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)
“Me, too,” Pete calls out from near the studio door, where he’s chatting up a middle-aged woman.
Stephanie laughs. “Quit eavesdropping, Pete.”
“I can’t help it,” the old man says with a shameless grin. “It’s the hearing aids. They’re diabolical at this point. I’m practically a super hero.”
“Then get your booty to the mat and get ready to make a super effort,” Stephanie says, raising her voice as she moves toward the studio doors. “We’re going to work on crow pose today so grab a blanket if you’re worried about falling forward.” She lifts a hand my way and mouths, “See you later.”
I nod and head for the exit.
Outside, I pull in a breath of air that doesn’t smell like eucalyptus or Stephanie, reminding myself that yoga is a way to help my blood pressure and my shoulder. That’s it. This is about making the most of my comeback to the NHL, not about how much I enjoy Stephanie’s smile or her playful teasing or the fact that her voice sounds like warm honey when she’s leading a class.
This is just physical therapy, by another name.
As I walk to the coffee shop down the block to grab an espresso before heading to the rink, I ignore the voice in my head pointing out that I’ve turned down plenty of physical therapy sessions with professionals who weren’t smoking hot women with an electric touch I secretly can’t wait to feel pressed between my shoulders again.
“Eyes on the prize, LiBassi,” I mutter as I pay for my shot, ignoring the barista’s curious look. “Eyes on the damn prize.”
I swig down my espresso with brisk efficiency, determined to demand the same of the rest of my Saturday.
I will be brisk. Efficient.
I will not dwell on how easy it is to be with Stephanie Love or admit to myself that I haven’t been this excited about a date that isn’t a date in a damned long time.
CHAPTER 4
STEPHANIE
Four o’clock can’t come fast enough.
I’ve been flitting around the studio all afternoon, straightening already-straight props and lighting candles that didn’t need to be lit. Mr. Sniffles watches from his cushion with judgy eyes, silently asking where my self-respect has gone.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, refolding the blankets for the second time. “I’m making the space nice for a new private client. It’s literally my job.”
Mr. Sniffles snorts.
“Oh hush, like you weren’t slobbering all over him after class yesterday. You were practically drooling.”
My pup cocks his head sharply to one side, clearly offended.
“Right, right, I know,” I say, returning the final blanket to the pile. “You can’t help it. You’re a pug of a certain age. Drool happens.”
He huffs, as if agreeing that it isn’t nice to judge other creatures for things they can’t control.
Which reminds me of his farting problem lately…
Should I put him in the back room to protect Tank from a potentially toxic scent event or does that look like I’m trying too hard? Like I’m angling to be alone alone with him instead of just alone in a professional way?
Mr. Sniffles makes a sound halfway between a wheeze and a whimper, begging me to spare him any further nonsense.
“Fine. I’ll stop compulsively cleaning.” I smooth my hands over my leggings. “He’ll be here soon anyway.”
As if on cue, the doorbell chimes, sending my heart into my throat.
“Okay, play it cool,” I whisper to my partner in crime, who responds by yawning and plopping his head down on his paws. “Good job, very cool.”
I take a deep breath and hurry to the studio door, which I keep locked after class and during private sessions, so I won’t have people wandering in when I’m trying to concentrate on other things. I fling it open to find Tank almost completely filling the frame, somehow looking even larger than he did this morning. He’s wearing soft black yoga pants and a tight black tee and smells faintly of cedar and something clean that makes my stomach flutter.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rumbly. “Sorry, I’m a little early.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Perfect actually. I just finished cleaning up.” I step back, motioning him in. “And this gives us a few minutes to talk about your health history before the torture starts.”
His lips twitch. “At least it smells nice in your torture chamber. Way better than the gym I was in with my clients all afternoon.”
“Thank you, I try,” I say, locking the door behind him as he moves to slip his boots into a cubby.
Take that, Mr. Sniffles. Those candles weren’t overkill.
“So, tell me about Tank,” I say, leaning against the check-in desk. “How long have you played hockey? Do you play other sports or have physically demanding hobbies? Any injuries or chronic conditions aside from the torn rotator cuff?”
He stands quickly, his brows shooting up his forehead. “How did you know that it was a torn cuff?”