One
Madison
My toxic trait? Thinking I can fix a man.
My redeeming quality? I look hot while failing.
At least, that used to be true.
Right now, I look like I was boiled.
Date number three with Sage. Yes, his real name is Sage. I should have known things were doomed the day he tried to “cleanse my aura” before I stepped into his apartment.
I thought he was joking.
He was not.
But I let it slide because the rest of him seemed fairly normal, even cute, with agood jawline. And fine, I was intrigued. It’s been a while since I felt intrigued.
But Sage didn’t take me to dinner tonight.
He brought me to hot fucking yoga.
We’re in a room that feels like the inside of Satan’s armpit, doing poses invented by people who clearly had vendettas against the human spine.
Right now, I’m in a downward dog I cannot escape.
My arms are shaking.
My legs are numb.
I’ve lost approximately ninety percent of my body weight through my pores.
And I’m pretty sure I just pulled something in my lower back.
The instructor practically floats around me. “Okay, everyone, let’s flow into three-legged dog. Lift your right leg. Feel the heat. Let the fire move through you.”
Fireismoving through me, but it’s nerve pain.
I try to shift my weight, and my lower back lights up.
I let out a noise.
It’s not a sexy noise.
The instructor stops mid-float.
Half the class looks over, annoyed that I’ve interrupted their spiritual suffering.
I lift my head enough to catch my reflection in the giant mirror.
My red hair is curling at the temples, my cheeks are the shade of a ripe tomato, and sweat is pouring from places sweat shouldn’t pour.
This.
Is.
Not.
