Page 29

OFFICIAL YOGA POSE

Sabrina

He’s drilling. I repeat—my hot, single-dad boss is drilling.

I might as well strip out of all my clothes right now.

Instead, as I hold the bookshelf against the wall, he drills holes into the brackets.

He’s inches from me, and his woodsmoke scent taunts me, curling past my nose and drifting into my mind.

I swallow roughly as his arm vibrates from the drill.

Pretty sure I vibrate too.

His body is so close. I let myself stare freely—the way the muscles in his corded forearms flex, how his biceps move, how his shirt clings to him.

His focus is intense, his eyes narrowed on the bracket on the second shelf, since he already hung one. A few more seconds pass, then he turns off the drill and shifts his gaze to me.

His hazel eyes radiate hopefulness but also pride, as he asks, “What do you think?”

Like he wants me to like it .

But news flash: I love it. And what I really think is that I was today years old when I discovered my new guilty pleasure: hot dad capableness. Yum.

“I think it looks…well hung,” I say before I even consider the words leaving my mouth.

The second I do, I slam my palm over my lips.

I should not be allowed to speak sometimes.

Where does this part of me even come from?

Little Miss Perfectionist Sabrina never blurted out her dirty thoughts when she was with Fuck Chad.

Tyler blinks. Once. Twice. But when he clears his throat, he’s no longer caught off guard—he’s in control. “It is, Sabrina. It is,” he says, his voice low and amused as he pats the shelf. “Sturdy. Want to give it a tug?”

My heart beats too fast. He’s playing with me, and I love it. “Yes,” I croak out.

I reach for the shelf, grab it, and yank. Yep. This shelf does not lose its strength at all. When I let go, I scramble for something appropriate to say but completely fail. Instead, I blurt, “Chad was never handy. I like handy.”

“Well, that works out for both of us, doesn’t it?” Tyler’s charm flashes, teasing, a little flirty—but never quite crossing the line.

“It does,” I manage, trying to focus on anything other than the inferno my body has become. Almost two weeks in, and I’m a burning fire. There has to be something to gutter these flames.

I roll through conversational topics in my mind and land on the one that’s been nagging me all week. Surely, it will douse my desire. “What happened with Elle?”

His brows knit. I probably shouldn’t have asked. I wave my hand dismissively. “Actually, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry. Forget I even asked.”

I gesture to the items on the floor—the yoga blocks, a bolster, a strap, candles that smell like sunshine and orange trees, and all the accoutrements. “I want to set up the shelf now and enjoy the Official Yoga Corner,” I say, bending to grab a few things.

He reaches for my arm.

“Nothing bad happened,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But nothing great either.” His eyes flicker with something like regret.

For the years they spent together? The choices they made?

Or maybe for the end of it.

“Oh.” My heart sinks. “That must’ve been hard at times, being in a marriage where it felt…like that.” I hesitate, but the question spills out anyway. “You weren’t really in love?” It feels important that I know this.

“Maybe at one point we were, but it didn’t feel like sparks. It didn’t feel like lightning. It didn’t feel the way my pulse beats faster and harder when I get on the ice. You know what I mean? It wasn’t like hockey.”

Goosebumps rise along my arms. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel that way too on the ice,” I murmur.

“Great minds,” he says, but it feels like great hearts .

Like we have too much in common.

Dangerously so. I turn back to organizing the yoga items, trying desperately to focus.

But I can feel his eyes on me, sense the crackle between us. What is he thinking? Is his mind racing like mine?

“Why did you ask?” he says, his tone surprisingly vulnerable. A little eager too.

Heat races down my spine. I could tell him the truth—that I’m dying to know all these details about him. But I can’t admit that. I really can’t.

I turn to him. “I was just curious when I saw her the other day. She’s really kind. She seems to know you well.”

“We’re friends. It’s…nice,” he says, not quite defeated but re signed. Maybe “nice” wasn’t what he wanted from marriage though.

Do you want more than nice? I want to ask, but I know better, so I keep the words to myself.

We finish setting up the yoga corner, then step back to admire it. A purple mat stretches across the floor, a few candles and blocks are neatly arranged on the shelf, and a basket with the strap and the bolster sits in the corner. It’s simple but cozy.

“Do you want to do it with me sometime?” I ask impulsively because apparently, I’m an impulsive soul with this man.

He cocks his head, and before the panic sets in, I quickly add, “Yoga. It’s good for sports. It’s good for hockey players. Have you ever done yoga?”

His smile is magnetic, hooking into my heart and making me forget why we’re a bad idea.

“Yeah, I’ll do yoga with you,” he says, glancing at his watch.

We’ve run out of time today. “How about when I get back from the road trip?” he asks, like he doesn’t want to miss the chance. Like he’s already imagining it.

My breath hitches. It’s not a date. It’s absolutely not a date with my boss. But try telling that to the flutters in my chest, to the wild thoughts in my head, to the part of me that’s checking the clock and counting down the days.

Even as I take Luna to the wildlife sanctuary and Parker to the science museum, as I help them with homework, make dinner for them, and hang out with Trevyn and Barbara-dor one day as we unpack Elphaba.

She just arrived in a box on the doorstep.

“Oh look! Chad didn’t even scratch your baby,” he says, stroking the sewing machine that I, unfortunately, had to interact with Fuck Chad to retrieve .

“Miracles happen,” I say. “But he’s also probably too busy getting blown by his new wife to exact revenge via textiles.”

“In the immortal words of Glinda, they deserve each other.” Then he pats the green machine some more. “And now you’re home, Elfie.”

But even when I go to the rink while the kids are in school, and even when I go to lessons while Tyler’s mom watches the kids, I’m excruciatingly aware of the calendar and the returning of my boss.

It’s just yoga, I tell myself.

Nothing will happen.

We’re simply two athletes stretching together. That’s all.

But I’ve already picked out which leggings I’ll wear. Blue, since he seems to like that color. It’s the color of the towels he bought me. Ridiculous, so ridiculous that I’ve picked an outfit.

A week and a half after he left, the kids aren’t the only ones excited to see him return from the road trip late Wednesday night.

And when I drop them off at school the next day and return home, my boss is waiting for me at my door in his navy blue workout shorts and a gray Sea Dogs T-shirt that hugs his pecs and shows off his biceps, a yoga mat under his arm.

“I don’t have to be at morning skate for another hour, so I’m ready for the Official Yoga Corner. Are you?”

More than he can ever know.

“Give me one minute,” I say, and then my heart nearly explodes in my chest as I race inside. I pull on a yoga tank top that matches my blue leggings, run a brush through my hair, fasten it into a ponytail, then breathe.

Long, deep, and centered.

Like when I hit the ice, reminding myself to enjoy every moment.

I will. Oh yes, I will .

I yank open the door, pasting on a bright smile. “Time for twists,” I say, trying to make this seem like we’re just two athletes working out. Just two friends.

I almost believe it as we settle onto our mats in the corner. “You set the pace, boss,” he says, having fun with that word.

It sends a charge through me. Or maybe he just does.

“Let’s start with downward dog,” I suggest, stretching my hips back in that pose, lengthening through my arms.

He follows, his movements deliberate and strong. I can’t help glancing over, catching how his muscles shift under his shirt as he transitions into the position.

“Tabletop,” I call out, my voice a little shaky as I guide us. We both settle onto all fours again, the quiet hum of our breathing filling the room.

“Warrior one,” I say as I stand, shifting into warrior one. My arms reach high above my head as I sink into the lunge, and he follows, mirroring my movements.

For a moment, it’s quiet—just the soft sounds of our breaths soundtracking my racing mind that catalogues how close we are. A foot apart, as we move together.

This is just stretching, I remind myself. This is just a workout.

“Easy twist,” I say finally, stepping into the next pose. I rotate my torso, extending one arm to the ceiling as I pivot on the ball of my back foot.

But when I glance up, my heart stumbles.

He’s facing me.

We should be twisting in opposite directions, but instead, his eyes meet mine across the small space between us.

For a moment, neither of us moves. His gaze glimmers with longing, and restraint.

I know both well, and they’re racing through me, owning every cell in my body. I feel warm everywhere as I swallow past all this aching want. The moment stretches, and soon, soon , it’ll break.

He’ll move.

He’ll shift.

He’ll turn the other way.

His chest rises and falls with each breath, but he doesn’t turn. His jaw ticks, like he’s at war with himself.

After several seconds that feel like I’m on the surface of Mercury, he moves at last— toward me. With zero hesitation. “Sabrina,” he rasps out, his voice thick with desire.

And I don’t know who makes the next move. All I know is we crash onto my mat with a thud and a jolt that radiates deliciously in my bones. He grips my waist. Tugs me against him. Growls. The heat from his body spreads through mine.

All the reasons to resist him burn into ash as his lips crush mine.

And I surrender, shifting under him as he covers me and kisses me like I imagined he would that night.

No, that’s not true.

This kiss—chaotic, ravenous, wild —is better than my imagination.