Page 21 of Hale Yes (Highway to Hale #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Yoga farts

Nicolette

I awaken slowly on Saturday morning and nestle my face against my pillow, noticing my red purse on the nightstand. It’s not my usual purse, but I’d taken it last night because it matched my cute shirt perfectly.

Memories of the evening begin to filter in…

looking for the restaurant… Helix offering to take me to a “topless bar.” I laugh out loud at that.

Luckily he found it hilarious as well. He’s surprisingly funny, nothing like the stoic man I’ve come to know in the lab these past few weeks.

It was honestly the best time I’ve had with a man in a very long time, if ever.

And then I remember the wine.

“Shit,” I mutter. We drank a lot of sangria last night. I know better, but it was so delicious, and the vibe of the restaurant and Helix’s company compelled me to have just one more tiny glass .

I sit up in the bed and smooth my curls back.

I feel a little fuzzy-brained but otherwise fine.

Wine never gives me a hangover. In fact, I usually feel great the morning after drinking wine, but maybe that’s because I sleep like a corpse.

With a downward glance, I assess my appearance.

I’m still in my clothes from last night, but my shoes are gone.

Peering over the side of the bed, I see them lined up with sharp precision beside my nightstand.

Who put them there? And how did I get home and then up here to my room?

There’s only one reasonable answer, and it makes me cringe. Helix Hale… my freaking boss.

Dammit. I need to message him to apologize. Hopefully he won’t think I’m completely unprofessional for falling asleep in his car like a freaking wino. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t even make my bed yesterday.

Reaching for my purse, I find that my phone is dead, so I plug it in before climbing out of bed and heading down to the second level to make some coffee. When I get back upstairs with a cup of java in my hand, I see that I have a message from Helix.

Dr. Hale: How are you feeling today?

Nicolette: I’m fine. I need to apologize for my behavior last night.

I’m surprised when a message pops back immediately.

Dr. Hale: Why would you need to apologize?

Nicolette: I thought that would be obvious. I swear I’m not some wino who randomly passes out in her boss’s car. I’m really sorry, Dr. Hale.

Dr. Hale: I thought I told you to call me Helix.

Even through black-and-white words on a screen, the bossiness comes through as effectively as if he were saying the words to my face. Or growling them in my ear while he grips my throat and…

Whoaaa, Nelly. Where did that come from?

Shaking my head as if to ward off the evil, invading thoughts, I quickly change his name in my phone and reply again.

Nicolette: Okay, I’m really sorry, Helix.

Helix: No need to apologize. You told me wine makes you sleepy, so it wasn’t your fault.

Nicolette: Thank you for being so understanding.

Helix: Of course. Though being held at gunpoint was a first for me.

My eyes almost bug out of my head. What the actual fuck?

Nicolette: I held you at gunpoint?!?!

Helix: No, silly. You were unconscious. Stefan did.

Nicolette: My neighbor?!?!

Helix: Yes, the one with the poo poo goose.

The snort that comes out of my nose chokes me, and I pound my chest as I cough through it. I’m not sure if it was a laugh or a sound of pure shock. Probably a little of both.

I decide this is a conversation where I need to hear his voice to determine whether he’s going to fire me, so I call his number.

As soon as he answers, I shriek, “Stefan literally held you at gunpoint?”

“Nicolette.” Helix’s voice is a balm, deep and soothing. “He thought I was a crazy kidnapper or something. He was protecting you.”

“With a firearm pointed at you?” I demand.

“He told me his name was Dirty Harry.”

A giggle bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “That sounds like Stefan.”

“Look, it all turned out okay. He was trying to protect his friend, and I can appreciate that. He had no clue who I was, so they ran this really weird background check on me and deemed me suitable to get you safely inside your house.”

I scrub at my forehead with my fingertips, a headache forming there for reasons unrelated to the wine. “That’s a lot to unpack. A background check?”

“Apparently, Lukas runs the LBI. You’ll be happy to know I was quickly cleared of any misdeeds, and they stayed outside until I left.”

“The… LBI?”

“Lukas Bureau of Investigation. It seems like a stellar organization.”

I can’t help but laugh at his wry delivery. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

“I feel partly responsible because of the whole wine thing. We’ll have to avoid that next time we eat together. Do you go into a coma with any other adult beverages?”

“No, just wine. And I don’t lose my memory or anything. I simply get sleepy,” I assure him, my brain stuck on two other words he mentioned. “Did you say next time?”

“Of course. You mentioned at dinner you have a list of places to try in Houston. I can go with you.” There’s a pause. “Unless you’d rather go by yourself.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it for a second before replacing it. “After last night, you still want to go somewhere with me?”

There’s a long pause, and his voice sounds mildly defensive. “You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

“No. I mean, yes, I enjoyed myself.” God, why am I all flustered? “I had a very good time with you, Dr., uh, Helix.”

“Good. Next Friday okay with you?”

“That’s… fine.”

“Cool. Where are we going next?”

I search my brain to remember. “It’s a barbecue restaurant. My friend said it’s the best one in Houston.”

“Carver’s?” Helix asks.

“That’s the one,” I confirm.

“Great. What time do you want me to pick you up?”

I shake my head, still confused by this entire turn of events. Apparently, I now have my very own foodie tour guide. “Seven?”

“I’ll be there.” Amusement tinges his voice when he adds, “And don’t worry. Carver’s doesn’t even have wine on the menu.”

Smartass.

“I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a yoga class,” I say to Shay Martin, the pharmacist friend I met at the Academy meeting in L.A. earlier this year.

We push through the glass doors to a swanky looking gym, and Shay checks in and adds me as a guest. “Because I guarantee this will be the best class you’ve ever been to,” she replies.

“No lies detected,” the pretty lady behind the desk adds with a glint in her eyes. “You got here just in time, Shay. You got the final two spots.”

My eyes flit around the room, taking in the high-end machines as we walk through to the back, where Shay opens the door onto a beautiful garden. A group of mostly women—though there are a few men scattered in—gathers excitedly on a large covered wooden patio.

A few people wave at Shay as we find a spot to one side of a circular, raised wooden stage that’s in the center of the patio.

The aromas of flowers and foliage mix with the palpable scent of eager anticipation swirling in the air.

As I people-watch everyone hurriedly finding their spots, I notice all eyes are gazing in one direction, a spot to my right.

“Oooh, here come the yogis,” Shay hisses.

A collective sigh goes up around the space, and when I shift my eyes to the right, I see why.

Oh. My god.

Two men make their way through the adoring crowd and climb onto the stage. They’re both barefoot, wearing cowboy hats and Wrangler jeans that fit so tightly a person could easily determine if a coin in their pocket is heads or tails. Or if they’re circumcised. Both are, for the record.

The blond one is slightly taller and shirtless, and the brunette makes a show of unsnapping his western shirt. I’m pretty sure not a single eye in the place blinks while he shrugs it off, showing off a similar Adonis-like physique as his co-yogi.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, and Shay giggles beside me.

“The world could be on fire, and I wouldn’t miss this class,” she whispers back.

Without taking my eyes from them as they prepare, I ask quietly, “Are these guys qualified yogis?”

“Do you care?” my friend shoots back, and I stifle a laugh.

“Good point.”

The blond, who introduces himself as Atlas, leads us through some meditation and breathing exercises while the dark-haired guy, Duke, walks around the space and blesses everyone with his broody presence.

One woman, a petite blonde with a sleek ponytail, looks completely naked in her flesh-colored Lululemon sports bra and matching shorts.

She makes a lot of mistakes each time Duke passes her, most likely on purpose, because he bends to correct her.

Then they begin the practice, both men on the stage guiding everyone through the poses. Several women groan when the guys do the bridge pose, lying on their backs and lifting and lowering their hips from the ground. To be honest, I may have been one of the groaners.

Plank pose seems to be another crowd favorite because it shows off the thick bulges of the cowboys’ forearms. When Atlas and Duke show everyone the low lunge, I gape in amazement. How the hell are they doing that in those tight jeans?

From the corner of my mouth, I mumble, “I really need to know what kind of denim they’re wearing. Because that’s some tenacious fabric. They should use that to build the space shuttle.”

I hear Shay snort. “I think we’re all hoping one day they’ll split their britches.”

I double over in laughter, earning me a glare from Duke, which only makes it funnier. Shay gets tickled as well and covers her face with her hands, completely abandoning her pose. I’m too busy grinning at her to notice Atlas approaching until he’s directly in front of us.

His voice is low and rumbly as he rests his hands on his narrow hips. “Ladies, is everything okay over here?”

We both do our best to control our features. I feel like I’m in elementary school getting scolded by the principal for talking in the lunch line.

“Yes, we’re?—”

“Nicolette passed gas, and it made me laugh,” Shay interrupts, pointing a finger at me. “Sorry for the disturbance, Atlas.”

I’m. Going. To. Kill. Her.

“I—I didn’t,” I begin, shaking my head rapidly, but Atlas pats my sweaty shoulder with his meaty hand.

“It’s okay. Yoga farts happen to everyone sometimes with all the bending and stretching during asanas.” A smile crooks his lips. “Even beautiful women.”

Then he tips his cowboy hat and swaggers off, giving Shay and I a view of his tight backside.

My eyes shoot to Shay’s guilty face. “You’re dead to me,” I grouse, and she rolls her lips between her teeth.

“Sorry, I panicked. I didn’t want to get kicked out of this class. It’s the closest thing I get to any action.”

I flash her a smile, half forgiving and half wicked. “Next time, let me handle it. I’ll tell him you shit your pants.”

She snickers and returns her attention to the cowboys on the stage, who are now moving into downward dog. We both do the same. I focus on straightening my back and imagining there’s an invisible string pulling my butt to the ceiling. The stretch feels amazing.

And that’s when it happens. I fart for real. It’s loud in the peaceful garden, and I squinch my eyes shut, pretending it didn’t happen.

“Dammit, you jinxed me,” I hiss at my friend, whose face is the color of a tomato with her restrained laughter.

I can never show my face at Cowboy Yoga again.