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)
I’ve just returned inside when the rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the peaceful ambiance in the studio. It’s a distinctive sound—deep, powerful, with that unmistakable Harley growl that vibrates up through the floorboards.
Through the front windows, I watch as a matte black motorcycle pulls up to the curb. The rider is tall and broad-shouldered, clad in worn jeans and a leather jacket despite the August heat. Even with his face obscured by a helmet, there’s something magnetic about him, a confident ease in the way he swings his leg over the bike, a casual strength in the way he props it on its stand.
I’m not proud of the little flutter in my stomach in response.
After Drake, I promised myself I was done with “bad boys,” done with men who radiate danger and complications. I’ve spent the last four months purging that attraction from my system, focusing on stable, centered energy.
But damn if this guy doesn’t look…delicious.
Mr. Sniffles lets out a suspicious snort beside me, as if reading my thoughts and judging them. Harshly.
“I know, I know,” I whisper. “I’m just looking. Window shopping is still allowed.”
The rider removes his helmet, and recognition strikes like a meditation bell ringing through the air, shocking me from my wayward thoughts. That sharp jawline covered in dark stubble, those intense eyes, the scars that cut through different places on both his eyebrows, giving him a permanent “don’t fuck with me” expression…
It’s Theodore “Tank” LiBassi, Shane and Bree’s brooding friend, the one I briefly chatted with at happy hour earlier this summer. The one who lurked at the edges of the beer garden, nursing a single Pale Ale, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than in a garden on a sunny day, surrounded by good friends and great music.
The one who declined my invitation to dance with a grunt that might have meant “no thanks” or “I’d rather eat glass, leave me alone, you weird woman.”
So, basically, exactly my type of trouble, historically speaking. The kind of man I have decided to avoid at all costs. And now, he’s walking up the steps to my little brownstone studio, apparently not in the neighborhood to hit the motorcycle bar down the street or the army-navy surplus on the corner.
Nope. He’s coming here.
Inside. Right now.
Shit!
I smooth down my tank top and flip a stray braid over my shoulder, reminding myself that I’m a professional. If he’s here for my beginner flow class, I’ll treat him like any other student—with respect, patience, and absolutely no thoughts about how nice those tattooed arms of his would feel wrapped around me.
Zero thoughts.
None whatsoever.
The door chimes as he enters, his presence immediately making my peaceful lobby feel several sizes smaller. He fills the space, not just physically—though at well over six feet with shoulders that could block out the sun, that’s part of it—but with an energy that’s so intense it crackles in the air around him.
“Hey there,” I say, my voice coming out lighter and perkier than intended. “Welcome to Love Lotus. Theodore, right? Shane’s friend?”
He grunts—apparently not pleased that I’ve remembered him—then clears his throat. “Tank. You can call me Tank. And you’re Stephanie. We met at happy hour.”
I nod. “Yes, I was the one dancing. You were the one looking annoyed by the dancing.”
Surprise flickers across his face.
Then, irritation.
I wince. “Sorry, I was just teasing. I understand that dancing isn’t everyone’s thing. It’s not a big deal. Sorry.” I suck in a breath and force a smile. “So, what can I do for you? Are you here for a class or…”
He grunts again and glances around the space, his gaze lingering suspiciously on the hammock full of pillows in the corner, as if he suspects it might be hiding a sniper. “Yeah. Doc Peterson said I should try yoga and gave me your card so…” His scowl reaches new, scowly depths as his focus returns to my face.
“Lovely.” I keep my smile fixed in place, refusing to be intimidated. “So, you’re here for the four o’clock beginner flow, then?”
He grunts yet again, a slightly more affirmative sound, this time.
“Great. We have a small group of experienced students today, perfect for your first class.” I gesture to the cubbies along the wall. “You can store your things there, the bathrooms are down the hall, and the studio is through that door. Once you’ve changed, just grab a mat from the hooks on the wall, find a spot, and make yourself comfortable.”
He sets his backpack down, pulling out a pair of mesh basketball-style shorts that give me pause. “Did you bring pants, by any chance?” I ask.
Tank blinks. “Pants?”
“Yes, or shorts with spandex underneath?” I ask, pushing on when he continues to look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, “You’re going to be getting into a lot of unusual positions. With normal shorts, everyone will be able to see straight up the legs to all your bits and pieces when you’re in downward facing dog. Which can be…awkward. For everyone. I have some pants you can borrow from the loaner bin if you’d like?”