Do.
Not.
Want.
A.
Fling.
It has been decided. I simply do not have the stomach for casual sex.
At least ... I don’t think I do?
Sighing, I do my best to refocus, the men on the beach surprisingly agile for such an early morning—and considering they’re so large.
Harris was a no-show, but his new friends showed up.
“Breathe deeply, gentlemen,” I call out, adjusting my tone to sound both authoritative andcalm, like the yoga instructor I am. “Feel the sand under your feet, the stretch in your muscles. Focus on the now.”
The guys grumble a little, but they follow my lead, leaning into their stretches with a surprising amount of effort for a group of men who probably think yoga is glorified napping.
“I don’t want to feel the sand under my feet,” one of the guys mutters. “I want to be in bed.”
I rack my brain, struggling to remember their names.
Eli? Miles?Why can’t i remember who is who anymore?
“I’m not hating the view, though,” the other one (I think his name is Quinn? Quinton?) whispers, not-so-subtly glancing my way.
I roll my eyes. “You better be talking about the lake and not my ass.”
There. That sounded commanding, didn’t it?
Professionalism, Lucy. You’re a yoga instructor, not a flirt instructor.
“I love a sunrise over the water.” Someone giggles—actually giggles.
I roll my eyes, facing forward, then twisting my torso. “Eyes on your mats, boys. Pay. Attention.” Jeez, they’re as bad as a group of unruly elementary school kids. “This isn’t a spectator sport.”
A few of them laugh, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve had worse students.Muchworse. I taught a bachelorette party once, and they came hungover, loudly laughing and falling over one another, shouting. Giggling.
The sun climbs higher, warming the sand beneath us, and for a moment, I forget about lumbersexual Harris and his infuriating appeal.
Why can’t I take my mind off him?
This is so unlike me.
I concentrate on the rhythm of the class, the sound of waves lapping against the shore, the groans of men struggling not to fall on their faces the way Harris did in the one and only class he’s taken with me.
One by one, they start to drop out of their poses, collapsing into the sand like soldiers after a battle.
Elijah flops onto his back dramatically and grumbles, “I thought yoga was supposed to be peaceful.”
Who on earth told him that? Ha.
“Peaceful when you’re doing it right,” I shoot back, earning a low chuckle from Quinton, who’s been doing surprisingly well. He seems to be taking it seriously.
“Or. Maybe you’re making it hard for us on purpose,” Dex teases, brushing the sand off his forearms. His grin is full of trouble, and I get the sense that he loves to goof around and give his friends a hard time.
