“WE’RE BREATHING,” Hazel reminds the class, walking slowly around us to make adjustments to our poses. She rests her palm on my lower back, and I deepen the downward dog stretch.
Sweat drips off my nose and onto the mat. I know this class is called hot yoga, but I forgot how hot it really is. I’ve chugged two bottles of water in forty minutes. Sweat pools in my sports bra, and as I tilt with the pose, reaching for the sky with my right hand, it pours out. My underwear is damp, and not in the fun way.
I glance over at Jamie, and our eyes meet. His cheeks are flushed from the heat. His shirt came off a few minutes into class, and I can’t seem to focus on the poses or Hazel’s voice. There are only three other people in the class, but I barely notice them.
Jamie Streicher’s body is perfect. Beads of sweat roll down his washboard abs. A smattering of dark, neatly trimmed chest hair spans his broad chest. Thick, muscular arms hold him up during poses. His pecs and calves? Chiseled from stone. Down his stomach, a trail of hair leads into his shorts, and my mind snags on it again and again.
Every time he moves, his muscles ripple. Combined with his bright eyes and intimidating strength, he’s the perfect picture of vitality and power.
Arousal thrums low in my stomach, and I’m picturing him picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder.
Maybe I spoke too soon about my underwear.
He’s also insanely flexible. From the depth and balance to his poses, he’s done yoga before.
“Child’s pose,” Hazel says beside me in an emphasizing tone, like this isn’t the first time she’s said it. She widens her eyes at me, a silent question of dude, what are you doing? in her eyes, and I hurry into the pose.
Letting Jamie come with me was a terrible idea. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s a flawless Olympian—my dad told me he played in the last Winter Olympics for Canada—and right now, I look like a sewer rat.
We hang out in child’s pose for a while, and Hazel refills our water bottles. When I glance over at Jamie, his back muscles don’t look as tight as before.
He has a lot of back muscles. I clench my eyes closed and put my head down, deepening the pose. It’s not like that with Jamie, and no good can come from ogling him.
I remember the low groan I heard from his room this morning. I keep telling myself it was just him stretching, waking up. He said he was sore. It was probably that.
It doesn’t stop me from picturing what else that groan could have been from, though.
Hazel pokes me in the ribs. The rest of the class is in chair pose, and I’m still in child’s pose.
“Focus,” she murmurs as she passes.
I’m focused, alright. Focused on the shirtless hockey player who’s miles out of my league.
After class is over and I take a quick shower in the change room, I head back to the lobby. The students from class are taking a photo with Jamie. The two yoga teachers who were at the front desk when we checked in are waiting, eyes on him, and when it’s their turn, they’re at his side in a flash, arms around his waist. Something pinches between my ribs.
He isn’t smiling, but he also isn’t glaring. One of the women nestles closer to him, and his gaze flicks over to me.
A muscle yanks in my stomach and my shoulders tense. I have no reason to be pissed. I have zero claim on him. He’s my boss and roommate
and that’s it. I just… really don’t like them touching him like that and looking at him with stars in their eyes.
“What the fuck?” Hazel hisses at my side. “You brought him here?”
We didn’t have a chance to talk alone before class. “He didn’t give me a choice.”
We watch the other teachers take a flurry of pictures. “He’s really flexible.” She slides a coy glance at me.
“Stop it.” I hide a laugh.
Her expression is all innocence.
Jamie finishes taking photos and heads over to us.
“Good class,” he tells Hazel with a nod. “Thanks.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Jamie.”
She takes it warily. “Hazel.” “You work with the team.”
Surprise flicks over her features. “Yes.” She mentions the senior physiotherapists she works with, and Jamie nods.
“The other players could benefit from something like this.”
Hazel just shrugs, but I can tell she’s trying not to smile. She can be guarded, especially with men, but deep down, she wants people to walk out of her classes feeling good, even if they are pro hockey players.
“Join us for lunch,” he tells her.
Yoga, and now lunch. My stomach flutters, and I tell it to shut up. He’s probably starving and doesn’t know how to ditch me, or he doesn’t want to be rude. I stare at Hazel, and she stares back at me. In our gazes, we’re having a full conversation.
“She’d love to,” I say, smiling at Jamie.
Jamie takes us to a strange, dingy bar in an alley in Gastown. “The Filthy Flamingo,” I read on the sign above the door.
“Don’t say it’s a dive bar,” he tells us as he holds the door open.
Hazel and I pause at the front door, letting our eyes adjust. They’re playing “Tangerine,” my favorite Led Zeppelin song. The inside of the bar is cozy and warm, and I immediately love this place—the vintage concert
posters, the photos behind the bar, the twinkling lights stretching across the ceiling.
Behind the counter, a woman mixes drinks. She’s gorgeous, actually, with this nineties grunge look that I immediately love.
She glances at Jamie. “You again.”
He makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a stifled laugh. The bartender nods hello at me and Hazel. “Sit wherever.”
My gaze lands on a poster for The Who’s Quadrophenia album. “Hazel!” I point at it. “Look.”
Hazel smiles at it. “Cool.”
“You like Quadrophenia?” the bartender asks.
We slip onto bar stools. “It’s our dad’s favorite album,” I explain. “We grew up on that record.”
She offers us a small, pleased smile. “Good taste.” A beat. “I’m Jordan.”
“Pippa.” I like her immediately. “That’s Hazel. And Jamie.”
She nods at Hazel, and when she turns to Jamie, she arches an eyebrow. “No hockey talk in here.”
He makes another noise that might be a laugh. We order lunch, and while we eat, Jamie actually makes conversation with Hazel about yoga.
“I’d love to do a class for injured athletes,” Hazel’s saying. “Something that goes at a slower pace.”
“Hazel wants to open her own studio one day,” I explain for Jamie. “A space where people of all body types feel comfortable, instead of just skinny people.”
His eyebrows rise and he regards Hazel with something that looks like respect. “That’s a great idea. The world needs more people like you.”
She stares at him. “I thought you were supposed to be an asshole.”
Jamie looks at me, and something glints in his eyes. “Did you tell her that?”
“Um.” I blink. “No?” Very convincing, Pippa. I wince, but I’m smiling. “I mean, you did fire me.”
Our eyes lock, and my stomach does a slow, warm roll. There’s that fascinating twitch at the corner of his mouth. I have the urge to reach out and brush my finger over it. Hazel’s glancing between us with a funny look on her face. Our gazes meet, and her eyebrows bob up and down once.
She’s really trying not to like him, but between his thoughtful questions, his interest in her profession, and how little ego he has, she doesn’t stand a chance.
I don’t know if I do, either. Who is this version of him? He’s nothing like the surly asshole I thought he was.
Jamie finishes his sandwich and leans back in his chair. “Do you do private classes?”
Hazel looks concerned. “Yes?”
He nods once. “My trainer will contact you.”
Later, when Jamie heads to the washroom, I smile at Hazel. “You’re right. All hockey players are evil.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “Whatever.” Her eyes narrow at me. “He likes you.”
I flush with happy, buzzy feelings. “He can hardly stand me.” She chokes. “Are you kidding?”
“Hazel, the guy fired me. He only rehired me because he felt bad for me. And then he saw me crying, and that made it ten times worse.” I lower my voice. “He pities me. I’m just the dog walker, basically. He doesn’t like me.”
She holds my gaze with a knowing look. “He likes you.” I hate the flurry of butterflies in my stomach at her words.
On the counter, Hazel’s phone starts buzzing. “I have a ton of notifications,” she mutters, frowning at the screen. “Dude,” she says a moment later in a flat tone, scrolling through comments.
She’s been tagged in one of the photos with Jamie that the other students posted. It’s going viral on social media because he almost never takes photos with people. An email pops up on her phone, and she reads it.
“My class next week is full,” she says, sounding dazed. My jaw drops. “That’s incredible.”
She shakes her head, reading on. “The whole month. My Saturday hot classes for the whole month are booked up. The studio wants to add a second class in the afternoon.”
I’m beaming. She turns to me with a funny, surprised smile, and gratitude for Jamie squeezes in my chest. I love seeing Hazel so happy and proud like this.
When he returns, Jamie insists on paying for lunch to thank Hazel for the class, and after we say goodbye to her, we head back to our apartment building.
Something occurs to me, and I turn to him with narrowed eyes. “You knew going to Hazel’s class would help her.”
He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts. My heart swells. “Oooooh.” I nod, smiling at him. “Okay. I see it now.”
“What?” His expression is concerned.
I just continue smiling at him. “You’re nice.” He looks at me like I’ve grown another head.
I nod. “Yeah. You are. You take care of your mom, you took in a stray dog that needed a home, and you made me move in.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in the direction we came from. “You bought us lunch. Jamie, you’re nice.”
He beeps his key fob at the entrance of our building and opens the door for me, not meeting my gaze. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I told you Hazel’s coworkers were bitchy, so you came with me to help her out.”
His eyes rest on me as we wait for the elevator, and there’s something warm in his gaze. “Maybe I just wanted to hang out with you.”
I chuckle. “Mhm. I’m sure. You probably have supermodels on speed dial, so it makes perfect sense that you’d spend your day off with me.”
We step into the elevator. Amusement twitches on his lips. “Speed dial?”
“I said what I said.” My chest shakes with laughter. Something about the way he’s pinning me with his gaze, and how maybe I’m amusing him, is making my stomach do excited backflips.
Our gazes hold, and there’s a drop in my stomach that I’m going to attribute to the elevator ascending. His eyes glitter, and I can smell his fresh, sharp scent.
Oh, wow.
He isn’t smiling, but his gaze is warm. Delight sparkles in my chest, and I fight the urge to rub my sternum. This feeling is new.
“I owe you one for today.” My voice is barely above a whisper, and I’m aware of how small this elevator is and how much room he takes up.
His throat works as he swallows, still holding my gaze. “You want to make it up to me?”
My lips part, and a shiver rolls down my spine. There’s heat in his eyes, and I blink at him, stunned.
His words sound suggestive. An intimate muscle tugs between my legs.
Oh god. I can’t get turned on in an elevator. I’m not that kind of girl.
The corner of his mouth slides up into a smirk, and my heart beats faster.
I am the kind of girl who gets turned on in an elevator. It’s too late. It’s happening. We’re there. I’m horny for my hockey player boss in an elevator.
I really can’t be doing this. Jamie is totally off-limits. He’s too hot, too nice, and he smells way too good. Letting my crush balloon into something more will only end in heartbreak for me.
“Okay,” I say, still holding his electric gaze. “Play me a song.”
I flinch. A heavy weight extinguishes my horniness as my thoughts freeze.
“Any song,” he says, and my skin prickles at the low tone of his voice.
The elevator door opens. “One of your favorites; I don’t care.”
I open my mouth to tell him I can’t, but he dips his head down to meet my eyes so we’re on the same level. His arm is holding the elevator door open.
“Yes, you can,” he says in a firm, demanding tone. The corner of his mouth is curling, and I wonder if I were to sit down and play a song for him on my guitar, would I get a full, high-watt smile from him?
It’s tempting.
I’m standing there frozen, but his hand comes to my lower back, and he gently guides me out of the elevator. His warmth permeates my layers of clothing, and I want to lean into his hand.
Inside the front door, Daisy jumps up and runs over to greet us, and he grabs her leash from the side table. I still haven’t said a word.
“It’s settled then.” He clips her harness on before straightening up. “Thanks for a fun morning, Pippa,” he murmurs.
It’s settled?
At whatever my expression is, his mouth slides into that sexy smirk again.
“Bye,” he says, stepping out the door.
I stand there for a long moment, replaying his slow smirk, the press of his hand on my lower back.
He wants a song, but every time I think about picking up my guitar, my stomach churns with worry and hesitation.
Yes, you can, he said, and he sounded so certain. Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I can. I lean against the door, blowing out a long breath.
