“If it involves chanting, I’m out,” I mutter, peeling myself out of her death grip as the instructor glides past.
“No chanting,” the instructor assures me with a serene, slightly unsettling smile. “Just a gentle flow to help you unwind as the sun sets. Go find yourself a mat and get comfortable. We’ll start with some breath work to loosen up those knots you’re carrying in your neck.”
Aria loops her arm through mine and starts dragging me toward the water’s edge. “Let’s grab spots by the water. It’s way better to face away from the sun—trust me.”
I glance over and realize Milo has already drifted toward the guys. They’re in a loose huddle, laughing about something, but his eyes keep finding me every few seconds, like he’s watching to make sure I haven’t made a run for it.
I’m tempted, trust me.
Aria and I claim our spots directly across from the guys, with Claire and Lillian settling in beside us. I’ve barely had timeto take a deep breath before the instructor claps her hands, beaming like she’s about to lead us in a spiritual group hug.
“Wonderful! Let’s begin with deep breathing. In through the nose… out through the mouth.”
I try to focus. Ireallydo. But my traitorous eyes keep drifting across the circle to Milo.Why does he have to look that good in athletic shorts?It should be illegal.
Breathe, Sienna.
In through the nose, out through the mouth… and definitelydo notfantasize about tackling him into the sand.
The instructor’s calm voice pulls me back. “Beautiful. Feel the sand beneath you and the breeze carrying away your tension. Now, fold forward—knees wide, arms extended, forehead to the mat.”
I bend into the pose and immediately regret every yoga class I’ve skipped. The stretch is equal parts heavenly and “oh my God, I’m not nearly as flexible as I thought.”
We move through a few more poses, arching and rounding our spines on all fours. The breeze cools the sweat prickling my skin. Then the instructor calls for downward dog. I groan as I push my hips up, heels digging into the sand. Blood rushes to my head as my calves scream in protest.
When we shift into a lunge—right knee bent, arms stretched out like airplane wings—I catch Milo mirroring me perfectly. His lunge is deeper, his balance rock-solid. A drop of sweat glides down his temple, pauses in the dip of his collarbone, then continues south, making his tank cling to his chest in all the right, deeply unfair ways.
Sweat should not be allowed to lookthatattractive.
I want to trace that exact path with my fingers… or maybe my tongue.
“You’re staring,” Aria whispers, leaning toward me with a knowing grin.
“I’m observing,” I mutter, lips pressed tight.
She snorts. “You’re even starting to sound like him now. This isamazing.”
Before I can fire back, the instructor claps again, far too cheerfully. “Alright, beautiful souls! Time for partner poses. Find someone to work with. We’re doing a seated forward bend with a twist. One person folds forward while the other gently holds their partner’s shoulder or back to deepen the stretch.”
We all pair up with our bingo partners. Milo heads straight for me without hesitation, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his tank top like he’s in a damn cologne commercial. My mouth waters at the sight.
“Guess we’re stuck together,” he says with a slight smile playing on his lips.
“Guess so,” I reply, scooting back on my mat so we’re sitting spine-to-spine. “Try not to crush me with those muscles of yours.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he assures me, his voice low enough to vibrate against my back. “Unless you ask me not to be.”
Heat shoots straight down my spine. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”
The faint dampness of his sweat soaks through his tank and onto my back, and I have to remind myself how to breathe.
When the instructor tells us to go ahead and begin, I fold forward first, reaching for my toes. Milo twists gently, with one hand on my shoulder and the other resting on my lower back.
I let out an audible groan as my muscles stretch.
“Too much?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear.
“No,” I manage. His hands feel way too good. “You’re very… handsy for a guy who makes color-coded spreadsheets for a living.”
