Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
VIOLET
Downward dog was supposed to clear my head. That was the whole point of yoga.
Breathe.
Stretch.
Let the tension bleed out of tight muscles and leave me calm, centered, capable of dealing with Griffin bloody Michaels for another day without murdering him.
It wasn’t working.
I pressed my palms flat against the mat, focused on the steady rhythm of my breath. And not the fact I’d been dealing with neurotic Griffin for five days. FIVE. DAYS.
Since we’d landed in Singapore, the man couldn’t sit still for thirty consecutive seconds.
Couldn’t read a book or watch a show or exist in a room without fidgeting.
Even when Hazel slept and the suite fell quiet, he paced.
Kitchen to living room to window and back again, restless energy radiating off him in waves.
And I’d been trapped here with him, watching him spiral, trying desperately not to think about the plane.
The almost-kiss.
The way he’d looked at me like I was the only fixed point in his chaotic world.
Inhale. Exhale. Don’t think about it.
I flowed into cobra, spine arching, shoulders rolling back. The stretch pulled at my lower back, right where I’d been holding tension since—
“Didn’t know you did yoga.”
I startled, nearly face-planting into the mat.
Griffin stood in the doorway, workout bag slung over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat. He wore joggers and a fitted training shirt that clung to his chest, the fabric dark with moisture.
I sat back on my heels, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “You need to make a noise when you walk into a room.”
“I did. I spoke.”
“Before that. Like a cough or something.”
“You want me to announce my presence in my own suite?”
“Our suite. And yes.” I tried not to notice the way his shirt outlined his shoulders. Failed spectacularly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Noted.” He dropped the bag on the floor with a thud. “Better?”
“That works.”
He wandered closer, studying the mat like it might spontaneously combust. A faint sheen of sweat still covered his forearms. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since Tanzania.” I moved into child’s pose, forehead resting against the mat. “It helps with stress.”
“Working for you?”
Not even remotely. “Fine.”
“Liar.”
I lifted my head, glaring at him. “Was there something you needed, or are you just here to critique my coping mechanisms?”
He grinned. “Can I join?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Yoga. Can I do it with you?”
“You don’t do yoga.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you’re—” I gestured vaguely at all of him. “You.”
His eyebrow arched. “Articulate.”
I sat up properly, crossing my legs. “Drivers don’t do yoga. You lift weights and run on treadmills and complain about neck strength.”
“Liam makes me stretch.” He shrugged. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
“Not even close.”
“So teach me.”
I stared at him. Griffin Michaels wanted to do yoga. With me. While Hazel slept in my room and my brain was still stuck on that almost-kiss.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
“Fine, but you have to actually listen to me.”
“When don’t I listen?”
I gave him a look.
He laughed, and dropped onto the edge of my mat. “Fair point. I’ll behave.”
“You don’t know how.”
“Guess you’ll have to teach me that too.”
I ignored the way my pulse jumped at his tone. Pulled another mat from where I’d left it by the sofa. “Here. Stay on your own mat.”
“Bossy.”
“Ground rules or you leave.”
He held up his hands in surrender, moving to his mat. “Yes, ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes and moved into mountain pose. “Start here. Feet hip-width apart, weight evenly distributed.”
He mimicked my stance. There was nothing graceful about it. He stood like he was bracing for impact.
“Now reach your arms overhead. Inhale.”
He did. His shoulders pulled back stiffly, fighting the stretch.
“Exhale and fold forward. Let your head hang.”
He folded, palms barely making it past his knees. His hamstrings pulled tight, limiting his range.
I blinked. “You can’t touch your toes.”
“I can touch my shins.” He sounded defensive. “That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Most drivers can’t even get this far.”
I moved into forward fold beside him, palms flat on the mat. “Liam really needs to make you stretch more.”
Griffin grumbled something unintelligible, his hands braced on his thighs. “This is harder than it looks.”
“Welcome to yoga.”
“I hate it already.”
“You just started.” I straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra. “Now step or jump back to plank.”
He stepped back, one foot at a time, settling into position. His arms locked out immediately, shoulders hunched near his ears.
“Drop your shoulders,” I said, moving into plank beside him. “Engage your core, not your arms.”
He adjusted. Better. His core work was solid. All those hours of bracing against g-forces paid off here at least.
“Now lower down halfway. Chaturanga.”
He lowered an inch. Maybe two. His elbows barely bent.
I bit my lip. “That’s it?”
“My arms are shaking.”
“You’ve been in plank for ten seconds.”
“Exactly.” But he was grinning, and that surprised me more than his terrible form. “This is bullshit.”
“It’s yoga.”
“Same thing.”
I flowed into upward dog. He followed, arching his back with surprising ease. His shoulders opened, chest lifting.
“Better,” I said.
“Finally something I can do.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
We moved through sun salutations. One. Two. Three. He struggled through the forward folds, his hamstrings protesting every time. But he kept going, asking occasional questions, adjusting when I corrected him.
It was unnerving.
Griffin Michaels was sharp-tongued and restless and incapable of sitting still. But here, following my instructions, he was focused. Trying.
And I couldn’t stop noticing.
Noticing the way his muscles shifted under his training shirt. The concentration on his face when he held a pose. The small adjustments he made, the way he listened when I spoke.
This was a mistake.
“Warrior two,” I said, stepping my right foot forward, arms extending. “Front knee over ankle. Back foot parallel to the short edge of the mat. Gaze over your front hand.”
He moved into position beside me. His stance was too narrow, knee drifting inward, hips completely closed.
“Wider,” I said, keeping my eyes forward. “Your hips need to open more.”
He adjusted. Still wrong.
I sighed and moved closer, hands hovering near his hips. “Can I?”
“Yeah.”
I placed my hands on his hips, guiding them into proper alignment. His skin was warm through the thin fabric of his training shirt, solid muscle beneath my fingertips.
Don’t think about it. Adjust his hips. Step back. Don’t think about—
“Like this?”
I pulled my hands back quickly. “Yes. Better.”
We held the pose. My thighs burned, but I focused on my breath. In. Out. Steady.
It didn’t help. Not with Griffin two feet away, his presence filling the space the way it always did.
“How long do we hold this?” he asked.
“Five more breaths.”
He groaned. “My legs are on fire.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re a sadist.”
“You asked to join.”
“Worst decision I’ve made all week.”
I bit back a smile and transitioned into warrior one. He followed, wobbling slightly on the shift, his back foot sliding on the mat.
We moved through the sequence. Warriors one and three. Triangle. Extended side angle. Griffin kept up, occasionally muttering curses under his breath when a pose challenged him. His hamstrings fought him through triangle. His balance wavered in warrior three.
But he didn’t quit.
“Tree pose,” I said, shifting my weight onto my left foot. “Right foot to your inner thigh or calf. Never on the knee.”
He tried. Wobbled. His foot hit the floor within seconds.
I pressed my lips together.
“Don’t.” He glared at me.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Maybe if you focused—”
“I am focused.” He tried again, foot pressed to his calf, arms reaching for the ceiling. Held it for three seconds before toppling sideways. “Bollocks.”
This time, the laugh escaped.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbled.
“It’s a little funny.”
He tried again. Failed again. And then he laughed. Not the sarcastic huff I’d grown used to, but genuine laughter. Full and unguarded, and completely unlike the Griffin I thought I knew.
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, looking away before he could read too much on my face. “Try again.”
He did. Managed ten seconds this time before losing his balance, arms windmilling as he stumbled off his mat.
“Better.”
“Patronizing.”
“Accurate.”
He grinned, and I made the mistake of looking at him. His face was flushed from exertion, eyes bright with laughter. The tension he’d been carrying all week had finally eased.
He looked lighter. Happier.
I glanced away. “Let’s move on.”
We worked through a few more poses. He attempted crow pose, committing fully this time, and launched himself forward. He caught himself barely before face-planting into the mat.
“Fuck!” He collapsed onto his back, laughing. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible.”
“Did you see that? I nearly broke my nose.”
“You didn’t commit to the lean.”
“I committed plenty.” He sat up, hair completely destroyed now. “That pose is rigged.”
“It’s about core strength and balance.”
“Both of which I have.”
“Apparently not for crow.”
He pointed at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe.”
“Sadist.”
“You already said that.”
“Bears repeating.”
I shook my head and moved into seated forward fold, legs extended. He mirrored me, hands barely making it to his shins.
We held the pose in silence. The room filled with the sound of our breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside, Hazel’s white noise machine.
My hamstrings burned. My back pulled. But I sank deeper into the stretch, exhaling slowly.
This was what I’d needed. This quiet. This calm.
Except it wasn’t calm. Not with Griffin beside me, close enough to touch, his breathing syncing with mine.
I was in trouble.
Because somewhere between Mario Kart and night feeds and watching him fail at crow pose while laughing, I’d stopped seeing Griffin Michaels as the selfish driver who’d disrupted my life.
I’d started seeing him as a person.
A frustrating, competitive, surprisingly self-aware person who laughed at himself when he failed and listened when I corrected his form and fought with Julian when it mattered.
A person I was attracted to.
Properly, inconveniently, dangerously attracted to.
“Carter?”
I lifted my head. He’d rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, watching me with that focused intensity he usually reserved for racing.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For this.” His expression was open, genuine. “I needed it.”
My throat tightened. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ve been insufferable this week, haven’t I?”
Yes. “You’ve been restless.”
“That’s diplomatic.”
“I was trying.”
His mouth curved. “Appreciate it.”
We held each other’s gaze for a beat too long. Then I looked away, lying flat on my back for final relaxation. “Five minutes. Then we’re done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I closed my eyes, trying to let the tension drain from my body.
It didn’t work.
Because Griffin was right there. Close enough that I could hear his breathing even out. Close enough that if I turned my head, I’d see him.
And I wanted to look.
Wanted to know if he was watching me the way he’d been watching me all week. The quick glances he thought I didn’t notice. The way his gaze lingered when he thought I was occupied with Hazel.
“You’re doing it again,” Griffin said softly.
I opened my eyes. He’d rolled onto his side again, head propped on his hand, watching me.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking too loudly.”
“I don’t think loudly.”
“You do.” He tapped his own forehead. “You get this crease right here when you’re analyzing something.”
I touched my forehead self-consciously. “I don’t have a crease.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I don’t.”
“Want to bet?”
I rolled onto my side to face him properly, mirroring his position. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah.” His voice dropped, that half-smile playing at his mouth. “But you like me anyway.”
He had no idea how well he’d hit that nail on the head.