Page 2 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

That evening, I park my mud-splattered truck outside a purple storefront, because, of course, it’s purple, with paper paisley decorations filling the windows. A sidewalk chalkboard reads: Inhale your dreams, exhale what you can’t control, with a hand-drawn smiling purple pumpkin beneath.

I sit behind the wheel for another minute, thinking of reasons to leave—maybe a call will come in, maybe the counselor will let me hike instead, maybe Donaldson will change his mind. Unfortunately, none of those things happen.

If I drive away, I prove what everyone already thinks—I can face a burning roof but not a quiet room where I might have to face myself.

The card in my pocket is worn from being taken out and put back so many times. If I get a signature, I can pretend it’s just another job for the department. But I can’t forget the dent in that locker or the way Haugh looked at me when I went off on the tourist. I hate that memory more than the class. I want to go to work tomorrow and have him trust me again. But I can’t control that—what I can control is whether I open this door or not.

I walk in wearing boots, jeans, and a red-and-black flannel. Nobody said yoga required a special outfit—they just said to wear something comfortable, and my flannel and jeans are comfortable. The first thing that greets me is warm, citrus-scented air. About a dozen people lay out purple mats on the polished wood floor as soft music plays from hidden speakers.

A woman stands up from behind the front desk—she’s small compared to me, but most people are. Honey-brown curls bounce around her face. She wears purple leggings and a cream sweater that ends at her waist. “You must be John.”

“How can you tell?”

She looks from my boots to my shoulders, pauses at the attendance card in my hand, then meets my gaze again. “Intuition.”

I almost smile, which annoys me more than the purple pumpkin on the chalkboard did.

“Paisley Parker,” she says, extending her hand. “Welcome to Sage o’ the Times.”

My large hand swallows her smaller one, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. “I need a signature.” I drop my hand, letting go of hers, and miss the warmth a second later.

“After class.” Paisley glances at me.

“I showed up. That should count for something.”

“Showing up is the doorway—staying is the room.” Paisley steps closer, her eyes silently challenging me.

“Did that sound wiser in your head?” I ask.

“Much.” Her grin widens. “Boots off, Mountain Man—it’s time to channel the flannel.”

I should hate the nickname. Instead, I feel a strange warmth beneath my ribs, something I’ve never felt for another person before.

I take off my boots, decide to stay, and then realize that’s my first mistake.

two

Paisley

Irecognize him the minute he steps into my studio. John Prince. In Temptation Ridge, everyone knows the firefighter who lives alone above Timberland Creek, chops enough firewood for a small kingdom, and once carried an injured hiker three miles through the spring floods. I’ve spotted him at the grocery store, always in flannel, always serious. People say he lost someone important years ago and hasn’t let anyone in since.

Seeing him up close is overwhelming, which isn’t helpful. I’m supposed to see him as a student, not be distracted by his broad shoulders or the tired vulnerability beneath his scowl. People know me for being cheerful. It’s easy to stay upbeat when no one gets to me. But John gets to me before he even speaks, and a reckless part of me wonders what it would take to make this serious mountain man laugh.

I smooth the corner of the sign-in sheet as he looks around the room. The way people talk about John doesn’t match the man standing in front of me, his jaw tight as if a yoga mat might attack him. I know that look. I had it at the hospital, watching my mother grow weaker from cancer, forcing a smile because the only other choice was to fall apart. I want to tease him into relaxing. I also want him to feel safe, even when he’s uncomfortable here, not just because Chief Donaldson told me he’d be coming, but because he’s making an effort.

Dark hair curls at his collar. His beard gives his face a sharp look, but the tiredness around his gray-blue eyes softens it. A small scar cuts through one eyebrow—his hands are broad, and he has that same wary look, as if he expects my yoga mats to attack.

I’m twenty-two, not twelve, but my stomach still flips when he takes off his boots. John, on the other hand, doesn’t do cartwheels. He can barely stand still.

“Feet hip-width apart,” I tell the class. “Soften your knees. Let your shoulders drop away from your ears.” I roll my shoulders back, trying to calm my racing heart. John stands at the back on a borrowed purple mat, his shoulders still tense. “Mr. Prince,” I say.

“John.” He grits his teeth.

“John, you’re allowed to unclench your jaw.”

“It’s resting.” He shifts his gaze to meet mine.

“Your resting jaw looks like it’s planning a crime.” I press my lips together for a moment, feeling a spark of awareness run through me.