Chapter 5 Star
CHAPTER FIVE
STAR
The light in my studio is perfect—honey gold slicing through the front windows, dancing on floating dust motes like a thousand microscopic disco balls.
The bell over the front door rings with a cheery “ding!” and the air in the studio shifts, like someone turned up the oxygen.
Maggie Carrington is first through the door, looking effortlessly expensive in black leggings and a pastel tank, hair in a fierce braid, aviator sunglasses propped on her head.
She’s the human embodiment of high-gloss perfection, and today, as usual, she’s got back-up. But not Saoirse.
This time, she’s flanked by a man who looks like he’s just been yanked out of a GQ cowboy issue and forced, at gunpoint, into gym clothes.
He’s really tall, at least six-foot-six, with shoulders so broad he has to angle them through the door.
His hair is sandy brown and just long enough to look a little rebellious, falling over one hazel eye.
He’s wearing a navy Lululemon T-shirt and black shorts that cling to his tree-trunk-sized thighs.
His sneakers are new and spotless, but his hands are working-class all the way. Holy cow. This must be her brother.
He radiates the kind of intensity that makes everyone in a room want to either win his approval or get as far away from him as possible. And for some reason, he looks like he’s the cat who just swallowed the canary. Oof. I want to be the canary.
Maggie, of course, drags him right up to the front desk.
“Hey, Star,” she calls, beaming. “This is my brother, Tanner. He’s a yoga virgin, so take it easy on him.”
“Absolutely,” I say, nearly choking as the word “virgin” echoes around the room.
I force a smile and extend my hand, because that’s what normal, functioning humans do. “Star Wilder.”
He takes it, and the jolt is immediate—hot, sharp, running all the way up my arm and straight down my spine.
I am not a believer in “soul connections” or whatever, but I know a dopamine hit when I get one.
My pulse doubles; my cheeks go bright red.
Our hands are locked for way, way too long, and I can feel the calluses along his palm and the rough patch at the base of his thumb.
I try to let go. He doesn’t immediately oblige, and when he finally does, his mouth quirks into the most infuriating smirk mixed with a hint of a smile.
“It’s nice to meet you, Star,” he mutters, and his warm, smoky voice cuts straight down my middle and lands in my hussy lady bits.
I’m hyper-aware of the fact that my hair is up in a lopsided bun and I have dark circles under my eyes from Bruno keeping me up last night during the thunderstorms. Not the look I would’ve chosen to make a first impression if I’d known the hottest man I’ve ever seen was about to walk in.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, rallying my professional calm. “I’ll take good care of you.” Fudge. Why in the world did that come out so suggestive?
He stares down at me with a heated look that sends a shiver shooting right down my spine. “I look forward to it.”
Maggie leans in and stage-whispers, “He threw his back out moving furniture for me, and Dr. Lawson thought this might help strengthen his back.”
“It definitely will.” I smile at Tanner.
God. I barely resist the urge to fan myself.
The air around us crackles as I motion them to the cubbies and point out where to stash their shoes and phones.
He glances over his shoulder and winks at me as they wander off.
Get a grip. My heart is hammering so loud I’m shocked no one else in the studio can hear it.
Within five minutes, the rest of the class filters in, and I force myself to breathe deeply.
There’s a stampede of yoga pants, ponytails, and nervous giggles.
Suddenly, the studio is packed with women, and every single one of them zeroes in on Tanner like he’s the last slice of cake at a birthday party.
But he seems to only have eyes for me. He smiles politely and tells each woman hello, but it seems like he’s reserving his steamy glances for me.
And, for the record, I’m not immune to him.
Not even close. He glances over at me, and I try to look busy by double-checking mat placement, but my eyes keep getting dragged back to him like I’m a freaking magnet and he’s the only chunk of metal for miles.
I can feel his intense attention on me. He glances up, catches me staring, and that slow, wicked smirk curves one corner of his mouth. Jesus. I’m in so much trouble here.
My stomach does a full flip as my mind goes totally blank.
Okay. I need to get myself together. I clear my throat and raise my voice just enough to be heard over the chatter. “Grab a block, a strap if you want, and settle in on your mat. We’re starting in two.”
He picks the spot right up front, just a few feet from mine. Once the room is quiet, I take a breath, let it out slowly, and plant my feet.
“Let’s begin,” I say, but the words feel different today. Like I just opened a door and the room got a little smaller, the air a little more charged.
I wonder, wildly, if anyone else feels it.
Oh, man. I really, really hope not. I lead the class through the first breathing exercise.
It’s supposed to be grounding and calming and all that woo-woo.
Except? My heart is going a thousand beats per minute, and every time I inhale, all I get is the scent of clean sweat, sage, and whatever cologne Tanner’s wearing.
It’s devastating. Like, prescription-grade pheromones.
I glance up, and he’s sitting cross-legged, arms braced on his knees, biceps stretching his shirt. His eyes are closed, and every muscle in his body is starting to get into the pose.
There’s this weird, hyper-aware connection zinging between us. Every time I move, I feel him track it. If I tilt my head, his eyes flicker open and zero in on me. When I walk by, his gaze drags up and down my body like he’s mentally undressing me in real time.
Holy. Hell.
I try not to watch him, but it’s impossible. From the way he moves, you’d never guess this is his first-time doing yoga.
“Let’s come to standing,” I say, and lead the group into mountain pose.
I glance over at Tanner as he unfolds those muscular arms over his head, the fabric of his shirt stretching tight across his chest. You’d think he was posing for a men’s fitness ad, not in his first yoga class ever. His posture is absurdly perfect.
“Feet hip width, toes spread wide,” I say, wondering if I forgot to turn up the AC. It’s getting so damn hot in here.
“Press your feet into the mat. Imagine you’re growing taller, lifting through the crown of your head.”
We transition into downward dog, and Tanner moves into the pose gracefully for a man his size.
I walk the room, checking posture, adjusting a shoulder here, a foot there. My mind keeps snagging on Tanner’s presence, the heat rolling off his body in waves. I’m not usually this easily distracted. But one look at this guy, and my brain went on vacation.
“Let’s stay here for a few breaths,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Relax your arms. Let your entire body melt into the mat.”
I make the rounds, correcting posture, encouraging deeper breaths, and checking in with my regulars. I linger over Jocelyn, helping her tuck her hip, and say, “Great adjustment.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as my nerves feel.
But all roads lead back to Tanner.
“Can I help you adjust the pose?” I ask, keeping my tone light, professional.
Tanner stares down at me hungrily. “Sure.”
I step in, hovering my hand just above his upper back. My palm radiates heat, which is weird because I haven’t even made contact yet. I give a gentle tap. “Relax your shoulders a little. Open your chest toward the window.”
He shifts. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
Holy. Shit.
For a split second, the world narrows to just us and the electric pulse running from my fingers into his back, the wild, searching look in his eyes, the way his breathing goes shallow as he realizes I’m touching him. I don’t break the gaze, and neither does he.
“Good,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. My brain does a hard reboot. I forget what I was about to say. His eyes flick from the mirror to my reflection and back, and then, God help me, to my actual face.
He doesn’t look away.
I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned. “Uh. Nice. That’s… better,” I stammer, all authority gone. I’ve never lost my cool in front of a class before, but here we are.
I escape to the other side of the room, pretending to help Mindy align her foot, but my mind is stuck on replay. The contact. The way his body responded. The look in the mirror.
Jesus, Star. Get a grip.
I push the class through a closing sequence—seated twists, some easy stretches, and finally, savasana.
“Lie on your back, close your eyes, let the mat hold you up.” My words sound far away, even to me.
I dim the lights, cue the music down to barely-there, and watch as the group settles into relaxation.
Tanner is the only one who doesn’t fully close his eyes. He’s lying still, arms at his sides, but every so often he cracks one eye open, tracking me as I move around the room.
When I ring the old singing bowl to signal the end, everyone sits up slow, blinking, and peaceful. The normal buzz of “thank you” and “great class” fills the air as people start to roll up their mats. Maggie gives me a thumbs-up and a sly smile, like she knows exactly what just happened.
The class empties out quickly. Tanner lingers, helping Maggie gather her things.
I busy myself wiping down the props, stacking blocks, and basically doing anything to avoid another round of eye contact.
I’m intensely aware of every bead of sweat, every strand of hair escaping my bun, every heartbeat reverberating in my chest.
When the last of the regulars leaves, Tanner and Maggie are the only ones left.
He mumbles something to her. She grins, squeezes his arm, and then makes a show of saying, “I’m gonna wait outside. Don’t take forever, Tannie Poo.”
She’s out the door before he can reply. For the first time, he looks unsure of himself, like the armor’s a little thinner. He stays at the edge of the mat, not moving.
I wipe down the last yoga block with unnecessary violence. “You survived,” I say, meaning to sound casual, but it comes out kind of breathy.
“I did,” he says, then cracks a grin. “It really wasn’t too bad. My back actually feels better.”
I stare into his intense eyes, searching for something to say. “I’m glad.”
His gaze just pins me. Like he can see every secret I’ve ever had. I can feel my cheeks heating up.
He crosses his arms, muscles flexing under the thin shirt, and tilts his head a little. “How do I sign up for regular classes?”
Oh. Man.
He wants to be here. He wants more.
Can I really handle seeing him on a regular basis? Do I have any choice?
My mouth is dry, but I still manage, “You liked it that much?”
He grins, and holy hell, it’s like being hit with an arrow right to the heart. “Hell yeah. Not gonna lie, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The words barely make it out. “Then let’s get you set up. You actually get one private yoga session every month when you sign up for the annual membership.” I give him my typical new member spiel.
“Sign me up.” He winks at me, and I know I’m in so much trouble here.