Page 6 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

I walk through the rain to my truck, leaving my favorite flannel with Paisley, both looking forward to and dreading the next yoga class.

four

Paisley

Iwear John’s flannel for two days. Each time I put it on, I have an internal debate. It’s just a shirt. It’s just something warm. It’s not proof that a reserved firefighter noticed I was cold before I said anything. Still, the sleeves cover my hands, and the silly comfort of his scent makes my apartment feel less empty. I can’t help wondering what it would be like if he came with the flannel.

I don’t wear it all the time. I have some dignity—and laundry to do. But once I hang it over my chair, my whole apartment smells a little like cedar, campfire, and him. Every time I walk by, I remember his hand on the umbrella and how his voice roughens when he says he respects me.

I should just give the shirt back at the next class—that would be easy. Instead, I keep folding and unfolding it, feeling silly over a piece of flannel. What really gets to me isn’t how good he smells. It’s the moment he handed it to me—no show, no one watching, just a man who saw I was cold. I’m usually the one who notices things like that. If I let myself want that kind of care, I have to admit I’m tired of always being the caretaker.

My best friend Jade catches me pressing the sleeve to my nose. “Oh, honey,”

“I was checking whether it needed washing.”

“With your entire face?” She waves a hand at me.

I let go of the sleeve. Jade, who owns the coffee shop next door with her siblings, treats privacy as a suggestion. She picks up the shirt, reads the stitched J. Prince above the pocket, and whistles. “Firefighter Mountain Man, John Prince?” She raises an eyebrow.

“He loaned it to me.”

“Men like that don’t loan out flannel—if anything, it’s a courtship ritual to give someone their flannel.”

“He’s my student.” I snatch the flannel from her hands.

“For one more class,” Jade says, reminding me that this fact has taken up too much of my brain this week.

“Don’t remind me.” I slip the flannel on, not caring what Jade says—I don’t have many days left to wear it.

***

On Thursday, John arrives early, carrying two paper cups and a small brown bag. “Peace offering,” he says.

Inside is a cinnamon roll from Jade’s family’s coffee shop—my favorite. “How did you know?” I lift my chin and meet his gaze.

“Your friend interrogated me in the parking lot the other day—she also told me what you like.”

“That sounds like Jade,” I say as he hands me the coffee. I take a sip and realize it’s exactly how I drink it—Jade is such a traitor. I hand back the folded flannel. “Thank you.”

His hand closes around the shirt, but his eyes remain on me as he lifts the flannel to his nose and inhales. “You didn’t wash it.”

“You told me not to.”

“You usually do what you’re told?” John’s voice comes out husky, and the air around us crackles with hidden desire, making my pulse skip a beat.

“Almost never,” I say.

He looks at my mouth. “Good.”

Students arrive before either of us crosses a line. I teach a slow strength flow, and John surprises everyone. He remembers the breathing and modifies when his knee complains rather than forcing it. During tree pose, Mrs. Tanner wobbles into him, and he catches her with one hand.

“Well,” she says, patting his chest. “That’s sturdy,” she adds, adjusting her stance on the mat before letting go. John turns red beneath his beard. I laugh so hard I lose my balance.

Near the end of class, I guide them into partner stretching. The number of students is odd—of course.

“You’re with me,” I tell John.

“Is this where you get your revenge?” He smiles, throwing me off balance again.