Two Times the Trouble
1. Callie
CHAPTER 1
CALLIE
“ G ood morning, Callie!” The thirty-something cardio instructor startles me with her lively greeting, hustling by me so quickly she leaves a breeze in her wake.
I murmur a response, but she’s already too far down the hall to hear me.
After stopping to take a long draw from my iced coffee, I push open the door to the yoga studio and flip on the lights, immediately dialing them down to a comfortable dimness.
I should be used to this schedule by now, but I guess I’m just not a morning person. I love yoga, and I enjoy teaching, but I would prefer the sun to actually be up before I lead people through sun salutations.
Another sip of my creamy, sugary drink has me tipping my head back, draining the reusable cup. I seal the lid and slide it into my bag before toeing off my sandals and stashing them in one of the cubbies near the door.
It will probably be at least five minutes before the early birds start coming in, and luckily, there’s not much to do to prepare. I connect my phone to the room’s audio system and start up a relaxing playlist, unfurl my mat and align it parallel to the front wall, and unpack my blanket, bolster, and block, setting the items to the side of my mat, along with my water bottle.
A long, satisfying yawn erupts out of me, and I fully indulge it before I start moving around the room, swinging my arms from side to side, hoping to activate the caffeine I consumed.
Right on schedule, a pair of my faithful regulars appear, older women who are in amazing shape. I’ll be happy if I’m half as fit as they are when I’m their age. They sing out their good mornings, and I reply with the same cheerful enthusiasm. I have my game face on now, ready to lead my class into a state of calm energy that we will all hopefully carry with us through the day.
More attendees file in, a few working moms, several more older ladies, and a couple of younger women in their early twenties, around my age. At this health club, members can take any class they care to without signing up, so attendance varies, but most of the people keep a consistent schedule, and I recognize all their faces and know a few of them by name.
As they claim their spots and set up their mats, some of the women engage in quiet conversations, while others get into seated positions and do warm-up stretches. I keep an eye on the clock and am just about to start the class when a late arrival appears.
The man comes through the door without hesitation, but as I take in his appearance, I’m certain he’ll realize he’s in the wrong room and leave. In a loose t-shirt, long shorts, and athletic shoes with socks, he looks like he belongs on a basketball court. His lean, muscular build and the fact that he appears to be several inches over six feet tall add to that impression.
His dark eyes survey the room, quickly landing on me. I smile and give him a brief nod, expecting him to make apologies and exit, but instead, he scans the room again. “It appears I need a mat,” he says, his voice all smooth and masculine as his eyes return to me. “Where can I get one?”
I try to respond and find my mouth has gone dry. I try again. “This is hatha yoga class.”
He nods once, his bearded face tipping down, giving me a better view of the thick stylishly-tousled golden brown hair on his head. “I was told you supply mats.”
Alerted by his deep voice, the entire class—all women—have turned to watch the man, as if he’s an alien species who’s just landed on Earth. It’s not unheard of for a man to join the class, but it’s rare, and they’re usually accompanied by a wife or girlfriend.
They’re also not usually as good looking as this man is.
I head toward the far side of the room and gesture for him to meet me at the storage closet in the corner. “Oh wait. Please take off your shoes. You can stow them in there.” I point at the cubby just behind him.
All eyes are still on the man as he kneels to untie his sneakers. He pulls them off, puts them on a shelf and starts toward me again.
“And your socks, too,” I say.
A couple of snickers are audible over the low chanting in the song playing from the room’s speakers. Lines crease the man’s face as he peels his socks down, revealing well-defined calves covered with fine, curling hair that looks like it would be soft to the touch.
When he bends to put his socks on top of his shoes, my eyes track the bottom edge of the quad muscles on his very powerful-looking thighs. The man must do a lot of squats.
Bare-footed now, and with brows more furrowed than when he first entered, the yoga newbie meets me at the closet, where I direct him to the shelves that house the loaner mats. I hold back a shudder as he selects one from the top of the pile. The club claims that they clean and disinfect the mats, but I haven’t seen proof, and I’m not the only person who’s dubious about this; aside from this man, everyone brings their own mats to class.
“You’ll want to grab a block also. Maybe two. How’s your flexibility?”
His response is something close to a grunt as he reaches for a pair of blocks. He may not be the most eloquent man, but he smells good. My nose fills with a clean, woodsy scent, making me imagine that he just took a shower in the middle of a forest.
“Take a spot in any open space,” I tell him before returning to the front of the room.
Now, the glances from all the women in the room are furtive. They’re still checking him out, but they’re trying not to be obvious about it. With everyone else already seated, the man towers over them as he makes his way to a clear space and sets up his mat in line with the people around him.
He looks around at others as he lowers himself to his knees. When his butt hits the mat and he attempts to mimic the cross-legged position that most of his neighbors are in, it’s immediately obvious that it’s not going to work. All of those thick muscles are in serious need of a good stretch.