Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Well, that works out for both of us, doesn’t it?” Tyler’s charm flashes, teasing, a little flirty—but never quite crossing the line.
“It does,” I manage, trying to focus on anything other than the inferno my body has become. Almost two weeks in, and I’m a burning fire. There has to be something to gutter these flames.
I roll through conversational topics in my mind and land on the one that’s been nagging me all week. Surely, it will douse my desire. “What happened with Elle?”
His brows knit. I probably shouldn’t have asked. I wave my hand dismissively. “Actually, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry. Forget I even asked.”
I gesture to the items on the floor—the yoga blocks, a bolster, a strap, candles that smell like sunshine and orange trees, and all the accoutrements. “I want to set up the shelf now and enjoy the Official Yoga Corner,” I say, bending to grab a few things.
He reaches for my arm.
“Nothing bad happened,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But nothing great either.” His eyes flicker with something like regret.
For the years they spent together? The choices they made?
Or maybe for the end of it.
“Oh.” My heart sinks. “That must’ve been hard at times, being in a marriage where it felt…like that.” I hesitate, but the question spills out anyway. “You weren’t really in love?” It feels important that I know this.
“Maybe at one point we were, but it didn’t feel like sparks. It didn’t feel like lightning. It didn’t feel the way my pulse beats faster and harder when I get on the ice. You know what I mean? It wasn’t like hockey.”
Goosebumps rise along my arms. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel that way too on the ice,” I murmur.
“Great minds,” he says, but it feels like great hearts.
Like we have too much in common.
Dangerously so. I turn back to organizing the yoga items, trying desperately to focus.
But I can feel his eyes on me, sense the crackle between us. What is he thinking? Is his mind racing like mine?
“Why did you ask?” he says, his tone surprisingly vulnerable. A little eager too.
Heat races down my spine. I could tell him the truth—that I’m dying to know all these details about him. But I can’t admit that. I really can’t.
I turn to him. “I was just curious when I saw her the other day. She’s really kind. She seems to know you well.”
“We’re friends. It’s…nice,” he says, not quite defeated but resigned. Maybe “nice” wasn’t what he wanted from marriage though.
Do you want more than nice? I want to ask, but I know better, so I keep the words to myself.
We finish setting up the yoga corner, then step back to admire it. A purple mat stretches across the floor, a few candles and blocks are neatly arranged on the shelf, and a basket with the strap and the bolster sits in the corner. It’s simple but cozy.
“Do you want to do it with me sometime?” I ask impulsively because apparently, I’m an impulsive soul with this man.
He cocks his head, and before the panic sets in, I quickly add, “Yoga. It’s good for sports. It’s good for hockey players. Have you ever done yoga?”
His smile is magnetic, hooking into my heart and making me forget why we’re a bad idea. “Yeah, I’ll do yoga with you,” he says, glancing at his watch. We’ve run out of time today. “How about when I get back from the road trip?” he asks, like he doesn’t want to miss the chance. Like he’s already imagining it.
My breath hitches. It’s not a date. It’s absolutely not a date with my boss. But try telling that to the flutters in my chest, to the wild thoughts in my head, to the part of me that’s checking the clock and counting down the days.
Even as I take Luna to the wildlife sanctuary and Parker to the science museum, as I help them with homework, make dinner for them, and hang out with Trevyn and Barbara-dor one day as we unpack Elphaba.
She just arrived in a box on the doorstep.
“Oh look! Chad didn’t even scratch your baby,” he says, stroking the sewing machine that I, unfortunately, had to interact with Fuck Chad to retrieve.
“Miracles happen,” I say. “But he’s also probably too busy getting blown by his new wife to exact revenge via textiles.”
“In the immortal words of Glinda, they deserve each other.” Then he pats the green machine some more. “And now you’re home, Elfie.”
But even when I go to the rink while the kids are in school, and even when I go to lessons while Tyler’s mom watches the kids, I’m excruciatingly aware of the calendar and the returning of my boss.
It’s just yoga, I tell myself.
Nothing will happen.
We’re simply two athletes stretching together. That’s all.