Page 3 of My CEO Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #5)

A full day of helping other people find balance while her own life felt increasingly lopsided. Financially and otherwise.

Monica gathered her teaching supplies: two yoga mats, a portable speaker, lavender eye pillows for final relaxation, and the singing bowl that apparently drove Theodore Corwin into apoplectic rage.

She'd started using it specifically for morning practice after his payback noise complaint, because some battles were worth fighting.

And because, if she was being honest, she was curious to see how he'd react. His intensity intrigued her, even as it annoyed her.

The elevator down to the lobby was blissfully quiet.

Monica preferred taking the stairs, but carrying equipment made that impractical.

The Dexter Towers attracted young professionals who kept busy schedules, rushing to jobs that consumed their lives while complaining about feeling disconnected from purpose.

Monica understood the complaints, even if she didn't understand the choices.

Her Subaru started on the second try, which counted as a victory considering its age and her inability to afford major repairs.

The drive to Golden Gardens passed quickly through empty streets, past coffee shops that wouldn't open for another hour and office buildings where people like Theodore Corwin probably slept at their desks.

People who could afford to live in the Dexter Towers but chose to work themselves into the ground anyway. What kind of success was worth that level of self-destruction?

The beach was Monica's favorite teaching location.

Practicing yoga beside water felt ancient and necessary, like humans had been stretching their bodies toward sky and sea since the beginning of consciousness.

Her regular students loved the outdoor classes despite Seattle's weather unpredictability.

Six students showed up for class, her regulars plus one newcomer who looked nervous about practicing outside. Monica guided them through a gentle flow, matching their movements to the rhythm of waves.

"Breathe into the space between your shoulder blades," she called over the sound of water. "Let the exhale carry away whatever you don't need to hold today."

During the final relaxation, Monica rang her singing bowl three times.

The sound floated across the beach like a prayer made audible, and she watched the tension leave her students' faces.

This was magic that mattered, not the manufactured urgency of corporate deadlines, but the ancient alchemy of breath and presence.

Take that, Theodore Corwin and your six a.m. conference calls.

After class, Monica packed up slowly. The beach felt peaceful in a way that made returning to the city seem like a small betrayal.

But Margaret was waiting for their private session, and Monica's rent didn't pay itself.

Neither did her student loans, her car payment, or the credit card bills she'd been strategically ignoring.

The drive back to the Towers took longer in the morning traffic.

Monica's radio played indie folk that matched her mood, wistful and wondering about roads not taken.

Sometimes she envied people who'd chosen conventional paths with their steady jobs, predictable relationships, and retirement plans that didn't require miracles.

People like Theodore Corwin, who probably never worried about making rent.

But then she remembered how yoga had saved her during the dark period after college, when anxiety had made leaving her apartment feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops.

She'd stumbled into her first class desperate for anything that might quiet the noise in her head, and found it felt like coming home.

That's worth sharing, Monica thought as she pulled into the parking garage. Even if it doesn't impress mothers or fund retirement nest eggs. Even if it meant living paycheck to paycheck and wondering how long she could afford her nice apartment in a good part of town.

The elevator ride felt longer than usual. Monica was mentally preparing for Margaret's session—breathing techniques for panic attacks, gentle movements to release physical tension—when the doors opened on her floor.

Theodore Corwin stood waiting for the elevator.

Monica's first thought was that he looked worse than she'd expected. Expensive suit, yes, but his face belonged on a medical textbook chapter about stress-related disorders. Dark circles, tight jaw, and the kind of stillness that came from holding too much pressure for too long.

Her second thought was that he was actually quite attractive, in a tragic movie protagonist sort of way.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of strong jawline that belonged in expensive cologne ads.

His dark hair was slightly mussed, and despite the exhaustion etched in his features, he was undeniably sexy.

Her third thought was that she should probably say something instead of staring at him like a creep.

"Good morning," Monica said, stepping out as he stepped in.

Theodore nodded without making eye contact. "Morning."

His voice was gruffer than it sounded through their shared wall, like he'd been gargling gravel. Or shouting into phones for hours. But even rough, it was attractive—deeper in person, and it made her pulse flutter unexpectedly.

The elevator doors started to close, then stopped. Theodore was holding the button, looking at her with an expression that might have been curiosity or indigestion.

"You're the yoga instructor," he said. Not a question.

"Monica Tyson. 12B." She shifted her mat bag to her left shoulder, acutely aware that she was probably sweating from her beach class and definitely not at her most polished. "You're the conference call enthusiast."

Annoyance flickered across his face, but Monica caught a quick, appraising glance that took in her workout clothes and made her skin tingle in ways that had nothing to do with exercise.

"I'm Theodore Corwin. Ted."

"I know." Monica kept her voice pleasant despite the urge to mention noise ordinances and common courtesy. "Business must be good if you're working before sunrise."

"Business is..." Ted paused, and for a moment his corporate mask slipped. Monica saw exhaustion there, uncertainty, maybe even fear. "Complicated."

The vulnerability in that single word made something flutter in Monica's chest. This wasn't the arrogant corporate drone she'd imagined. This was someone carrying weight that might be too heavy for even those broad shoulders.

The elevator doors started closing again. This time Ted let them, but not before Monica caught him looking at her again—really looking, like he was seeing her for the first time.

Monica found herself oddly disappointed as the elevator descended. Their first actual conversation, and it had lasted less than thirty seconds. But when he'd looked at her, the honesty in his voice when he'd said "complicated," made her want to know more.

Still, she'd been right about the tragic protagonist thing. Theodore Corwin looked like someone who'd forgotten how to sleep peacefully, trapped in a life that demanded everything and returned nothing except money and status symbols.

Monica shook her head as she walked to Margaret's apartment. Ted was not her problem, and definitely not her type. She preferred men who understood that success couldn't be measured entirely in quarterly reports and stock options.

Men who didn't make her heart race just by looking at her with those intense dark eyes.

But as she knocked on Margaret's door, Monica couldn't shake the image of Ted's face in that unguarded moment, the exhaustion and uncertainty he'd tried so hard to hide. Or the way her name had sounded in his voice, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue.

Everyone deserves peace, she thought, then immediately scolded herself for the impulse to fix someone who hadn't asked for her help.

Someone who probably wouldn't appreciate her brand of fixing anyway.

Even if they were devastatingly attractive and made her wonder what it would be like to teach them how to breathe properly.