beat too long.
“Ethan.”
“We’re taking part in ship activities that highlight our sustainable programs. It’s a win-win.”
“What’s the next ‘win-win’ activity?”
“Tantric yoga.”
Alexis makes a choking sound. “You’re doing tantric yoga with Dr. Harper Bennett? The woman who called your Green Ocean Initiative ‘a pathetic attempt to greenwash industrial-scale destruction’?”
“That’s the one.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s just yoga,” I protest, though we both know it’s not just yoga. “Besides, she needs access to our environmental data, and I need positive press. This arrangement works for everyone.”
“Until she murders you in your sleep.”
“She’s warming up to me.”
Alexis snorts. “Is that what you call it when someone looks at you like they’re mentally calculating how long it would take your body to sink to the ocean floor?”
“She’s passionate about her work. I respect that.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone drips skepticism. “Just remember, we need her endorsement for the initiative, not another viral video of her attempting bodily harm.”
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
“Famous last words.” She pauses. “The Mako board is watching this situation closely. Don’t screw it up.”
“When have I ever screwed up?”
“Do you want that alphabetically or chronologically?”
I laugh. “I’ll handle it. Harper Bennett will be singing our praises by the time this cruise ends.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t end up singing your eulogy instead.”
After hanging up, I check social media. The obstacle course video is trending, with most comments speculating about the “obvious chemistry” between Harper and me. A few environmental accounts are accusing her of selling out, which I should probably warn her about before she checks her phone.
A knock at the door interrupts my scrolling. I open it to find the ship’s yoga instructor, a serene-looking woman in flowing linen.
“Mr. Cole? I’m Devi, your tantric instructor for this afternoon.” She hands me a folded set of white cotton clothes. “These are traditional for the practice. I wanted to discuss some modifications to the standard routine, given the... unique nature of your partnership with Dr. Bennett.”
“Modifications?”
“The standard couple’s tantric yoga includes significant physical contact and breathwork designed to enhance intimacy.” She smiles diplomatically. “I observed your obstacle course performance earlier. Perhaps a less... provocative approach would be appropriate?”
I consider this. On one hand, toning down the session might prevent Harper from murdering me. On the other hand...
“Devi, I think the traditional approach will be perfect.” I accept the clothes with a smile. “Dr. Bennett is committed to experiencing the full range of the ship’s activities for her assessment.”
“If you’re certain.” She looks dubious. “The full program includes partner massage, shared breathing exercises, and several poses that require extensive contact.”
“Sounds educational.”
“Very well.” She hands me a brochure. “The session begins at 2 PM in the Crystal Pavilion. Please arrive fifteen minutes early for centering meditation.”
After she leaves, I examine the white cotton outfit—loose pants and a sleeveless top. Simple, comfortable, and definitely not what Harper is expecting.
I grab my phone to text her a heads-up, then reconsider. The element of surprise seems more entertaining.
At 1:45, I make my way to the Crystal Pavilion, a glass-enclosed space on the top deck with panoramic ocean views. The room has been transformed into a yoga sanctuary—dim lighting, incense burning, soft instrumental music playing. Purple yoga mats are arranged in pairs throughout the space, each with white candles and rose petals scattered around them.
It’s ridiculous, but also oddly peaceful. I find a mat near the windows and sit cross-legged, watching the door.
Harper arrives on time, wearing a standard tank top and yoga pants, looking around with undisguised suspicion. When she spots me, her eyes narrow.
“What is all this?” she demands, approaching my mat. “It looks like a Valentine’s Day explosion.”
“Tantric yoga.” I gesture to the white clothes folded beside me. “Those are for you. The bathrooms through that door if you want to change.”
She picks up the outfit, examining it skeptically. “I’m not wearing this.”
“It’s traditional. Breathable cotton, ethically sourced. Very sustainable.”
She rolls her eyes but takes the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. When she returns, I have to work to keep my expression neutral. The simple white outfit shouldn’t be sexy —it’s essentially loose-fitting pajamas—but something about Harper in flowing white fabric, her hair pulled into a messy bun, has my pulse quickening.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she mutters, dropping onto the mat beside mine.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying this.”
I am enjoying this, but not for the reasons she assumes. “The white looks nice with your hair.”
She glares, but there’s a hint of pink in her cheeks. “Let’s get one thing straight, Cole. I’m here for the environmental data. That’s it.”
“Of course.”
“So, whatever this tantric nonsense is, keep it professional.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “I’m just following the instructor’s guidance like everyone else.”
She glances around the room, where five other couples are settling onto mats, all in matching white outfits. “Where is the instructor, anyway?”
On cue, Devi enters, floating to the center of the room in flowing white linen. “Welcome, beautiful souls. Today we embark on a journey of connection, trust, and shared energy through the ancient practice of tantric yoga.”
Harper shoots me a murderous look. I smile innocently.
“Tantric yoga,” Devi continues, “is about recognizing the divine masculine and feminine energies within each partner, and learning to channel that energy between you. Please sit facing your partner, knees touching.”
The other couples immediately adjust. Harper stays frozen.
“Dr. Bennett,” Devi calls. “Please face your partner.”
With visible reluctance, Harper turns to face me, our knees almost but not quite touching.
“Closer,” Devi instructs. “Energy cannot flow through space.”
Harper inches forward until our knees brush. Even this minimal contact seems to agitate her.
“Now,” Devi says, “place your right hand over your partner’s heart, and your left hand over their right hand on your heart.”
“Absolutely not,” Harper whispers.
“Problem, Dr. Bennett?” Devi asks.
“I’m not comfortable with this level of physical contact.”
Devi approaches our mat. “The purpose is to align your breathing and heartbeats. It’s quite scientific, actually. Studies show that partners who synchronize their physiological rhythms experience enhanced communication and problem-solving abilities.”
I bite back a smile as Harper processes this—Devi’s played the science card. After a moment of internal struggle visible on her face, Harper places her right hand against my chest. I mirror the action, my palm resting lightly over her heart. Her pulse races beneath my touch.
“Now the left hand,” Devi reminds us.
Harper places her left hand over mine, and I do the same. We’re holding each other’s hands against our chests. Her skin is warm, her fingers slightly calloused—the hands of someone who does fieldwork, not just lab research.
“Close your eyes,” Devi instructs. “Breathe together. Inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for six. Feel your partner’s heartbeat. Allow your rhythms to synchronize.”
I close my eyes, focusing on Harper’s pulse beneath my palm. It’s rapid at first, but gradually slows as we breathe together. Despite her obvious discomfort with the situation, she’s following the instructions—inhaling when I do, holding, exhaling slowly.
“The breath is our most intimate connection to life,” Devi says, her voice soft as she moves around the room. “When we share our breath with another, we share our essence.”
I open one eye to find Harper watching me. She closes her eyes when she realizes I’ve caught her.
“Now, maintain that connection as you move into your first pose,” Devi continues. “Partners, please sit with your backs against each other, legs extended in front of you.”
This position is easier—no eye contact, just the press of Harper’s back against mine as we sit up straight. Her posture is impeccable.
“Reach your arms up and back, holding your partner’s hands above your heads.”
We follow the instruction, my hands finding hers in the air above us. Her fingers link with mine.
“Now slowly bend forward, allowing your partner to bend backward, stretching their spine over yours. Then reverse.”
I wait for Harper to resist, but she leans forward, pulling me into a gentle backbend over her. The stretch feels incredible after the obstacle course this morning. When we reverse positions, I support her weight easily as she arches back.
“Great work, everyone,” Devi praises. “Now let’s transition to a more challenging pose. Face your partner again, sitting cross-legged, knees touching. Extend your arms and grasp your partner’s forearms.”
We adjust positions, Harper’s grip firm on my forearms as we create a closed circle with our arms.
“Now, maintaining this connection, both partners stand up.”
It takes coordination, but we rise to our feet without breaking contact, or a hip. We’re standing close, arms linked, faces less than a foot apart.
“Beautiful. Now for Flying Lotus. The heavier partner will ground themselves while the lighter partner leans back, creating counter-tension.”
“Ready?”
Harper nods, then slowly leans back, her weight pulling against our linked arms. I counterbalance, keeping her suspended at a 45-degree angle to the floor.
“Trust your partner,” Devi encourages. “Let go of resistance.”
To my surprise, Harper does exactly that—she relaxes into the pose, her body forming a graceful arc, supported entirely by our connection.
“Switch,” Devi calls.
Now it’s my turn to lean back, trusting Harper to support my weight. She’s stronger than she looks, holding me steady despite our size difference. For a moment, we’re balanced, each supporting the other.
“Wonderful,” Devi says. “Now release slowly and return to your mats for the next sequence.”
The “next sequence” turns out to be even more intimate—seated poses with Harper in my lap, then me in hers, followed by synchronized movements that have us flowing around each other like water, always maintaining some point of contact.
To my surprise, Harper takes part. She’s obviously does yoga, her movements fluid and precise. When Devi corrects our form, Harper adjusts without complaint. It’s the longest we’ve spent in each other’s presence without arguing.
“Our final pose,” Devi announces after forty-five minutes of increasingly complex positions, “is Lotus Blossom. Partners, sit facing each other, legs crossed but overlapping so your knees rest in the spaces between your partner’s knees. Take each other’s wrists and lean back.”
We assume the position, our legs interlocked, hands gripping each other’s wrists. It’s the most physically intertwined we’ve been, and I can sense Harper’s tension.
“Now, lean forward until your foreheads touch. Close your eyes and breathe together.”
Harper hesitates, then leans in. Our foreheads meet, and I can feel her breath against my lips. Her skin is warm against mine, a few strands of her auburn hair tickling my cheek. We breathe in unison, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the room, the other couples, the absurdity of how we got here.
“Feel the energy flowing between you,” Devi murmurs, somewhere in the distance. “Acknowledge what your partner brings to your life—the challenges, the growth, the balance.”
Harper’s grip on my wrists tightens. I wonder what she’s thinking, what she sees in me beyond the arrogant CEO she believes I am.
“Slowly release, keeping your eyes closed. Place your palms together between you in gratitude for what you’ve shared.”
We separate, and I immediately miss the contact. Harper’s eyes remain closed as she brings her palms to meet mine, our hands pressed together in the traditional prayer position. Her face is serene, the perpetual furrow between her brows temporarily smoothed away.
“Open your eyes and bow to the divine in your partner. Namaste.”
Harper’s eyes flutter open, meeting mine. “Namaste,” she whispers, inclining her head slightly.
“Namaste,” I reply, mirroring her.
For a suspended moment, we remain connected by our pressed palms and locked gaze. Then Devi instructs everyone to lie down for final relaxation, and the spell breaks.
We lie side by side on our mats, not touching but close enough that I can hear Harper’s breathing. Devi guides us through a meditation, but my mind refuses to settle. I’m hyper-aware of Harper beside me, of how different she looks with her guard down.
“Thank you for sharing your energy today,” Devi says after several minutes of silence. “Please take a moment to appreciate your experience before rejoining the world outside.”
Harper sits up first, reaching for her water bottle. I follow, watching her. She looks... different. Relaxed.
“That was unexpected,” I say quietly.
She takes a sip of water. “You mean you didn’t plan for me to end up in your lap for an hour?”
“I planned for you to argue more.”
A hint of a smile touches her lips. “Don’t get used to it.”
“You’re good at yoga.”
“I practice every morning.” She recaps her water bottle. “It helps me think.”
We sit in comfortable silence as the other couples gather their things and drift out. Devi approaches with two cups of tea.
“You have wonderful energy together,” she says, handing us each a steaming cup. “Very balanced despite the surface tension.”
Harper accepts the tea with a polite smile. “It was... educational.”
“Many couples find tantric practices transformative for their communication.” Devi beams at us. “I hope you’ll join my sunrise session tomorrow.”
After she moves away, Harper turns to me. “That’s not happening.”
“No? I thought we made an excellent tantric team.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s less hostility than usual. “Does your shamelessness know no limits?”
“Not that I’ve discovered so far.” I sip my tea, which tastes of ginger and something floral. “Admit it, though—that was not so bad.”
She glares me over her cup. “It was less horrific than the obstacle course.”
Coming from Harper, this is a rave review.
“So,” I say, “are we still on for Midnight Confessions tonight?”
The relaxed expression vanishes. “Absolutely not. I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day.”
“It’s not humiliating. Just a casual conversation about relationships broadcast to the entire ship and livestreamed on the cruise’s social media.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“About the livestream? No, that’s very real. But we can control the conversation.” I put down my cup. “Think of it as an opportunity to promote environmental awareness to a captive audience.”
“By pretending to be in a relationship with you?”
“By showcasing how different perspectives can find common ground.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Isn’t that exactly what environmental advocacy needs? To reach people who wouldn’t normally listen?”
She narrows her eyes, sensing my manipulation but also considering my point.
“Besides,” I add, “you still want that data, right?”
“You’re holding my research hostage.”
“I prefer to think of it as incentivizing cooperation.”
Harper stands, gathering up her regular clothes. “I’ll do the interview . But I’m picking the topics.”
“Deal.” It’s a couple chat, but I will wait for her to realize that on her own.
“And I want access to that turtle nesting data before dinner.”
I stand, amused by her negotiation tactics. “Half before dinner, half after you complete the interview.”
“Fine.” She heads toward the changing room, then pauses. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you so much as hint at anything physical between us during this interview, I will scientifically identify the most painful pressure point on the male body and demonstrate it on you in front of the livestream audience.”
I can’t help grinning. “Your terms are accepted, Dr. Bennett.”
She disappears into the changing room, but not before I catch the slight curve of her lips—not quite a smile, but definitely not her usual scowl.
Progress.
My phone buzzes with a text from Alexis:
Update on the yoga situation?
I type back:
No bloodshed. Possible breakthrough. She’s agreed to the evening interview.
Miracle worker or masochist? Hard to tell with you.
I glance toward the changing room door, thinking of Harper’s focused expression during our practice, the way she eventually surrendered to the flow of movement between us, the brief moment of connection when our foreheads touched.
Maybe both .
I reply.
The truth is, I’m enjoying this game far more than I should. Harper Bennett is brilliant, principled, and absolutely unwilling to pander to me because of my name or wealth. She’s also beautiful, especially when she’s furious or—as I just discovered—when she’s centered and calm.
None of which changes the fact that she fundamentally disapproves of my company and probably hates me as a person. Or that I need her endorsement for business reasons, not personal ones.
This is strategic, not romantic. The flutter in my chest when she almost smiled just now. Pure satisfaction at my plan working.
Nothing more.
Harper emerges from the changing room, back in her regular clothes, all business once again. “I’ll see you at eight. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She walks away without looking back, but there’s a new bounce in her stride—she less rigid, more fluid. The yoga did its job.
I change back into my regular clothes, I’m looking forward to tonight’s interview with an enthusiasm that has worryingly little to do with public relations.