This Wasn’t The Plan (Apparently It’s Love #1)

Chapter 1

One

Madison

My toxic trait? Thinking I can fix a man.

My redeeming quality? I look hot while failing.

At least, that used to be true.

Right now, I look like I was boiled.

Date number three with Sage. Yes, his real name is Sage. I should have known things were doomed the day he tried to “cleanse my aura” before I stepped into his apartment.

I thought he was joking.

He was not.

But I let it slide because the rest of him seemed fairly normal, even cute, with a good jawline. And fine, I was intrigued. It’s been a while since I felt intrigued.

But Sage didn’t take me to dinner tonight.

He brought me to hot fucking yoga.

We’re in a room that feels like the inside of Satan’s armpit, doing poses invented by people who clearly had vendettas against the human spine.

Right now, I’m in a downward dog I cannot escape.

My arms are shaking.

My legs are numb.

I’ve lost approximately ninety percent of my body weight through my pores.

And I’m pretty sure I just pulled something in my lower back.

The instructor practically floats around me. “Okay, everyone, let’s flow into three-legged dog. Lift your right leg. Feel the heat. Let the fire move through you.”

Fire is moving through me, but it’s nerve pain.

I try to shift my weight, and my lower back lights up.

I let out a noise.

It’s not a sexy noise.

The instructor stops mid-float.

Half the class looks over, annoyed that I’ve interrupted their spiritual suffering.

I lift my head enough to catch my reflection in the giant mirror.

My red hair is curling at the temples, my cheeks are the shade of a ripe tomato, and sweat is pouring from places sweat shouldn’t pour.

This.

Is.

Not.

Sexy.

As a matter of fact, I am concentrating very hard on not farting. From any hole.

Sage leans over on his mat, whispering, “Are you okay?”

He looks annoyingly perfect. There’s not a drop of sweat on him.

“I think I hurt my back,” I whisper back.

He nods sympathetically at first, then ruins it. “Well, you’re almost thirty, right? A woman’s body slows down at that age. It’s natural.”

Everything inside me goes still.

Oh no.

He did not just say that.

My spine might be dead, but my rage is alive and ready for violence.

I push myself upright an inch, just enough to deliver justice.

“You know what, Sage?” I say loudly.

Everyone looks over.

“What kind of date is this?” I ask. “Seriously, explain this to me. I shaved my entire body for this. For this. You invited me to a room designed to cook humans. I’m sweating out trauma I haven’t even lived yet.”

He blinks. “Madison—”

“No.” I point at him from my half-collapsed position.

“Don’t ‘Madison’ me. We could’ve gone anywhere.

Dinner. Drinks. A walk. A normal human date.

But you chose this torture chamber to see if I could ‘match your frequency.’ Sir, the only frequency I’m matching right now is the sound of my hamstring snapping. ”

Someone in the back snorts.

“And another thing,” I continue, fully committed. “Don’t tell me my body is slowing down at thirty. Your body will slow down, too. I pray I’m there to watch it. And for the record,” I add, “these moves are amateur. I’m just used to doing them on a mattress.”

“Madison—”

“Forget it, Sage. I’m done. I’m out of this hell room. You enjoy your journey to inner peace or whatever. Me? I need ice and probably a priest.”

I grab my water bottle and attempt to stand, but my back screams like a banshee, so I pivot and drop to my hands and knees.

Then I start crawling.

Yes.

I am crawling out of hot yoga.

Sage reaches toward me. “Do you need help?”

I refuse to look up and acknowledge this moment exists.

“No,” I say, crawling like a wounded animal. “I’m fine. Have a nice life with the rest of these masochists.”

Moon, or Jupiter, or whatever the instructor is called, gasps.

I keep crawling.

Someone tries to offer me a towel.

I hiss at them.

Eventually, I make it to the door, push it open with my forehead, and spill out into the cool hallway.

I lie on the floor for a moment as people walk around me.

I don’t have the energy to care.

My spine is gone.

My dignity is gone.

My date is gone.

Everything is gone.

I’m almost thirty.

I’m hot yoga-injured.

I might have farted.

And I think this is the beginning of something.

Not with Sage, but with anti-inflammatory medication.