Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
She laughs softly. “Yeah, probably. You are still my boss.”
“Your much older boss.”
Carefully, I work the hair tie from her bun and tease her auburn locks loose so I can comb my fingers through them. It pains me to know that our time together is about to be put on pause, that I won’t be able to pull her into my arms the second she walks through the door to my gym.
“It’ll be tough,” I tell her. “But we’ll make it work. And I promise, Skyler, one day soon, I’ll tell everyone that you’re mine.”
That you’re mine, and I’m yours. Forever and always.
Her smile lights up her face like a sunrise.
“I can’t wait.”
eight
SKYLER
I rise to my feet in the center of my yoga mat and clasp my hands together. “Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey. I hope to see each of you again soon.”
My students clap and murmur a hearty reply and begin packing up their things. Turning to my own bag, I dig through my stuff and pull out my phone and a homemade protein bar. I have about fifteen minutes until my last class of the night starts—just enough time for a quick snack-slash-energy boost.
The delicious flavors of cherries and dark chocolate explode on my tongue as I bite into the protein bar. It’s a heavenly combination, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Over the past week, ever since the night Ben and I had sex right here in the studio, I’ve been bringing him homemade snacks and bagged lunches. I meant everything I said about getting him excited about food. He’s still pretty ambivalent toward my veggie sandwich wraps, but he’s fallen in love with my dad’s recipe for cherry-chocolate protein bars, and I can understand why. They’re easy to fall for, just like Ben...
I know it’s too soon to be thinking along those lines, but I try not to make a habit of lying to myself. We’ve been seeing each other for about a week now, and so far we’ve managed to keep our budding relationship below Moodie and Barbie’s radar. From the outside looking in, I don’t think anyone can tell that we’re more than colleagues, even if Ben does drive me home after every shift.
The instant we’re out of the parking lot, his hand is on my thigh, and then it’s Daddy and Baby Bird until one of us has to leave the next morning. I love having Ben in my tiny apartment, sharing my bed, taking up space, making it feel like more than just a place to house my things while I’m in school. I’m not sure if it’s because of the whole daddy thing, but when I’m in Ben’s arms I feel...at home.
I’ll admit, juggling work, school, and this sort-of relationship with Ben has distracted me from posting on my blog these past few days. However, the latest photo I posted—the one of Ben and me doing yoga—has received more likes and comments than all of my previous posts combined. My readers are positively smitten with my “beefcake yoga buddy.”
Same, y’all. Hard. Same.
Even with the success of the post, I haven’t asked Ben to take any more pictures, but I want to. In fact, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the different poses we could try, each one more scandalous than the last.
I’m pulled from my salacious daydreams by the sound of the studio door opening. The first handful of students for my next class file into the space, talking and laughing among themselves.
“Welcome,” I greet them. “Please find a spot anywhere you feel comfortable. We’ll begin in just a few minutes.”
I finish my protein bar as the rest of my students drift in, taking the opportunity respond to a few comments on my most recent blog post. At the start of the hour, I tuck my phone back into my bag and take a deep breath to center myself.
“Okay, everyone,” I say, trying to calm some of the chatter. “Thank you all for joining me. My name is Skyler and I’ll be guiding you through our yoga session this evening.”
I’m in the middle of my intro when a straggler slips through the door, and my thoughts stumble over themselves.
What the fuck is Nate Whitney doing in my yoga class?
“Um...” I gulp hard, fighting to minimize the shock seeping into my tone. “As I was saying, t-this is a beginner’s class and each of the poses can be modified to suit any fitness level...”
My gaze trails him around the perimeter of the studio as he grabs a mat and settles into the back row, like he’s done this a million times. But I’ve never seen him in this gym, let alone the yoga studio. I have no idea why he’s here, but from the way he’s smirking at me—without a trace of surprise on his smug face—I’m willing to bet he’s not here to balance his chakras.