Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Same, Mr. Sniffles!” she says, a breath of fresh, feminine air in her white linen dress and arm bangles after all the testosterone of the past few minutes. “I’m exhausted. What a day, huh, buddy?”
“Agreed,” I say, grateful that she’s the first student through the door for the next class. I could use a little girl talk before I put on my professional hat again. “You just missed Drake. He’s been texting non-stop.”
She rolls her big green eyes. “Girl, no. Block him. You’re too nice. He doesn’t deserve another second of your time or energy.”
I nod as I exhale a freeing breath. “I was just thinking the same.”
The irony that it took another “bad boy” to make me positive it was time to cut Drake loose isn’t lost on me. But then maybe Tank isn’t that “bad,” after all.
As my hot yoga students file in and I turn up the thermostat and the infrared lights on the ceiling, my mind keeps drifting back to that final moment before he left and the frank way he’d said that I was beautiful…
I shouldn’t be focusing on that part, or tingling for a student who screams “complicated” from his motorcycle boots to his wounded eyes, but sometimes the heart has a mind of its own.
So does the va-jay-jay.
And my va-jay-jay is definitely intrigued by Mr. LiBassi.
Very intrigued, indeed.
CHAPTER 3
TANK
When I wake up the next morning, I experience something I haven’t in a long time. I am…relaxed. Not completely—that’s a foreign concept at this point in my life—but there’s a noticeable difference in how my muscles feel, especially across my chest.
They’re more pliable, open.
It’s even easier to breathe.
I pull in a deeper breath, enjoying the odd sense of ease.
Even my bum shoulder has more mobility than usual. I’m sore, but when I give the joint an experimental roll, the sharp pain from yesterday is gone.
Looks like that yoga class was exactly what I needed, as much as my inner stubborn cuss wanted to deny it.
And Stephanie?
She’s not a spacy hippie at all. She’s smart, intense, with an impressive knowledge of human physiology and a gentle, but commanding teaching style that brought out the best in every member of her class. Even me, a man who rolled into her studio with an attitude that was dubious, at best.
I really didn’t expect to enjoy the class so much.
I also didn’t expect to enjoy the feel of her hand on my shoulder. Or to find myself lingering after class to pet her fucking dog. Or to have every protective instinct in my body go on high alert when her piece of shit ex popped up uninvited, starting personal drama in her place of business.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Don’t even think about it, dumbass.”
I can’t develop a crush on Shane’s friend. I don’t have time for a crush, especially not on a woman I’m going to keep running into for the foreseeable future. My relationships only end one way—badly—and I want to keep the stress levels low among the few people I consider good friends.
I learned what happens when you mix love and friendship the hard way.
The hardest way…
My best friend Yoda did right by my sister, Betsy. He loved her with every piece of his big, sweet soul, but when Betsy died in that car crash, our friendship died with her. We still talk, we still care about each other, but our relationship has never been the same. Betsy’s ghost is always there between us, reminding us of what we’ve lost, tainting even good times with tragedy. The days when we’d swing by each other’s houses every weekend to shoot hoops or watch hockey or drink beer and play around with Yoda’s paints are long gone. We see each other maybe two or three times a year now, if we’re lucky.
I don’t need any more friendships like that, and I definitely don’t need romantic complications fucking with my focus a few weeks before training camp starts.
After all, I’ve proven I’m even worse at love than I am at staying on the straight and narrow. The only woman I’ve ever loved is currently in prison, at least partially thanks to my selfish ass. If I hadn’t ended things, if I hadn’t run from everything I felt for Michelle, if I hadn’t come back to make things right a little too late, both our lives might have been so different.
But I don’t think about things like that anymore.
Life is what it is, and I just have to make the best of it.
I throw back the covers and head for the shower, setting it to cold. I focus on clearing my head, banishing thoughts of Stephanie’s big, soft eyes, the graceful way she moves, the mixture of gentleness and confidence in her touch. I refuse to think about how good she smelled—even after an hour-long yoga class—or her diabolically cute smile, or the fact that even the sight of her bare feet was enough to send impure thoughts racing through my head.