How odd.
I run my hands over his blocky eight-pack as a breeze lifts the tendrils of Brandon’s hair. My foot kicks out, and the woven basket of apples topples off the bed. I frown as they scatter, rolling in every direction as my name thunders through the darkness.
“Kate?”
Annoyed, I shrug the hand off my shoulder. “I want my blacksmith, leave me alone.”
A snort ruffles the hairs on the back of my neck, and my irritation spikes.
“Just one more kiss,” I whisper.
“One more what?!”
My eyes fly open.
I clutch the bedspread to my harried breathing as I try to orient myself in the dark. Brandon’s eyes are hooded with sleep, but an amused smirk teases the corner of the mouth that was ravaging mine only seconds before.
Wasn’t it?
“What are you doing?” I rasp.
“What wereyoudoing? You were saying my name.” His grin gleams white in the dark. “A lot.”
I’m grateful that the ten-alarm fire in my cheeks is masked by shadow. “No I wasn’t.”
“Oh, but you were.” Brandon’s laugh is husky, and the sound spikes a wave of leftover desire in my belly.
I’m mortified, but I arrange my features into a scowl.
“Shut up. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Hope your dream picks back up,” he chuckles as he returns to his pillow. “Sounded like a good one.”
I flop onto my pillow with a huff, but my body cannot be persuaded to relax nearly as easily. Brandon’s break-up exoneration is messing with my mind.
But it’s my heart, I fear, that has made a decision I’m not remotely ready to admit.
Ihoist myself into a forearm headstand on my yoga mat, angling my legs backward into the scorpion pose. Sweat courses down my body, across my matching pink sports bra and spandex shorts. The furnace inside this hot yoga class feels ten times hotter than usual, but I’m happy to have caught the last class of the night.
Mr. Namaste-at-your-place-or-mine, the attractive yoga instructor I gave my number to before Christmas, is teaching again tonight, but he hasn’t looked my way once. He probably feels awkward for never reaching out to schedule a date after I gave him my number, but I can’t blame the guy. My mom’s incoming phone call that morning had worked me into such a tizzy I probably looked like a crazy person.
My forearms tremble as I release the scorpion pose, dropping back onto my mat, but the burn feels good. Anything to get my mind off of yesterday.
The car ride home with Brandon from the motel was awkward, to say the least. I don’t think either of us knew what to do with the information that the darkness pried out of us.
Brandon was kind but pensive as we drove. Quiet. Unsettling.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Class ends with a hushed “Namaste,” and people file out of the room. Picking up my water bottle, I shoot copious amounts of liquid into my mouth, then swipe my sweat towel across my forehead. My pink workout set has turned a dark magenta thanks to perspiration, but I can’t care.
I share an awkward glance with Mr. Namaste-at-your-place-or mine, clean my yoga mat, and begin to carry it back to the front desk. Turning a corner, I run smack dab into a hard chest. My yoga mat slips, and I scramble to catch it.
“So sorry,” I say, snatching it off the floor. “I didn’t?—”
“Kate?”
A surprised laugh puffs out of me as I stand. “Rohan? What are you doing here?”
