His eyebrow arched. “Articulate.”
I sat up properly, crossing my legs. “Drivers don’t do yoga. You lift weights and run on treadmills and complain about neck strength.”
“Liam makes me stretch.” He shrugged. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
“Not even close.”
“So teach me.”
I stared at him. Griffin Michaels wanted to do yoga. With me. While Hazel slept in my room and my brain was still stuck on that almost-kiss.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
“Fine, but you have to actually listen to me.”
“When don’t I listen?”
I gave him a look.
He laughed, and dropped onto the edge of my mat. “Fair point. I’ll behave.”
“You don’t know how.”
“Guess you’ll have to teach me that too.”
I ignored the way my pulse jumped at his tone. Pulled another mat from where I’d left it by the sofa. “Here. Stay on your own mat.”
“Bossy.”
“Ground rules or you leave.”
He held up his hands in surrender, moving to his mat. “Yes, ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes and moved into mountain pose. “Start here. Feet hip-width apart, weight evenly distributed.”
He mimicked my stance. There was nothing graceful about it. He stood like he was bracing for impact.
“Now reach your arms overhead. Inhale.”
He did. His shoulders pulled back stiffly, fighting the stretch.
“Exhale and fold forward. Let your head hang.”
He folded, palms barely making it past his knees. His hamstrings pulled tight, limiting his range.
I blinked. “You can’t touch your toes.”
“I can touch my shins.” He sounded defensive. “That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Most drivers can’t even get this far.”
I moved into forward fold beside him, palms flat on the mat. “Liam really needs to make you stretch more.”
Griffin grumbled something unintelligible, his hands braced on his thighs. “This is harder than it looks.”
“Welcome to yoga.”
