Page 3 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

Several students laugh. His gaze locks onto mine. For a moment, I wonder whether teasing him was a mistake. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.

Trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at my reaction to John, I turn my attention back to the class and guide them through breathing, cat-cow stretches, and a gentle forward fold. John treats every instruction like a challenge. When I tell everyone to let go of their weight, he digs his feet in harder. During downward dog, his flannel shirt rides up, revealing a strip of firm stomach, and I lose track of what I’m supposed to say next.

Nice going, Paisley. Years of training, a studio loan, and a room full of paying clients, and one glimpse of a firefighter’s stomach leave me completely flustered.

“And now?” Mrs. Tanner asks.

“We breathe,” I say quickly. “Breathing is always a good idea.” I take my own advice, letting a slow breath fill my lungs before blowing it out.

John glances at me from under his arm, and by the look on his face, I know he knows. The mountain man definitely realizes he’s thrown me off. I move beside him during a low lunge. “May I adjust you?”

His entire body goes still. “How?” John exhales and waits for my answer.

“With a hand on your hip and shoulder.” I shrug like it’s nothing, even though my heart is pounding.

“Do what you need to do.” He grunts—the sound vibrating through my body, leaving me breathless once again.

I place my hand on his hip and feel the heat through his jeans. His muscles tense under my other hand, and his sharp breath matches mine. I gently move his shoulders back. “You’re fighting the pose.”

“I don’t know how not to fight,” he says quietly enough that no one else can hear.

“Then don’t stop all at once,” I say just as quietly. “Just try to fight a little less.” His gaze meets mine, and for a second I see something unguarded, but it’s gone so fast I might have imagined it.

At the end of the class, I help everyone settle into savasana. John lies flat on his back, stiff as a fallen tree, arms at his sides, looking like a man who lost a fight with the same tree.

“Close your eyes,” I say. “Nothing needs fixing for the next three minutes.” I meet his gaze and don’t look away from what’s between us. His eyes stay open as I dim the lights, but by the time I ring the closing bell, they're closed.

After everyone else leaves, he walks up to the desk with his card—a damp curl falls over his forehead, and I fight the urge to brush it aside. His flannel shirt hangs open over a charcoal T-shirt, and I suddenly realize we’re alone.

“You stayed in the room,” I say.

“Barely.” John steadies his breathing as I sign his card.

“How do you feel?” I hand him back his attendance card.

“Tall.”

“You were already tall,” I laugh.

“Then yoga accomplished nothing.” He sighs.

“You smiled twice.”

“Once.”

“I’m counting the almost-smile,” I tease, loving how easy our conversation is.

He tucks the card into his wallet. “That seems dishonest for a wellness professional.”

“We do whatever it takes to help the client.”

He walks to the door, stops, and turns around to look at me. “Ten percent.”

“What?”

“I fought ten percent less.” He looks at me and holds my gaze.

Before I can answer, he steps into the cold evening, leaving me standing behind the desk, my heart pounding. That was his first class—I wonder how the rest will go. It’s also the first time I wonder whether the gruff mountain man is as angry as he seems.