Page 11 of Wild Card (Rose Hill #4)

CHAPTER NINE

GWEN

I watch Bash go with my heart in my throat and my eyes on his ass. I don’t even think I’m being subtle about it. Which is probably why Rhys pipes up with, “Do you know him from yoga?”

From yoga . It takes me back to that night in the airport. The heat of his gaze on my body as I flowed through some of my favorite poses. I’d felt sensual—desired—in that moment, like I could sense his appreciation humming in the air around me. It’s something I’ve never felt before.

So you could say that I know him from yoga, but it’s become so much more than that. And saying that I know him because the universe keeps pushing us together would probably get me an eye roll.

Plus, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know he lived in this town. I’d tried looking him up online with little success. It was only when I read the job offer that a memory surfaced of Tripp telling me his dad lived in Rose Hill.

I got an email straight to my inbox asking me to take on a one-year contract in this exact town.

But the studio’s owner, Kira, didn’t know that—she only knew she wanted to travel around Asia for a year and needed someone to fill in.

The bonus was that her furnished apartment above the studio was rent free.

Apparently, a former employer recommended me, which is exactly how I keep getting gigs like this.

I’m almost always ready for a new adventure, especially ones where I can work, learn, and save up to do some traveling of my own.

What I love most is studying yoga abroad and learning from experts in other parts of the world.

I’m on a mission to gather as much knowledge as possible, with the dream of one day opening my own studio.

So room, board, studio hours, and a consistent paycheck made for the perfect combination.

It all feels like something bigger is at play, so I settle on a quiet “No”, ignore the lingering silence, and allow the conversation to flow in another direction.

The truth is, I knew Bash would be around at some point, but I didn’t know when we’d run into each other.

When I came into Rose Hill Reach tonight, my plan was to sit at the bar, have a drink, and enjoy a little people-watching.

But that was before I met Doris, the shrewd, overly direct bartender who owns this place.

She talked to me for a while and then marched me over here to team up with Tabitha, Skylar, and Rosie. Like she just knew we’d hit it off.

And we did. We were a good trivia team. They were welcoming, fun, and down-to-earth. Rosie, outgoing. Tabitha, more sardonic. And Skylar—a country pop star known all over the world—quiet and completely grounded.

It was everything I love most about starting fresh. Meeting new people, trying new things. Yeah, so far, Rose Hill has been pretty damn perfect.

Cool women.

A stable job.

Mind-blowing mountain views.

The guy I met a year ago.

The one I haven’t been able to forget. The one who still hasn’t reached out to me, even with the correct number. The one who probably hates me now for having dated his son.

And that all stings just a little more than it should.

The small charm above the studio’s front door jingles, pulling my attention from the computer screen.

A short man with scraggly, white facial hair, a cap perched on his head, and a cane clutched in his hand, enters the room.

Knobby knees peek out between loose shorts and clunky snow boots, an odd choice considering snow hasn’t fallen in the valley yet. My brows furrow, curiosity piqued.

“Hi. Welcome to Bliss Yoga.”

He mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath.

“Can I help you?”

The man eyes the space carefully, taking in the pale-pink walls, wicker cabinetry, and neutral fabric draped artfully across the windows almost critically.

“Are you Gwen?”

My head tilts. “I am.”

“Are you a yoga teacher?”

“I am.”

He stomps his boots, nods, and points his cane toward me. “Good. You’re the one I’ve heard about, then. I want to take a yoga class with you.”

I hold my head high, careful not to preen too obviously.

Stepping into someone else’s established studio always comes with added pressure.

I need to keep regulars happy while offering classes that feel both fresh and familiar.

And his wording makes me feel like there has been some good word of mouth happening in recent weeks

“Well, I’d love to have you in a class, but the next one on the schedule isn’t until four p.m. Would you be willing to come back then?”

He waves me off with a little scoff. “No. I’ll take a private lesson.”

I blink. He knows what he wants, and he wants it now. “Okay. Do you want to look at our price list?”

His cheeks pinch like I’ve offended him. “Can’t put a price on quality.”

A small chuckle escapes me. “That’s fair.” I pull out a waiver. “Can I get you to fill this out for me? Just so we have some of your information on file.”

The man steps forward, grumbling something that sounds an awful like that motherfucker is going to owe me as he reaches a shaky hand for the pen on the counter.

I watch as he scratches in all caps, skipping entire sections, marking other ones with NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS.

Woof. I can tell he’s quite the character. And tense from head to toe.

“Have you done yoga before? What’s your experience level?”

“Never. Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me, but I’ll try it anyway.”

He pushes the incomplete form back to me, and I let out a genuine laugh at his blunt honesty. My gaze drops to his name at the top of the paper. CLYDE GIBBONS . What a bizarre little man.

“Nice to meet you, Clyde. I appreciate your honesty and openness. It’s one of the most important components of a solid practice.”

He stares at me with a blank expression. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you then,” he grumbles, before removing his boots near the front, just like the sign asks. When he turns back around, he eyes the welcome area warily. “You got any cameras up in this place?”

His eyes land on the dark bubble in the corner just behind me, and I turn to look at it as well. “Only that one out here. None back in the studio.”

His lips work, eyes narrowing like he might be able to laser the device right off the wall. “Don’t like bein’ watched.”

I wait a beat, considering what to say to that, gauging the best way to approach this man. I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little thrown off by him. Part of me wants to tell him not to worry about it, but that feels dismissive in a way.

“Can’t say that I blame you. It’s unnerving, right?”

He freezes for a moment, like I’ve caught him off guard. Then he nods, and I seize on his small show of agreement.

“And really, if you think about it, there isn’t much to see up here.

But if someone came in while we were in the back and tried to steal, say…

” I trail off, glancing around, before my eyes land on what are a damn nice pair of winter boots.

“Your boots. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to get out front fast enough to greet the person, but the camera would capture it, you know? ”

His scraggly, gray brows furrow as he assesses me. “You know, that’s a great point. Plus, you’re here all alone. Don’t want any weirdos wandering in.”

I smile brightly to cover the laugh that’s lodged in my throat, but I’m also relieved to have put him at ease. I wave him forward and start heading toward the back room. “Well, good then. Follow me back. And we’ll?—”

“Though you know, if someone was desperate enough to steal my winter boots, it strikes me they might need them more enough than I do.”

His response brings me up short, and I peek back over my shoulder. He’s the most unusual combination of cantankerous and thoughtful.

I figure he can’t be much older than my father, but there’s a stark difference. My father would have spat some venom about tracking that person down and serving them up a little street justice. He lives in a constant state of forced machismo.

And who am I kidding? My dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a yoga studio, the place where I choose to waste my life .

My nose wiggles as I push the painful thought away. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Clyde.”

He just harrumphs and follows me back into the studio, the soft shuffling of his socked feet interspersed with the clunk of his cane.

Once in the room, he removes his coat, and I see it then, a heavily distended abdomen.

Based on the shape of his socks, I’m assuming his ankles and feet are swollen too.

“Clyde, I know you weren’t keen to write down your medical history—especially in front of the camera—but do you think you could tell me about any major health issues you might be facing? ”

“Yeah.” He hangs his coat on a hook and turns to face me. “I’m in kidney failure, and according to the white coats at the hospital, that’s pretty major.”

I nod, processing the information. The fluid retention makes sense.

My brain cycles through the best poses or asanas that could benefit kidney health, liver support, and energy flow to keep the swelling from getting worse.

I’m well aware yoga has its limits. I won’t be able to make him better, but I’m confident I can make him feel better.

I can help Clyde Gibbons be comfortable.

Turning away, I quickly grab a purple mat to help stimulate his crown chakra, a bolster, and two blocks to set up a station against the wall. “Okay, Clyde. Come on over, and I’ll help you get started lying on your back.”

And so begins my mission to help this funny, strange, oddly thoughtful little man feel better.

A jingle at the front door takes my attention away from sanitizing the mats after my last class. “Be right there!” I call out, setting the spray bottle and rag down before pushing myself to my feet.

I’m shaking my hands dry as I round the corner, my gaze lifting to see Clyde standing there. Back again after yesterday. It makes me smile.

But when my eyes slide up behind him, the smile falls off my face.