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CHAPTER FOUR

TANNER

If you want a masterclass in psychological warfare, skip West Point and just have a sibling lunch with Maggie. I didn’t agree to this lunch because I missed my sister, or because I’m a sucker for overpriced burgers. Please. I’m here for intel.

I want the name of the blonde goddess from Main Street. The one with the yoga pants and the take-no-shit smile. The one Maggie waved at, like they’re besties. Because there’s something about her that’s burned into my brain. And I need to know everything. I drag my ass into Bistro Argenté right at noon and find my sister sitting at the last booth in the back, two glasses of iced tea sweating on the table, her sunglasses propped up on her phone on the table.

I ease myself into the booth, careful as a ninety-year-old with osteoporosis. Fuck. My back is still throbbing. It’s better but nowhere near healed. I try to make it look natural, but based on the smirk tugging at Maggie’s mouth, I might as well be wearing a neck brace.

“I see you survived the second round at the chiropractor,” she says. “Your posture’s looking better. I’m proud.”

I grunt and slouch further just to be difficult. “Yeah, I’m basically thriving.”

She snorts and leans forward, blue eyes tracking every micro-wince as I shift in my seat. “So, how was your second visit with Dr. Lawson?”

“It sucked.” I reach for my tea, slosh some over the rim, and swig half the glass in one go. It’s so cold it makes my teeth ache. “At one point, he actually stood on the table to get enough leverage to make my back pop. It sounded like a fucking Rice Krispies factory in there. Not even exaggerating.”

“Ouch,” she winces.

“You can say that again.” I put the glass down, maybe a little harder than necessary. “He said he saw quite a bit of improvement from last time.”

Maggie’s face softens. “That’s good to hear.”

The waitress appears and stands next to the table with her pad at the ready. She looks about twelve, with a name tag that reads “Poppy” and a nervous energy that suggests she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Can I get you started, or are you waiting for someone else?” She looks from me to Maggie.

“Burger, rare, fries, extra crispy. And a refill on the tea,” I say, barely glancing at the menu.

“I’ll do the Summer Salad,” says Maggie. “Add grilled chicken, and can I get the dressing on the side?” she tells the waitress before turning to me. “You want to split dessert?”

She doesn’t even need to ask. “Hell yes.”

She grins and glances over at the waitress. “We’ll share the chocolate torte with extra whipped cream.”

Poppy scribbles our order and escapes toward the kitchen.

The minute she’s gone, Maggie zeroes in. “So, about your back⁠—”

“It’s much better, remember? Lawson popped it. I’m almost as good as new.” Fuck. How the hell do I casually slip what I really want to talk about into this conversation? Every time I get a little opening, my sister slams that door shut.

“Uh-huh.” She gives me the patented No Bullshit Stare. “You realize you’re hunched like a cartoon villain right now, right?”

I shoot upright, immediately regret it, and curse under my breath. “Don’t start with me, Mags.”

She ignores me and sips her tea. “You know what might actually help? Besides prescription painkillers and stubbornness?”

Finding out everything there is to know about my blonde goddess would be a great start, I think, but my mouth takes another path. “Is it horse tranquilizers? Because I’m about to call Hudson to get a few.”

She waits for my sarcasm to die, then slides a little business card across the table. It’s got a lot of teal, some cursive font, and the words “CELESTIAL BALANCE – GUEST PASS.”

“Whatever this is, I want no part of it.” I push the card back with my index finger. “Not fucking happening.”

“It’s a yoga studio.” Maggie doesn’t even blink. “You’re going. Tomorrow, four o’clock. I already RSVP’d for us both.” I don’t have time to do yoga. I’m too fucking busy having steamy fantasies starring the beautiful blonde goddess.

I reach up, rub my temple, and try to mentally will my sister not to argue. Fuck. It didn’t work when we were eleven, and it doesn’t work now. “Why would you do that?”

“Because,” she says, like she’s explaining the principle of gravity to an especially dense potato, “you can’t just muscle through this. That’s how people end up with herniated discs, or worse. One bad move and you’ll be limping for the rest of your life, and no one wants that. So, you’re going. No negotiation.”