Just look at him with that strong profile. Chiseled jaw. Roman nose. Carved cheekbones. Fair skin kissed with just a hint of tan. I sigh contentedly. Despite my head nearly bonking the roof, and my legs scrunched up cross-legged, I’m going nowhere till the curtain call.
He bends, folding at the waist, dropping his arms to his feet, and—oh my god.
There’s a first time for everything, and I might need to make a T-shirt that says, “I was today years old when I became an ass woman.” Because I could set this cup on that firm rear end.
I take a satisfying sip of coffee as he moves into some kind of plank, and…that pose. Dear god, that pose is doing unfair things to my lady parts. So unfair that I hum, low in my throat, and…coffee shoots out of my nose.
I swear Cleo rolls her eyes as I mutter, “Ack.”
The man spins around, eyes darting left to right as if he’s searching for the sound of the noise.
Mustn’t have been a mutter. Could have been a shout.
I hunker down, hoping he can’t see the woman spying on him from her catio like some weirdo in pajamas.
But he’s a weirdo too. What kind of person does yoga without listening to music? Or better yet, a podcast? He’s exercisingandthinking?
I don’t think he spots me though. He turns back around, settles into a plank, and holds it.
Stop the presses. Why have Ineverrealized what a plank is a metaphor for? He lowers his pelvis while arching up his torso, and…it’s official. I’m now a convert to the church of yoga. I happily settle in for more enjoyment featuring downward-make-me-stare-harder-dog and why-don’t-you-warrior-with-me pose.
A whimper from inside my home interrupts the spectator sport.
My shoulders slump.
Another whimper drifts to my ears.
I say goodbye to the heathen cat and the peep show, then wiggle backward like a snake with regret.
Nature calls.
By the time I unfold myself from the catio and step into the mudroom, Simon—my little rescue dog—is practically bouncing with his legs crossed like a kid waiting for the bathroom.
“I’ve got you, buddy,” I say to my favorite person, grabbing his harness and leash. I slip them on him—while still holding my coffee because this gal can juggle—and hustle to the front door.
I glance down at my outfit. Hmm. The shirt has a bit too much breathing room. Setting down the coffee, I reach for a jacket from the hook, not even looking at it, then snatch my life-sustaining coffee again.
Only when I step outside do I realize I’m still in my pajamas—and I’ve grabbed my bathrobe.
But Simon doesn’t care what I’m wearing, and I haveplenty of time to make myself presentable before meeting the prospective client later today. So I shove my feet into my gardening boots from the front porch and trot down the steps, thinking about how I can fit yoga TV into my morning schedule every single day.
2
AIR DOG
FORD
The second the timer on my watch goes off, I break my Shavasana. Sixty seconds of relaxation after twenty-nine minutes of yoga—done. I hit the button to silence the alarm, push up, stretch my neck from side to side, and yank open the sliding glass door to head inside.
Zamboni waits patiently in her dog bed, her part-German Shepherd, part-Corgi head popping up, tilting slightly as if to ask,How did it go?
“I kicked calm ass,” I say, patting her behind the ear as her black-and-tan tail thumps against the cushion.
I duck into the main bedroom, grab a pair of basketball shorts from where they’re neatly folded on the bureau, and tug them on over my compression shorts before heading into the closet. After flicking through my options, I pick a gray T-shirt with my alma mater’s logo, then carefully slide the hanger out from the bottom to keep the neck from stretching. Life’s too short for stretched-out T-shirt collars.
When I’ve pulled it on, I return to the kitchen, open the counter-depth fridge, and grab the pre-sliced frozenbananas from the freezer. Next, the kale I picked up at the farmers’ market. Then some frozen mango. All of it goes into the high-end blender sitting on the clean white countertop. I hit blend on the perfect concoction—kale smoothies are a party in the mouth, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong.
As the machine chops, dices, and liquefies, I mentally check in on my goals for the day. My personal conditioning coach had me add yoga to my routine this season, so I’ve knocked that out first thing. It’ll be time for the real work when I meet with her later today for a session. She’s a hard-ass—exactly what I wanted when I signed with her at the start of the summer.
