Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
That’s true. When he left, it was a complete shock.
She clears her throat. “And Parker? You can’t beat yourself up over him either. You liked him because he was different. A little weird, sure, but you thought he loved you, and so did I.”
I nod, chewing on my lip. “I really did.”
“That’s why they were both bad breakups. They felt right but were so wrong.”
“Yeah.” I blow out a slow breath. “I think I’m done dating for a while. Me and my perfectly normal, drama-free existence. At least until the Fall Fest is over. You need all the help you can get.”
Chapter 5
Harris
If you told me a few days ago that I’d be doing yoga every morning on a dock surrounded by people who actually know what they’re doing, I would’ve laughed in your face.
But it’s not about yoga.
And it’s not about the view. I mean, it is—if by view you mean Lucy’s ass in her tight-fitting leggings and cropped top. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the only reason I dragged my sorry self out of bed at six a.m.
Sunlight spills over the lake, catching in her hair and glinting off the water like something out of a painting. And me?
I’m sprawled on this yoga mat on the expansive wooden dock, trying not to groan every time my hamstrings protest.
I’ve done two-a-day football practices. I’ve pushed through weight room circuits that left me seeing stars. Hell—I’ve been tackled by grown men charging full speed at me.
But none of that prepares you for downward dog.
Lucy’s voice flows over the group of us—a mix of my football teammates and regulars from town—like the morning breeze, soft and soothing. Sexy, if I’m being honest . . . “Breathe into the stretch. Focus on your inhale . . . deep breath in . . . and exhale . . .”
Her words make the poses sound easy; as if my body wasn’t on fucking fire right now and my joints weren’t actively protesting against my life choices. Around me, everyone moves like they’re made of elastic, flowing into their poses effortlessly.
It’s like I stumbled into a synchronized-yoga cult by accident.
The fuck?
Here I am, trembling—losing my goddamn balance even though both my feet are firmly planted on the ground.
“Remember to breathe,” Lucy softly says, her gaze briefly flicking my way as if sensing struggle. “In through your nose . . . out through your mouth.”
I’m breathing, all right.
I’m winded.
She gives the class the command to shift into something called warrior two, and I’m positive this is where I die. My legs burn as I try to bend my front knee. My arms are stretched out to the sides, wobbling like I’m holding invisible dumbbells. Everyone else looks strong and poised, like statues. I look like I’m about to collapse into the lake.
Honestly, I wish I would.
It looks so refreshing . . .
Sneaking another glance at her perched serenely at the front of the dock, I can’t help but think Lucy looks perfect.
Calm. Steady. Arms in a clean line, her gaze is focused on some invisible horizon.
Meanwhile, my arms are shaking like I’m bench-pressing a bus, and I can feel sweat dripping down my back, into my ass crack.
“Keep your breath steady,” she instructs. “Feel the strength in your stance.”
There’s no strength here.
Only suffering.
My back leg twitches, and I stumble, waving my arms wildly to save myself from toppling sideways. I manage to stay upright—barely—but the mat lets out a loud squeak under my foot that echoes across the dock.
Lucy’s gaze snaps to me, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Doing okay back there?” she calls out quietly, walking toward me like a teacher about to check my work. She stands next to me; her presence makes everything worse—not because she’s intimidating, but because now I feel like I’m performing.
And doing a shitty job.
Stopping short of my mat, arms crossed, she stares down to where I’m doing what can only be described as an interpretive version of warrior two or whatever it’s called.
“I’m fine,” I lie, wobbling so hard that I look like my wheels are about to fly off. “This is part of my process.”
“Your process?” Her brow lifts.
I nod solemnly, front leg starting to shake like I’m holding up the weight of the entire dock.
Water.
I need water . . .
“Yeah. I call it warrior one point five. It’s an advanced technique, so you probably haven’t heard of it.”
“You’re an advanced disaster,” Elijah chimes in from his mat two spots over, grinning ear to ear. “Kick him out of class, Lucy!”
“She can’t kick me out. I’m her favorite student,” I shoot back, smirking up at her. Flirting.
Hot for teacher, ha ha.
I glance up in time to see her eyebrows lift, a slow, deliberate challenge in her expression.
Her favorite?
“Oh, really?” she says, her voice calm and controlled and professional—not flirty in the least. “If you’re my favorite, then you’re who I choose to demonstrate warrior three for the class.”