Page 5 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Sun Salutation

Ivy

T he waiter places two plates in front of us.

“Enjoy,” the peculiar barista shouts from behind the counter, like a man who is completely unaware of how much second-hand embarrassment he just inflicted on himself.

I nod politely. “Thanks.”

Christa, however, has her eyes on him, not the strudel.

The second he turns back to the customer sitting at the end of the counter, she leans in, dropping her voice just enough that only I can hear. “It is an absolute tragedy that you’re on a dating ban.”

I roll my eyes, slicing into the pastry. “Here we go.”

“I mean, honestly,” she continues, completely ignoring me. “What are the odds that an incredibly fit guy opens a coffee shop literally underneath your flat, and you’ve just vowed to spend three months in romantic exile?”

I shake my head. “He’s not my type.”

She stares at me. “He is exactly your type. Tall, dark-haired, adorably dorky—”

“He wiped down the counter five times before we even ordered,” I cut in. “That’s unhinged.”

She smirks. “Maybe he’s just meticulous.”

I shrug, stuffing a bite of strudel into my mouth. The warm apple and cinnamon practically melt on my tongue, and for a brief moment, I forget all about Christa’s smug expression.

But only for a moment.

She watches me chew, unimpressed. “You’re pretending you’re not interested.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Uh-huh.”

I sigh, deciding to change the subject before she gets any more ideas. “Anyway, I have a plan for the next three months. A dating-free plan.”

Christa raises an eyebrow. “Tell me!”

I pull out my phone and open my notes app, showing her the list. “I’ve decided to try new hobbies.”

She squints at the screen, reading aloud. “Yoga. Working with clay, maybe take up knitting, spa-ing… maybe camping.”

She looks back up at me. “I have so many questions.”

I take another bite of strudel . “Go on.”

“Well, first of all, spa-ing isn’t a hobby.”

“It absolutely is,” I argue. “Self-care is an art form.”

She snorts. “Fine, I’ll allow it. But camping?”

I grimace. “Yeah, I’m regretting that one already. I was trying to push myself out of my comfort zone.”

“You hate the outdoors.”

“I strongly dislike the outdoors,” I correct. “Which is exactly why it’s on the list. Growth, Christa. It’s all about growth. ”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now. “Alright, I’ll give you points for effort.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling smug. “See? I can survive without dating.”

Christa takes a slow sip of her coffee, watching me over the rim of her cup. “Sure. Let’s see how long that lasts with Hot Barista literally on your doorstep.”

I huff. “His name is Theo.” Yes, I may have checked out the name badge pinned to his waist coat. But I certainly didn’t fantasise over the fact on how fan-yourself-hot he looks in his crisp-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

She grins. “Ohhh, so you were paying attention.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands.

“Don’t worry,” she says breezily. “If I weren’t happily engaged, I’d be all over him myself.”

I peek at her through my fingers. “But you are happily engaged. To a very large man who could break Theo in half.”

She sighs dreamily. “I am, aren’t I?”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You’re the worst.”

She winks. “Nope. Just happily unavailable, which means he’s your problem now.”

I steal another glance at Theo. This is going to be the longest three months of my life.

Three days into my dating ban, I am lying flat on my living room floor, having a full-blown existential crisis .

It started off well enough. I was feeling motivated, determined. Like a woman on a mission to discover herself.

Which is why I find myself, on a Tuesday evening, in my best pair of supportive leggings, a comfy T-shirt and a sports bra that could double as industrial scaffolding, pressing play on a video titled Yoga for Dummies .

I should have known. I should have known that even that is beyond my capabilities.

The instructor, a woman with a voice so serene it’s borderline hypnotic, begins by saying, “Welcome. We’ll start with some simple breathing exercises to centre ourselves.”

Alright. I can breathe. I can centre.

I sit cross-legged on my yoga mat, inhaling deeply through my nose like I’m an expert.

“This is called Ujjayi breathing,” she says, voice calm and steady. “Engage your diaphragm, feel your breath moving through you.”

Okay. Engage my diaphragm. Move my breath. Feel at one with—

I yawn.

Like, a big, dramatic, jaw-cracking yawn.

The video is already losing me.

I shake myself, trying to focus. Right. Breathing is important. Got it. Let’s move on.

But the instructor just keeps going. She’s talking about “finding my inner stillness” and “connecting with the earth,” and honestly, I’m already bored.

After what feels like an eternity of sitting and inhaling, I decide to skip ahead.

I grab the remote and fast-forward to something that actually looks like movement .

Sun Salutation. That sounds promising. Warm. Glowy. Like something that will make me feel like one of those effortlessly bendy women who drink green smoothies and have matching workout sets.

I get into position.

Feet together. Arms raised.

This is fine.

I bend forward to touch my toes.

Okay. Not fine.

I have never touched my toes, not even as a child, and I’m not about to start now. My hamstrings are actively rebelling against me.

I make an undignified sound and attempt to bend my knees slightly, hoping that will help. It does not.

The instructor, still frustratingly calm, instructs me to step one foot back into a lunge.

I try. I really try.

Except my foot doesn’t glide back gracefully like hers does. It sort of… flops.

I wobble. My arms flail.

I tip over entirely.

With a very loud “Oof”, I land on my side, sprawled out on my yoga mat like a starfish that has just washed up on shore.

I stare at the ceiling. The instructor, unfazed by my suffering, moves on to the next position as if I am not currently dying.

I let out a long, defeated sigh.

This is only month one.

I’m doomed.

…Or, at the very least, I need a yoga routine that includes built-in snack breaks .

I lie there for a good minute, staring at the ceiling, before accepting that yoga has defeated me. At least for today.

With a groan, I roll onto my side and push myself up from the mat, every muscle in my body voicing its displeasure. Clearly, inner peace is not my destiny. At least not in the form of a Sun Salutation.

Right. Time for snacks.

I head into the kitchen, already fantasising about something delicious. Maybe a chocolate bar. A bag of crisps. A biscuit. Anything to reward myself for my—admittedly tragic—effort at exercise.

I open the fridge with high hopes.

…And immediately regret every single healthy-living resolution I made this month.

Because staring back at me is a collection of green, leafy sadness.

Spinach. Broccoli. A sad, lonely cucumber.

Where is the joy? Where is the comfort? Where is the bloody chocolate?

I close the fridge with a sigh and yank open the cupboard instead.

Oats. Herbal tea. A jar of almond butter.

Fucking hell, what was I thinking? I took this New Me thing way too far!

My stomach growls in protest, as if personally offended by my choices.

And that’s it. I officially give in.

Fine. If my own kitchen is a health-conscious prison, then I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere.

Which means… the coffee shop downstairs.

Which means… cake.

Which means… Theo .

For a moment, I hesitate. Because if I’m going downstairs, I should probably get properly dressed. Maybe brush my hair. Put on a little makeup. Nothing dramatic, just a quick I woke up looking flawless sort of situation.

I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and sigh. My hair is a mess, my skin is slightly red from the mini exercise, and I am currently wearing an oversized t-shirt that says Namast’ay in Bed.

Not exactly temptress material.

I pad into my bedroom, rummaging through my wardrobe for something a little more presentable. Maybe jeans? A nice top? Something that says, “effortless but put together”?

And then, just as I’m about to reach for my makeup bag, I freeze.

Because suddenly, I remember.

This whole experiment is supposed to be about not caring what other people think.

And that includes not caring what the dashing coffee shop hottie thinks.

I groan at myself, dropping the mascara wand like it’s personally betrayed me.

No. No, I am not getting all dressed up for a man.

I yank off the presentable outfit and pull my yoga leggings back on—even if they show off my big arse and thunder thighs—and shove my hair into a messy bun. I march into the bathroom and wash my face, wiping away any trace of foundation.

And then, just to prove a point to myself, I grab my giant, fluffy hoodie—the one with a questionable stain on the sleeve that I think is from curry but can’t say with full confidence .

There.

I am officially embracing my dating ban.

I glance at myself in the mirror again. I look… comfortable. Casual. Unbothered.

I nod at my reflection, satisfied. Time for some cake and cake only.