Page 11

Chapter 11

Hannah

I feel Declan go rigid beneath my touch, and I freeze, my heart hammering.

He’s so sure of himself that I wasn’t expecting him to be so affected by my hands on him. I knew these private lessons were going to be awkward as soon as he called to ask about them, but I wasn’t prepared at all for it to be like this—for the sight of his muscles flexing beneath his shirt to get to me so much. Or for his proximity and the woodsy, masculine scent of him to take me right back to that night.

You knew exactly what you were getting into .

The thought flits through my head as if my more logical side is taunting me, but I still can’t take my hand off him. And it’s not like I can call the lessons off without some believable excuse to tell my dad, so Declan and I are just going to have to find some way to get through this without one or both of us falling to pieces.

Or making a huge mistake we can’t undo.

I clear my throat, steadying my breathing, and guide Declan out of the pose, bringing him back to a standing position. Our gazes meet again, and when I see the desire simmering in his amber-flecked eyes, I swear I feel something ignite inside me.

“How did that feel?” I ask, my throat constricting.

“I could feel it in my hips and hamstrings. That stretch was definitely getting into the right spot.”

“That’s good,” I say, nodding, but the air in the room feels charged with electricity and I don’t trust myself not to say or do something stupid without a task to distract us. “Let’s finish out the next few poses in the sequence.”

“How many more are we going to do?”

“Three.” I start to model the next pose for him before we get sidetracked again. “You’ll probably recognize this one. It’s called plank pose, and it’s kind of like a pushup,” I add as I lean forward again, letting my hands rest on my knees.

He groans softly. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“From this bent position, you want to put your hands flat on the floor, then stretch one leg back at a time until you’re on hands and feet, like this,” I say as I demonstrate it for him. “You want to try to keep your back as straight as possible, then hold the pose for several breaths.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Declan says with a laugh as he watches me, but I don’t look up at him.

I don’t think I can handle it, and it’s taking everything I have right now to keep this lesson on track, so I just stare straight ahead and pretend like I can’t see him in the mirror studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

After six breaths, I bring my feet back toward my hands and stand. “Your turn.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when my hands can’t touch the floor, but I’ll try,” he says and bends over, letting his hands dangle in front of him.

He tips forward until his hands touch the ground, then awkwardly juts one leg behind himself, then the other.

“Straighten out your back,” I tell him, although I don’t dare touch him again. With a grunt, he evens out a little bit but not fully. “Good start. Now hold it for six breaths.” Declan sucks in a breath, but on the exhale, his arms start to tremble, and he stops breathing. “You’ve got to keep breathing, otherwise you’ll tense up and hurt yourself.”

But Declan can’t hold the pose and topples over, and I can’t help laughing. He laughs along with me, the sound rich and genuine, and I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this, but I like that he can laugh at himself. There’s no denying he’s confident, but most pro athletes wouldn’t be caught dead doing something like this, let alone laughing about their failure at it.

“Mr. NHL Hotshot can’t handle a little plank pose?” I tease him, and he scowls up at me from the floor, although his eyes remain playful.

“Of course I can. I just don’t think I’ve used these particular muscles before.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself, and strangely enough, the little moment of humor does a lot to dispel some of the tension that’s been crackling between us since Declan got here.

Maybe it’s because I’m seeing him struggle with this like I’ve been struggling with my attraction to him since he showed up in Denver, or maybe it’s because seeing him humbled a little has taken some of the heat off, but either way, I’m feeling more comfortable.

I walk Declan through the rest of the routine, including a move into downward-facing dog and child’s pose, then have him repeat the entire thing a few times over the course of the next hour. He gets better with every attempt, and to my surprise, he’s actually taking it seriously and trying to do well. Any other professional athlete my dad referred to me probably would’ve just half-assed it enough to check a box and report back to their coach that they showed up, but not Declan.

I can’t tell how much of that is because he really wants to learn versus how much he wants to spend time alone with me, but regardless, I appreciate the effort and the sweat he’s putting into it.

By the end of the session, his t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, dark patches of moisture revealing just how hard he’s worked. He drags a towel across his face and through his hair, mussing it up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Pulling my gaze away from him with effort, I reach for the sweatshirt I left on the floor nearby and tug it over my head. Then I start gathering the yoga blocks and straps we used and putting them back in the storage cubbies. When I turn around, Declan is already holding a spray bottle and a little towel as he crouches down beside the mats. He gives me a quick smile as he starts to wipe them down.

“How often do you teach here?” he asks.

It takes a second for his words to sink in because I’m a little stunned by the way he jumped in to help me clean up so quickly, as if it’s second-nature.

“Um, a few days a week,” I answer, shaking my head to snap myself out of it. “I wish I could do more, but it’s hard with a law school course load and all the studying I have to do.”

He finishes wiping one mat and rolls it up, then hands it to me to put away. “It’s a shame you can’t do more. You’re a really good teacher.”

I freeze with the mat he just gave me clutched in my hands. He said it like it was nothing, like he has no idea how much a compliment like that could mean. I get a lot of reactions when I tell people I teach yoga, but they’re rarely this genuine.

“Thanks,” I say softly and slide the mat into its spot on the shelf, turning my back to him in the hope that he won’t pick up on how much his words affected me. But Declan doesn’t seem to notice as he wipes down the last mat and brings it over to me. “Thanks for helping,” I add. “I really appreciate it.”

He shrugs. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for the private lessons.” His stomach rumbles, interrupting him. He laughs and rubs it. “Damn, I guess I worked up an appetite. Do you want to grab a bite with me?”

I hesitate because I know I shouldn’t. What I had with Declan was supposed to be a one-night thing. A wild night in San Diego where my “real” life didn’t follow me and I could do whatever or whoever I wanted. But here in Denver, I need to keep my head on straight. I have to stay focused on my classes, and that means I should go home and study instead of spending another minute with this man who’s way too good at making me forget all the reasons I should stay away.

But something in me refuses to listen to reason.

“Okay. There’s a bar around the corner that I go to sometimes after class. They have food and drinks.”

His face lights up with a smile that makes my stomach flutter. “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.”

I have him step out while I finish arming the alarm and locking up. The entire time, my rational mind is screaming that this is a terrible mistake in the making and that I should make up some excuse why I can’t go. I could tell him I forgot about an assignment, or that I have to meet with one of my classmates to work on a group project. I could say anything to escape the gravitational pull he has on me.

But when I step outside and find him waiting with that crooked smile that reaches his eyes, all my resolve crumbles like sand castles against the tide. I test the door to make sure it’s locked, then head around the corner of the building with Declan right beside me.

“Sideline isn’t the fanciest place in the world, but the food’s pretty good for bar food. And it’s close.”

“Sounds great,” Declan says, smiling as we approach the door. He moves in front of me to open the door for me, then waves me inside. “Ladies first.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

Declan quirks an eyebrow as he follows me inside. Peanut shells crunch under our shoes as we step to the host’s podium. A young girl my age with a blonde ponytail smiles and greets us.

“Welcome to Sideline. Just the two of you today?” she asks, reaching for a couple of menus from the little slot built into the side of the podium.

My heart skips at the question—because it reminds me that I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be in public, alone, with Declan. Panic flutters beneath my ribs until I remind myself that we just finished a yoga lesson, and we both look the sweaty part, so no one would think anything else was going on.

And even if they did, what was the worst that could happen? We’re two adults having a meal. Nothing wrong with that. Right?

The hostess passes me the menus. “You can sit wherever you’d like. Your server will be right with you.”

It’s early evening, so Sideline isn’t busy at all. I pick a booth far away from the windows, tucked in a quiet corner, and slide into the seat across from Declan, who smirks as he takes one of the menus from me. We barely have time to look them over before the waitress appears and asks us for our drink order.

“Let’s start with a couple of whiskey sours,” Declan tells her, ordering for the two of us, then turns to me. “That’s what you like, right?”

I nod because it’s my favorite drink, but I can’t believe he remembered that tiny detail all these months later. Most men I’ve dated couldn’t remember my drink preference after three dates, let alone one night.

Was he really paying that much attention to me back then?

Declan orders some appetizer or another too, but it doesn’t stick in my brain because I’m still caught on the drink.

If he remembered something that small, what else has he been storing away about me and what I like?

I try to fight it, but my body hums with a mixture of surprise and pleasure at the thought.