After I grab coffees for both of us, we snag a table in the back in a quiet nook, away from morning crowds. She lifts her cup and takes a sip, her eyes going thoughtful, her tone open. “I didn’t think you’d be such a yoga pro.”
“I’ve done it for a few years now,” I say.
“So I gathered from your upside-downward-dog-snake-in-the-chair pose.”
I smile as I lift my cup. “Wait till you see my crow pose.”
“I don’t even want to know what that is,” she says, stretching her neck from side to side, something she did yesterday at the farm. “Unless it can make my neck not hurt.”
“Probably not. It’s just an arm balance thing,” I say.
“And I’m guessing like the yoga, and sensing my whereabouts at any second of the day, it’s just another thing you can do obscenely well?”
“Glad you’ve noticed some of my skills.”
She sets her chin in her hand. “What are younotgood at?”
Relaxing. Letting go. Unwinding.
I smirk. “Not much really.” But since she asked the question not with sarcasm but real interest, I try to answer her in kind. “Except…communication.” I offer a sympathetic smile.
She gives me one in return—a forgiving one, and I’m damn grateful for that.
“It’s all good, Banks,” she says, then takes another sip of her coffee, her guard still down as she says, “I guess it was obvious it was my first yoga class?”
I’m a little surprised she relented and admitted something that’s hard for her. But it’s a good surprise. I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.” Because it was hard for her, the last thing I want is for her to feel embarrassed or foolish. “But you did great. Seriously.”
She scoffs. “I barely could figure out the poses. I was twenty steps behind. Honestly, I was just making it up most of the time.”
I lift my cup in a toast to her. “Even so, you burst into an intermediate class guns blazing and didn’t fall on your ass. That’s impressive.”
“Or stupid,” she says, and hell, this is cute too—this self-deprecating side of her, this forthright side.
“Sometimes they’re the same,” I say with a shrug.
She sighs, like she’s letting go of the running act she tried to pull this morning. “Look, I don’t love being…babysat,” she says, but it’s not a sassy retort. It’s more a quiet admission.
“I know,” I say gently. She’s not my first client who didn’t want close protection.
“And I get it’s for my own good and everything,” she says. “It’s just…hard for me.”
I flash back to her comments the night we met—feeling overwhelmed but wanting something badly too. Then to what Tabitha told me in earlier calls—the sister was taking on a lot of work prepping the farm. Finally, to what Lila said last night—Ripley doesn’t stop.
“You’re used to calling the shots,” I say, hoping to understand her reticence better. The more I understand her, the better the job I can do. At least that’s what I tell myself as I get to know her better.
“Yes.”
“Now, you feel like I call the shots?”
She gives me a look. “Well, you are, Banks.”
“You don’t like that? Someone else being in control?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a long beat, and in those breath-held seconds, as her eyes lock with mine, it’s like she’s saying she’d want that in other ways.
Maybe in bed.
Or could be that’s my hopeful imagination. My dirty wishes. Since she’d look fantastic taking orders. I’d love to give them to her. To tell her to clasp her wrists behind her back so I could tie them together.
