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)
Harris was a no-show, but his new friends showed up.
“Breathe deeply, gentlemen,” I call out, adjusting my tone to sound both authoritative and calm, like the yoga instructor I am. “Feel the sand under your feet, the stretch in your muscles. Focus on the now.”
The guys grumble a little, but they follow my lead, leaning into their stretches with a surprising amount of effort for a group of men who probably think yoga is glorified napping.
“I don’t want to feel the sand under my feet,” one of the guys mutters. “I want to be in bed.”
I rack my brain, struggling to remember their names.
Eli? Miles? Why can’t i remember who is who anymore?
“I’m not hating the view, though,” the other one (I think his name is Quinn? Quinton?) whispers, not-so-subtly glancing my way.
I roll my eyes. “You better be talking about the lake and not my ass.”
There. That sounded commanding, didn’t it?
Professionalism, Lucy. You’re a yoga instructor, not a flirt instructor.
“I love a sunrise over the water.” Someone giggles—actually giggles.
I roll my eyes, facing forward, then twisting my torso. “Eyes on your mats, boys. Pay. Attention.” Jeez, they’re as bad as a group of unruly elementary school kids. “This isn’t a spectator sport.”
A few of them laugh, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve had worse students. Much worse. I taught a bachelorette party once, and they came hungover, loudly laughing and falling over one another, shouting. Giggling.
The sun climbs higher, warming the sand beneath us, and for a moment, I forget about lumbersexual Harris and his infuriating appeal.
Why can’t I take my mind off him?
This is so unlike me.
I concentrate on the rhythm of the class, the sound of waves lapping against the shore, the groans of men struggling not to fall on their faces the way Harris did in the one and only class he’s taken with me.
One by one, they start to drop out of their poses, collapsing into the sand like soldiers after a battle.
Elijah flops onto his back dramatically and grumbles, “I thought yoga was supposed to be peaceful.”
Who on earth told him that? Ha.
“Peaceful when you’re doing it right,” I shoot back, earning a low chuckle from Quinton, who’s been doing surprisingly well. He seems to be taking it seriously.
“Or. Maybe you’re making it hard for us on purpose,” Dex teases, brushing the sand off his forearms. His grin is full of trouble, and I get the sense that he loves to goof around and give his friends a hard time.
“On purpose?” I scoff. “Why would I do that?” I flip my hair over my shoulder and motion to the area around me with my hands. “This is a safe space.”
“So you keep saying. Dude, I’m not feeling safe,” Miles adds, pointing at his legs. “My hamstrings are cooked.”
“I’m flattered.” I laugh. “I also noticed you skipped half the stretches.”
This is a him problem, not a me problem. He who skips stretching pays for it in the end. As an athlete he should know to stretch. It’s as if he thought yoga would be easier the third time around.
Miles scratches the back of his neck, caught. “Fine. You got me. But in my defense, I’m not bendy. Flexible but not bendy, if you catch my drift.”
Oh brother.
Dex snorts, ass planted in the sand. “He was built to tackle, not touch his toes.”
“Excuses, excuses,” I say. “You don’t get to blame skipping stretches on already being in incredible shape. I had an older woman with two left feet in class last week who managed to stay in downward dog without collapsing.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge,” Quinton says, grinning as he feigns a weak stretch.
“Nope.” My chin hitches up. “Merely pointing out a fact.”
Miles studies me before leaning back on his hands, digging his heels into the ground. “So what’s your story, Luce? Is this your full-time gig?”
I laugh. “Yup, pretty much yoga. Which largely consists of wrangling hungover tourists when they think it’s a good idea to book a sunrise class.”
Dex raises an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is that we’re better behaved than some of your other students?”
“Shockingly, yes,” I reply, chuckling. “You’d be surprised how rowdy people can get when they’re recovering from margaritas.”
Miles gestures toward the shoreline. “But you like doing this, right? I mean, you’re not teaching because you got tired of corporate life or something?”
“I love it,” I say. “There’s something peaceful about being outside, hearing the waves . . . even when my students are stubborn guys who complain more than they stretch.”
Quinton chuckles. “I feel seen.”
I smile, squinting at them through the sunlight. “What about you guys? What do you do in your spare time?”
Dex shakes his head. “Uh, sometimes we play football together. Sometimes we work out. Other times we, uh—condition.”
Miles raises his hand. “I took a ballet class once.”