I look up, and there she is—Mia. In leggings so tight they must’ve been applied with a spatula, black and sleek and hugging every inch of her long, athletic legs. And the top? Jesus. It’s basically a tank with ambition. It clings to her like it’s proud of her shoulders. Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns that looks like it took zero effort and still somehow has every strand working overtime to destroy me. And she’s got that sheen to her skin—like she’s already glistening before the warm-up has even started. A drop of sweat slides down her collarbone, and I immediately forget every reason I came here.
The way she stands—confident, strong, completely in her element—makes my mouth go dry.
Her lips curve into that smug, knowing half-smile like she caught me red-handed dreaming about licking salt off her clavicle. Which, to be fair, I now am.
“I could say the same,” I manage to reply, though it comes out more like a croak than anything resembling words. My throat is suddenly parched. My body?Notparched. I’m as hard as the floor beneath my mat and praying to every spiritual yoga deity in the room that she doesn't notice.
She rolls out her mat right next to mine, all grace and ease and lemony-fresh scent. Then shebends overto adjust the edges,and I swear I see stars. Not in a romantic way. In athis-woman-is-gonna-give-me-a-strokeway.
My heart’s thudding like it’s about to file for harassment.
I amhard.
Very, very hard.
I growl my frustration.
And then Annie walks in going to stand at her instructor spot at the front of the class—who smiles and says, “Good morning everyone. Let’s start by grounding ourselves in the present moment.”
Woman, Iamgrounded. Grounded in panic, lust, and the very real fear that downward dog is going to expose me as fully, irreversibly erect.
Mia sits, crosses her legs, and breathes deeply like she’s meditating on world peace while I sit cross-legged beside her, trying to meditate onanything but her ass.
She glances sideways at me, eyebrows raised. “You okay, cowboy? You look a bit tense there.”
Tense? Tense is a word for taxes.
I’m about three exhalations away from combusting.
“Yeah,” I say, voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old. “Just, uh... centered.”
She bites back a laugh. I can see it twitching in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flicker downward toward my lap—Jesus take the wheel—before darting back up to my face, full of amusement.
“You sure about that?” she murmurs, leaning in close enough for her breath to brush my neck.
Nope. I amnotsure. I am fairly certain I am going to die in this yoga studio. Right here. Right now. With a hard-on, red faced and on a mat that smells like the inside of a zen garden’s armpit.
This class hasn’t even started, and I already know two things:
I am not making it through sixty minutes of flexible positions and deep breathing with her this close.
Malan and his damn yoga prescription can go straight to hell.
Namaste my ass.
Chapter 7
Mia
“Now slowly ease into the Tree pose,” Annie instructs the class, her voice carrying that perky enthusiasm I typically find irritating before 9 AM. “Focus on a fixed point to maintain balance.”
