“Introductory Compatibility Session. You’ll need it.” Then she sighs and rolls her eyes. “I sent you the schedule; just learn it instead of sending me idiotic texts.”
Then she opens the water bottle, takes a long sip, and points the rolled-up mat at my chest.
She turns to leave, and as she walks away, I can’t help but call her back again.
“Hey, Heart?”
“What is it now, Becker?”
“Yoga doesn’t work.”
“Why?”
“I feel more tense than before.”
Then she exits, leaving behind only a good scent and temptation.
And I stay there, on the mat, with a stupid smile and an obvious problem to solve before the next session.
12
Namaste, My Ass
Sloane
I storm out of the gym like a fury.
I swear… I have never had a less relaxing yoga session in my entire life.
I feel like going boxing.
Yes, I do that sometimes—it helps me "clear my mind."
Translation: I imagine punching someone's face repeatedly.
And today that someone has a name and a last name.
Cohen. Freaking. Becker.
I wash up, change, and head toward the gym exit.
The girl at the reception smiles at me: “Everything okay, Miss Heart?”
“Perfectly fine!” I reply, too cheerful. “I’m just looking for a legal way to commit murder.”
She laughs. I don't.
Outside, the morning sun blinds me even though the autumn air is cool.
I walk at a military pace toward the agency, mentally reviewing the list of reasons why I can’t strangle him:
He is a client.
