The room goes quiet. I can’t even hear Nash anymore. Fiona walks us through a final meditation, and I do my best to focus on my breathing the way she tells us to. Usually, this is my favourite part of the class, when my body thrums with heat and I can practically feel the blood pulsing through my veins like an endless river. Today, I’m aware of how much the bliss I normally feel is like the high after the most amazing orgasm. That fucked-out floaty feeling where you’re aware of your whole body but also can’t really feel your limbs. And that awareness makes it impossible to ignore the man ahead of me who drives me nuts and turns me on, even when we’re both supposed to be in our own personal yoga bubbles.
The class ends. Normally I need six cups of coffee to feel this buzzed. I stay lying down as long as I feel is reasonable without Fiona worrying I’ve passed out. Except, when I sit up, Nash is still there, sitting on his mat ahead of me. His shirt is so wet the grey fabric is nearly black, the skin at his neck is flushed bright red, and he’s swaying a little as he sits.
“Are you okay?” My voice is a croak. He keeps swaying. I glance around for Fiona, but she’s at the back of the studio, talking to a few of the other students, so I scramble forward on my hands and knees until I can see Nash's face. It’s flushed, but his gaze glassy. He’s breathing hard. “Nash?”
He blinks when I say his name. His dark eyebrows knit together in a frown. “It’s really hot in here.”
Touching him is presumptuous, but I’m glad I do, because when I put my hand on his forearm, his skin is hot to the touch when it should be cool under his sweat.
“You’re overheating.” I reach for his water bottle, but it’s empty, so I grab mine and push it into his hands. “Here.”
He shakes as he lifts it to his lips, but the second the water hits his tongue, his whole body turns back on and he sucks it down in big gulps.
“Take it easy,” I say. He wouldn’t be the first newbie in this class to overdo it and have to rush to the studio’s small bathroom to throw all that water right back up.
“Is he okay?” Fiona crouches down next to us.
“Yeah,” I say. “Think he’s just too hot.”
“Do you need to lie down again?” Fiona asks.
Nash has nearly polished off the rest of my water, but he shakes his head. “No.” He gasps. “I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? Lots of people overexert themselves the first time.”
He plucks at his T-shirt before giving me a once-over that makes me shiver even though the air around us is still hot. “Guess I wore the wrong thing for yoga, eh?”
Fiona looks around us. “There’s another class coming in a few minutes. Are you okay to stand up? It’s cooler in the lobby. You can sit there until you feel better.”
“I can stay with him.” The words are out of my mouth before I think about it.
“Really?” Fiona says.
“Yeah.” In for a penny, in for a pound, even if Canada doesn’t have pennies anymore. I give her my best confident smile. “We know each other from work.” Right now, whatever strain I’ve put on our professional relationship is less important than making sure Nash doesn’t collapse.
He’s still a bit wobbly as he gets to his feet. I keep a hand on his back as we walk out of the room. We both sigh as the cooler air of the front lobby hits us. Nash’s body is still a furnace under my palm, but his breathing is easier. When he’s seated, I refill both our water bottles, then pull up a chair next to him.
“Thanks,” he says as he takes a drink. The action is less desperate than it was before. The flush on his skin is receding. “Guess I should have done a little more research before signing up for my first class.”
“It’s okay.” I pat his knee, noticing the way he’s cooling down there too. “We had a guy who came in a full tracksuit once. He made it about fifteen minutes before Fiona had to help him out and call the paramedics.”
“So I don’t win the lowest spot on the wall of shame?”
“Nah,” I say, giving him a grin. “He had the hamstrings of an eighty-year-old man too. Nowhere near your flexibility.”
I snap my mouth shut so hard I bite my tongue, but I can’t even whimper because every single one of my brain cells is focused on the slow flush pushing itself back over Nash’s cheeks and the way my whole body is going hot for reasons that have nothing to do with yoga.
His eyes drop. “Thanks,” he says with a soft laugh.
We sit in silence for a few more seconds, drinking our water. When I can’t take it anymore, I say, “Nash, I—” but he’s already pushing to his feet, running a hand over his hair.
“Sorry if I’m keeping you from anything,” he says. “I should get going.”
“What? Oh. Yeah, of course,” I babble as I rise too. “No worries. I didn’t have anything planned.” Another white lie. I don’t have any social plans, but I’ve got a wicked fun afternoon of webinars about the new collaboration suite Microsoft is launching—and which two of my clients are already clamouring for—waiting for me.
He gives me a tight smile. “Still. Sorry. I’ll... I’ll talk to you next week.”
He leaves before I can say anything else. I still haven’t apologized for the incident yesterday.
