She nods. “It sounds perfect.”
I chuckle. “It’s not. Trust me. But I enjoy it, and like you, I work hard, and play even harder.”
She turns toward me, treating me to a warm smile just as we reach our destination.
I like how things are already so comfortable between us. It’s unexpected, and while she keeps me guessing about what will come out of her mouth next, I’m certainly not bored.
“You ready to get your yoga on?” I ask, parking the car near the studio’s entrance.
Emery steals glances over at the unimposing building. “Deep Connections,” she says, reading the sign hanging above the door. “I’m ready if you are.”
I shrug. I’m game for an adventure. How difficult can yoga be? Isn’t it just breathing and stretching?
I soon find out no, no it is not. Fuck, I’m going to kill my sister. After we paid our fee and enter the studio, I find out that we’ve signed up for Advanced Hatha Techniques III.
The instructor asks the class if everyone has completed the level-two course, and there are nods all around the room, while Emery and I share an apprehensive look. I’m about to try to talk her into leaving with me. A big plate of eggs and pancakes and a cup of coffee sounds way better than doing god-knows-what for the next sixty minutes. But she unrolls her mat and looks ready to do this.
Around the room there are more than a dozen people, but they’re all women—believe me, I checked. There are twenty-four boobs in this room, plus the female instructor, so that makes twenty-six and only one cock. Usually that would be like unleashing a kid in a candy store, but instead I feel like a fish out of water.
The instructor begins in a warm, almost saccharine tone. “Raise your arms above your head, lengthen your spine, and allow your body to prepare for this beautiful journey we’ll take together this morning.”
Seriously?
I look over at Emery, and her eyes are closed. She’s standing tall, her bare feet on the yoga mat and a small smile gracing her lips. I think I’ve just discovered her happy place.
As we begin, I push my body into the warrior pose, sun salutations, and downward dog. There should be a special place in hell reserved for the person in charge of coming up with these names. For instance—the plow pose—that’s nothing like what I would have assumed it would be. At the very least, it should be done with a partner.
I can’t help my gaze from straying over to Emery every so often. She’s flawless with her poses, graceful and elegant as her body seamlessly transitions from one pose to the next. I’m intensely attracted to her. But remembering my vow to Hudson, I tamp down the feelings of lust stirring in my gut.
Maybe this morning’s yoga will give me a new outlook on life. I will prove to myself, Hudson, and Emery that I can keep it in my pants and have a meaningful platonic relationship with a woman.
Even as my thoughts wonder, my body continues attempting the poses. I can’t even imagine how I must look. I’m not flexible or graceful, and would rather be in the weight room or jogging on the beach.
At last, the class is done. Emery’s practically glowing; she looks so content and at peace.
“What did you think?” she asks, bending down to roll up her mat once the instructor has dismissed us with a “Namaste.”
I could pull some alpha-male attitude and tell her that men shouldn’t twist into those positions, but instead I offer her my hand and smile. “It was cool.”
She grins widely. “Really? You’d do it again?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Next thing I know, she’ll be trying to get me to go to Jazzercise or Zumba. And I’m not about to turn in my man card. No fucking way.
She chuckles and we head from the studio with a light sheen of sweat over our skin, and feeling energized.
“Oh. They have wheatgrass shots there. And fresh juices.” Emery’s voice is excited as she stops in front of the small café at the front of the building. “You want anything?” she asks.
I shrug. “Sure.”
I discover that juice is a relative term. Because theirs are green, and brown and chunky. I order a bottle of water while Emery gets a little glass of something green and downs it quickly.
We find a table in the café, and sit down. I continue sipping from my water bottle, trying to rehydrate.
“Thanks for bringing me here today,” she says.
“Of course.”
As we sit here, chatting about mundane things like the disgusting wheatgrass she’s currently drinking, I realize that we challenge each other. She keeps me on my toes.
“Tell me more about you,” Emery asks, leaning in toward me.
“What do you want to know?”
“Enlighten me.” She shrugs.