My fixed point becomes the wall directly ahead, deliberately avoiding the six-foot-something cowboy whose mat is inexplicably next to mine. The universe clearly hates me.
“Lift your right foot and place it against your inner thigh,” Annie continues.
I comply, shifting my weight easily. This is basic. I've done yoga for years as cross-training for swimming.
“Now raise your arms overhead and find your center.”
My center is just fine until Grant Taylor lets out a small groan as he attempts to balance on one leg. The sound travels straight through me, triggering memories of his deep voice from yesterday. I make the fatal mistake of glancing over.
Grant's face is flushed with exertion, his t-shirt clinging to broad shoulders that strain against the fabric. Those arms? They could ruin my entire lineage. His eyebrows furrow in concentration, and a bead of sweat traces the strong line of his jaw before disappearing beneath his collar.
I try to stay focused on my breathing. I do.
“Just breathe, keeping a steady balance.” Annie murmurs.
I've always prided myself on balance. Whether navigating treacherous mountain paths in Nepal or slicing through Olympic-sized pools, my body has never betrayed me.
Until now.
I glance over at Grant and my foot betrays me. Slips right off my leg. Like a goddamn cartoon character on a banana peel.
The world tilts in slow motion. I flail, arms windmilling uselessly as I crash sideways.
Directly, into him.
His reflexes are surprisingly quick—his arms shoot out to catch me, but the movement also throws off his already precarious balance. We collapse in a tangle of limbs, gravity’s final “screw you” landing me right in his lap.
Full ass-to-cowboy-crotch contact and I swear I can feel every square inch of him—muscle, heat, trouble.
Oh. Oh no.
His arms lock around my waist, hot and strong. The position is mortifyingly intimate. He leans in, breath brushing my ear. “If you wanted to sit in my lap, darlin’, all you had to do was ask,” he murmurs against my ear, voice so low and full of smoke it should be classified as a controlled burn.
Oh for the love of—NOPE.
I squirm, but his hands hold me steady. “Let me go,” I whisper hiss, painfully aware of the curious eyes watching us. His grip eases, but he doesn’t release me.
“Yup, it’s official.”He southern drawls, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You’ve fallen for me, darlin’ and you’ll keepfollowing me to the ends of the earth, even through hell…given where we are.” Sporting a shit eating grin, I can feel against my neck.
There’s a shift in the air—the kind that makes your skin buzz and your lungs forget how to function properly.
The comment throws me. It's not just flirtatious—there's an intensity behind it that makes my chest tighten.
I freeze.
The nerve. Theunholy audacity.
His voice is too casual. His tone? Infuriating. His hands? Still. On. Me.
I suddenly realize exactly where I’m sitting—more like perched, awkwardly—on his lap. And worse, I feel… things. Things that are currently hard, pressed against my ass, and entirely inappropriate given we’re surrounded by middle-aged women in matching Lycra.
My cheeks flush red when I feel his rock hard cock pressed up against me.
He leans closer, lips nearly brushing my ear. “I think you're the only woman I've ever met who makes falling look graceful.”
Heat floods my face. With his chest pressed against my back, I swear the man is a walking furnace.
My entire body buzzes from the contact, and not in a cute way. In athis-man-is-going-to-be-the-death-of-meway.
