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I grab my phone to text her a heads-up, then reconsider. The element of surprise seems more entertaining.
At 1:45, I make my way to the Crystal Pavilion, a glass-enclosed space on the top deck with panoramic ocean views. The room has been transformed into a yoga sanctuary—dim lighting, incense burning, soft instrumental music playing. Purple yoga mats are arranged in pairs throughout the space, each with white candles and rose petals scattered around them.
It’s ridiculous, but also oddly peaceful. I find a mat near the windows and sit cross-legged, watching the door.
Harper arrives on time, wearing a standard tank top and yoga pants, looking around with undisguised suspicion. When she spots me, her eyes narrow.
“What is all this?” she demands, approaching my mat. “It looks like a Valentine’s Day explosion.”
“Tantric yoga.” I gesture to the white clothes folded beside me. “Those are for you. The bathrooms through that door if you want to change.”
She picks up the outfit, examining it skeptically. “I’m not wearing this.”
“It’s traditional. Breathable cotton, ethically sourced. Very sustainable.”
She rolls her eyes but takes the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. When she returns, I have to work to keep my expression neutral. The simple white outfit shouldn’t be sexy—it’s essentially loose-fitting pajamas—but something about Harper in flowing white fabric, her hair pulled into a messy bun, has my pulse quickening.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she mutters, dropping onto the mat beside mine.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying this.”
I am enjoying this, but not for the reasons she assumes. “The white looks nice with your hair.”
She glares, but there’s a hint of pink in her cheeks. “Let’s get one thing straight, Cole. I’m here for the environmental data. That’s it.”
“Of course.”
“So, whatever this tantric nonsense is, keep it professional.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “I’m just following the instructor’s guidance like everyone else.”
She glances around the room, where five other couples are settling onto mats, all in matching white outfits. “Where is the instructor, anyway?”
On cue, Devi enters, floating to the center of the room in flowing white linen. “Welcome, beautiful souls. Today we embark on a journey of connection, trust, and shared energy through the ancient practice of tantric yoga.”
Harper shoots me a murderous look. I smile innocently.
“Tantric yoga,” Devi continues, “is about recognizing the divine masculine and feminine energies within each partner, andlearning to channel that energy between you. Please sit facing your partner, knees touching.”
The other couples immediately adjust. Harper stays frozen.
“Dr. Bennett,” Devi calls. “Please face your partner.”
With visible reluctance, Harper turns to face me, our knees almost but not quite touching.
“Closer,” Devi instructs. “Energy cannot flow through space.”
Harper inches forward until our knees brush. Even this minimal contact seems to agitate her.
“Now,” Devi says, “place your right hand over your partner’s heart, and your left hand over their right hand on your heart.”
“Absolutely not,” Harper whispers.
“Problem, Dr. Bennett?” Devi asks.
“I’m not comfortable with this level of physical contact.”