“I..uh..I.. just don’t do land exercises well” I blurt out.
What am I saying?!
My face is flaming. And not just from embarrassment. From irritation, attraction, and the fact that my nipples have decided now is the time to become social butterflies through my top.
Fantastic.
“Stop holding me against my will.” I snap, desperate to salvageanypower here as I turn my head towards him.
He chuckles—chuckles, the absolute gall—right into my ear and looksentirelytoo smug. “Pretty sure I’m not even touching you darlin’. You’re the one clutchin’mythighs like your life depends on it.”
I look down. He’s not. The bastard is sitting there, hands in full surrender to his sides, whileI’mthe one grinding on him like it’s amateur hour at a mechanical bull bar.
I’M THE PROBLEM.
One hand’s on his thigh. The other? Oh cool, justwrapped around his kneelike I’m auditioning for the clingiest koala on earth.
Oh.
Oh!
I yank my hands off his thigh like it’s on fire and scramble to get off him, but the mat betrays me. My foot slips, I turn and this time my face ends up an inch from his, my breasts pressed into his chest as he watches the whole scene like it’s better than any Netflix show.
My eyes meet his hazel orbs and my breath catches.
I hate that he notices it. Ihatethat I notice how my body reacts to him—all heat and nerve endings and one very inconvenient pulse between my thighs.
His mouth quirks up into that wicked, lopsided grin. “If this is you resisting, I can’t wait to see what surrender looks like.”
Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not.
“Oh my God, Grant” I huff.
And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, he leans in and murmurs right against my ear, “Reckon you oughta be more careful, angel. Keep fallin’ into my lap like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ youlikeit here.”
I shoot up, almost kneeing him in the crotch as I rear back, stumbling backward, words spilling out of my mouth without brain permission.
“Sorry,” I mutter to Annie at the front of the class, to the class, to anyone but Grant. “I..uh..I..need some air.”
I flee the studio without looking back, grabbing my belongings and ignoring Annie's concerned “Mia? Are you okay?”
“Try fallin’ for me in private next time, angel,” he calls after me.
I flip him off without looking back and flee the studio, internally screaming louder than a toddler at nap time.
Outside, the early morning sun feels like an interrogation spotlight. I gulp the humid Texas air, trying to steady my pounding heart.
What is wrong with me?
I don’t get flustered. I don’t run. I don’t lose control of a situation—or my bodily functions. But here I am, panting outside a yoga studio like I’ve just escaped a hostage situation... with a cowboy-shaped problem stamped across my frontal lobe.
I’veneverreacted to a man like this. Ever. Not since… well. No,not even then. And believe me, I’ve had my share of awkward moments. Once I sneezed in the middle of a live broadcast interview. And not a dainty littleachoo—oh no, my sneezes are apocalyptic. Biblical. You’d understand the trauma if you’d seen the teleprompter fly off the table and the producer waving his hands to cut to commercial.
Butthis? This was worse.
It’s the way my body hums from where he touched me.
It’s the way my heart stutters when he looks at me like I’m both a problem and a prize.
