It’s our second week of yoga practice and I’m so fucking sore, I can barely walk. Lucía’s constantly fighting her laughter when we see each other around the office. I’m practically limping. Yoga uses different muscles than swimming and my thighs feel like they’ve taken a beating.

I’m still trying to master the fucking headstand. At this rate, it will take me another week to get comfortable enough to move on to the next Asana. She makes it look easy.

It crushed my ego when I told her that maybe I was just too big for the poses she was trying to teach me, because then she showed me YouTube videos of these huge football players resting like bosses in the headstand. So now, I’m determined.

I get to her house a little early so that I can be on the deck when she gets there. I want to spare myself the laugh she’ll have at my expense when I hobble up the stairs.

I hear “Crush on You” by the Jets blaring over the outdoor speakers.

Ah, she has good taste in music. Another check in the “characteristics of a perfect woman” column. I see her through the glass doors, standing in front of her blender. She’s dressed for yoga in these tiny, sexy-ass hot pink yoga pants and her sports bra. Her hair is still loose, and flying as she moves to the music. She hasn’t put on the T-shirt she always wears when we practice together. I can see her stomach and sides. Her skin looks like satin. I rub my palms together at the thought of touching it.

These mornings are starting to be my favorite part of the day. We laugh a lot. And she’s a good teacher. She acts like every single inch of progress is amazing. I leave feeling relaxed and ready for whatever bullshit the day brings. We’re becoming friends. Real friends. I look forward to seeing her. And although the attraction is there, I’ve managed to keep it in check and focus on what she’s teaching me.

She whirls in surprise when I knock. A wide smile spreading across her face as she sees me. Shit, that feels amazing.

---

“You’re early,” she says good naturedly as I join her in the kitchen. She grabs two glasses from the cabinet, and holds them up to me. “Want to share my breakfast?” she asks as she pours the dark green liquid into two glasses.

“Ugh. It looks disgusting. Like what I used to drink when I was training, but worse,” I say as I take a sniff of whatever vile concoction she’s just handed me. “And it smells awful. No thanks.”

“It’ll help your muscles. You can barely walk.” She laughs as she grabs her glass and gulps it down.

“You talk a lot of shit, you show off. I bet you couldn’t walk when you first started, either.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t an Olympic athlete.”

“I’m not an Olympic athlete anymore. That was more than ten years ago.”

“Excuses, excuses,” she tsks. “But given your advanced age, some soreness should be expected.” She cackles.

“Keep laughing. I’m going to come early tomorrow and have my video recorder ready to catch you in the act. You’ve got those Paula Abdul moves down pat. It’ll make excellent blackmail material.”

She laughs at me, throwing her head back in delight. “As if anyone would care about a video of me dancing.”

“You haven’t seen yourself. Believe me, they would care.”

She stops laughing and gives a playful swat on my arm. Her laughter softens to a smile and her eyes turn nostalgic.

“That was my brother’s favorite song. We used to dance to it all the time. In fact, we wanted to grow up and join the Jets.” Her face falls slightly, but then she forces a smile.

“Come on, you don’t want to hear my childhood stories.” She starts toward the door.

“I want to know you; whatever you want to share.”

“Really?” Her eyes search my face.

I answer honestly. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

Her eyes grow sad and she walks over to one of the blue leather and chrome barstools. Her shoulders look like she’s carrying a heavy load on them.

“I was only eight when he died.” Her voice is tinged with nostalgia, her voice just above a whisper. I can see her throat working and her eyes glistening. I’m intrigued. At the same time, I’m not sure I want her to continue. Weeping, sad women have always been my weakness. It’s how Fabienne managed to keep us going for so long. She knew if she cried or admitted some fear or heartbreak to me, I wouldn’t be able to walk away from her.

I know it’s cynical. But, I need to be careful here. Especially because I’m also more attracted to her than I’ve ever been to anyone. One minute, I’ll be patting her shoulder to make her feel better, and then the next, I’ll be begging her to let me kiss her.

She sniffles and accepts the tissue I hand her with a sheepish smile. When our hands brush each other, I feel it. Not quite a spark or a tingle . . . but a strong awareness. The connection makes us both stop and pay attention. It would be so easy, to just do what I’ve been wanting to do for the last few weeks. Her skin is calling to me; I only want one more touch. When I put my hands on her shoulders that first day, I felt the smooth texture of her skin against my palm. I want to touch her. So badly. I want to know what she feels like everywhere.

She’s beautiful and far too tempting. I need to get the fuck out of here.

I look down at my watch and step back. “Listen, we’ll be late if we do the lesson today. Let’s pick this up tomorrow.”

There’s a pause before she responds, but I don’t look at her. I can’t.

“Tomorrow’s my day off, and I want to sleep in.” She sounds completely relaxed so I take my eyes off my watch. She’s turned her back to me and is rinsing her glass in the sink.

“The day after, then?” I ask. She gathers her hair and piles it on top of her head with a black rubber band that has a permanent home on her wrist.

And when she does that, the soft skin on the gentle slope of her shoulders is exposed. My resolve to keep my distance disappears and I involuntarily take a step toward her. I want to put my mouth there. Just as I start to move, she turns around to face me and I freeze. When she sees my hand outstretched, and me in mid-stride, she looks concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I re-route my hand’s destination and in a lame save, I rub my neck like it’s sore and her expression goes from concerned to confused.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little stiffness in my neck. I need a good hard swim.” God I sound like an idiot. “But, really. I’m glad you felt like you could tell me.”

She smiles brightly and my cock jumps. That decides it. I’m leaving right now and tonight, I’m going to LA. Maybe I just need to get laid.

“I’ll be in LA day after tomorrow, so three days from now?”

“Okay. It’ll give you time to recuperate.” She shoots me a grin and I’m glad the conversation is light again. As if she can feel my relief, she says, “I know it was heavy, but I have to admit it feels good to have gotten that off my chest. I haven’t said those words aloud in a long time. Thank you.” She walks over and steps up onto her tiptoes and presses the softest kiss to my undeserving cheek. I catch a whiff of her vanilla scent and I have to stop myself from wrapping my arm around her waist and holding her to me.