He wasn’t into the whole OM-ing, stretching deal, but wouldn’t dream of saying that to a woman who made her living that way.
He could have cancelled, had even considered it when he got back to his office. But that would give her the false sense of satisfaction that she had scared him off. A redheaded pixie and her downward-facing dogs weren’t going to rattle him.
He had run track in high school. He hit the gym for early morning workouts five days a week and ran just as often. He had a protein shake for breakfast every day. He was in shape — great shape — and no bendy yoga guru was going to insinuate otherwise.
It was quite the eclectic crowd in the studio tonight. He recognized four of the starters from the high school football team taking up spots in the front row. Maizie from Peace of Pizza was brushing her white blond bangs out of her eyes while her boyfriend, Benito, stretched.
In the corner by the window, Beckett spotted resident pothead and poker champion Bill Fitzsimmons sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. He was wearing sweatpants that looked like they had lived through the seventies.
Beckett was just noticing how warm the studio was when Fitz stood up and took off his pants, revealing embarrassingly small spandex shorts. It took all his control not to start laughing … or crying.
Gianna, in cropped tights and a strappy tank top that showed off some spectacular curves, smiled from the front of the room. That was going to be distracting, he thought.
“Welcome,” she called to him, with a hint of friendly cockiness in her eyes. “Let me get you a mat.”
Beckett followed her to the shelving unit that held rolled up mats in purples and greens as well as a dozen foam blocks and soft blankets.
Gianna handed him a green mat. “You can set up anywhere. Just face the front of the room.” She stood on tiptoe and grabbed one of the blocks off the shelf. “Here.”
“What’s this for?”
“It helps with modifications for some of the poses.”
Beckett eyed her. “I doubt I’ll need to modify anything.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a wink and sauntered back to her mat.
Beckett took a spot in the back row and pulled off his sweatshirt.
The woman next to him smiled at him and he recognized her as the reigning women’s champ of the Blue Moon Five-Miler for the past four years. She also managed to kick his ass every time they met up on the running trail.
“Hey, Taneisha. How’s the training going?”
She greeted him with a toothpaste commercial-worthy grin. “I should be Boston-ready for next year. What brings you to yoga?” She flowed forward over her extended legs, reaching for her feet.
“Just supporting the small business community,” Beckett answered evasively.
“What other mayor would willingly walk into a hot power flow class to show his support? Blue Moon is lucky to have you,” Taneisha said, gliding back up and stretching her arms over her head.
“Hot power flow?”
Gianna cut off any response to his question from the front of the room. “Okay, everyone. We’re going to get started. If you’re new, don’t worry.” Her green eyes locked on to Beckett’s face. “Just follow your neighbor and I’ll be around to help. So let’s start in child’s pose.”
Four minutes into the class, and Beckett had a steady trickle of sweat working its way down his back and a growing concern that he wasn’t going to survive the class. Gianna wandered around the room calling out instructions in a soothing voice that belied the fact that she was basically asking her students to work themselves up to and past death on their mats.
Beckett gritted his teeth and rolled forward, triceps shaking as they dipped into a low plank again. Hadn’t they already done like fifty of these? This constant flowing — or vinyasa, whatever the fuck that was — wasn’t awakening his body as she claimed it would. Instead it was drawing his attention to body parts that screamed in agony.
He was in great shape, wasn’t he? Why did he feel like the Tin Man clunking around in shorts?
He shoved back to down dog again, a brief respite, before kicking one leg forward. He rose up, a second behind his neighbors, and reached for the ceiling, praying for a meteor to strike the studio.
Beckett was thinking about collapsing on the floor and taking a breather when he felt hands on him straightening his arms.
“Lift through your arms,” Gianna said quietly. “That’s right. Now extend through the spine like you’re reaching for the ceiling through the top of your head.” She ran her hands up his sweat-soaked spine in a sweeping motion that made his skin burn.