Chapter 19
Rylan was in hell.
Not just any hell—this was the special, front-row, VIP section of hell reserved for overconfident idiots who thought they could impress a woman by stepping into her world without the faintest preparation.
“And now, come back to downward dog,” the yoga instructor announced in a calm, Zen-like voice that made Rylan want to throw something heavy.
How the hell could anyone sound that peaceful after that last pose? His hamstring had just filed for divorce from the rest of his body. That move should have been outlawed by the Geneva Conventions.
But Natalie’s legs? Oh, they bent like they were made for it.
He peered at her from under his arm, catching a glimpse of her in the pose—strong, graceful, and maddeningly perfect. She was poetry in motion. He, meanwhile, looked like a cautionary diagram on an orthopedic surgeon’s wall.
She caught him staring. Her lips curved into a smug little smile, and she arched a brow as if to say, What’s wrong, Prince? Can’t keep up?
Rylan winked back, pretending his muscles weren’t on fire. He shifted into the next position with heroic determination, his pride hanging by a very thin, very frayed thread.
Then came the instructor’s cheerful announcement: “Now, let’s ease into corpse pose.”
Rylan’s mind blanked. Corpse pose? He was ninety percent sure that wasn’t a real thing. He glanced around the room until he saw Natalie lying flat on her back, eyes closed, arms relaxed, looking like some serene goddess.
He collapsed onto his mat like a felled tree. Corpse pose, he thought grimly. Perfect. Because this class murdered me.
“That’s it, everyone! Namaste.”
People around him rose gracefully to their feet. Rylan felt like an eighty-year-old man trying to get up from a beanbag chair. His muscles screamed obscenities, but sheer stubbornness got him vertical.
Natalie approached, rolled up yoga mat in hand, every inch the smug, spandex-clad goddess. “Did you enjoy your first yoga session?”
He kept his eyes firmly above the tantalizing curve of her hips. “Loved it,” he lied, voice dry as sandpaper.
“Good.” She bent down to roll up his mat, and Rylan’s brain short-circuited. It took every shred of willpower not to groan out loud. When she straightened—holding both their mats—she handed his over with a satisfied smirk. “You did great. For a beginner.”
He took it and narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re evil. Pure evil.”
Her laugh was light, teasing, and way too pleased with herself. “Oh, come on. You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Well, since you’re still alive, how about grabbing a bite to eat?” she asked, tilting her head innocently. “I usually go for something light and healthy after class.”
“Burgers,” he said flatly, already steering her toward the door.
“Burgers?” She laughed. “After yoga? Don’t you feel like a salad or something clean?”
He stopped, turned, and gave her the kind of look that could silence a parliament. “Burgers. And beer. We need protein after that torture session. And fries—lots of fries. The salty kind that make your cardiologist cry.”
Her lips twitched. “Fine. Burgers it is. But if I can’t move tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
“Blame away,” he said smoothly, holding the door for her.
Ten minutes later, they were tucked into the back of a cozy pub, the warm lighting and dark wood making it feel miles away from the incense-and-chime nightmare he’d just endured.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked, her blond ponytail bouncing.
“Heffeweizen. Or whatever’s on tap,” Rylan said without hesitation, then glanced at Natalie.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please,” she told the waitress.
The waitress nodded, smiling, and walked away.
“She seems sweet,” Natalie said casually, watching her go.
Rylan’s eyes never left Natalie. “Not as sweet as you.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she rolled her eyes. “Wow. Straight out of the ‘First-Date Compliments for Dummies’ handbook.”
He grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe I just noticed you’ve been making it hard to think about anything else all night.”
She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You realize that line would sound way less flattering if I believed you were actually distracted during corpse pose.”
He smirked. “Trust me, I was plenty distracted during corpse pose. Just not in the way the instructor intended.”
Her lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“True,” he agreed easily, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “But admit it—you like impossible.”
For the next two hours, they bantered like pros. She lobbed dry sarcasm; he volleyed it back with shameless flirtation. They argued over music genres, debated the superiority of fries versus onion rings, and laughed until their drinks went warm.
Natalie was a contradiction—sharp wit wrapped in an unexpected, vulnerable warmth. Every time she smiled, he wanted to push her just far enough to see what would happen if she stopped pulling back.
And then there was the matter of her yoga top. Every time she leaned forward, the neckline dipped just enough to test his self-control. It was like a slow, deliberate form of torture, and he couldn’t decide if she was doing it on purpose.
When they finally left the pub, Rylan walked her to her car, not ready for the night to end. She turned to him, and for a heartbeat, something flickered in her expression—regret, maybe longing, maybe both.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said softly.
“Anytime.”
His hands itched to pull her close, to erase the space between them. Instead, he took a deliberate step back, his fists curling at his sides.
If this was what friendship looked like, it was going to kill him.