What harm could come from one meal between a yoga teacher and a client?
Nothing.
Yes.
Lunch is safe.
Lunch is totally safe.
18
Katie
Since Harlan is too easy to flirt with, my only option is salad.
No one orders salad on a date—the risk of dressing down your blouse or snagging spinach in your teeth is too great. But what’s even riskier than a regular salad? A salad tossed with micro greens and kale. Add in arugula for good measure. Sprinkle some chia seeds.
There.
This won’t feel like a date because that’s not date food. That’s girlfriend-do-I-have-anything-stuck-in-my-teeth food.
This salad will help me see Harlan like a friend.
I place my order at Nirvana, a new café off Polk Street that Emerson recommended. Harlan orders a protein fiesta wrap, something football-y with chicken, tofu, beans, and garbanzos. Basically, a recipe for muscle building.
Happy sigh. I love muscles.
Wait. Stop. No muscle thoughts, Katie.
I swipe away all thoughts of big, toned arms that can hold me down hard and any other images that make my lady parts do the samba.
Cha cha cha, indeed.
Instead, I’ll focus on . . . this place. Yeah, that’ll erase the smut from my head.
I swing my gaze around the hipster joint.
The walls are concrete.
The chairs are butcher block . . . well, blocks.
The tables are steel.
“It’s not terribly inviting decor,” I remark as we walk away from the counter.
“It’s possible this place is too hip for me,” he says, grabbing a table.
I try to get comfortable on the exceptionally uncomfortable chair. “I almost feel like this place is trying too hard.”
He frowns as he sits. “It’s official. This is the worst chair ever.”
“It’s not even a chair,” I second. “It’s a pain-delivery mechanism.”
He chuckles, then his eyes flicker. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Want to get our grub to go and eat there? It has picnic tables,” he says like he’s dangling gumdrops in front of Hansel and Gretel.
“Yes, please,” I answer before it hits me that a picnic in the park is the very definition of romantic.
That’s what I’m trying to avoid with Harlan.
Dammit.
But then, a picnic is only romantic if I let it be romantic.
And I won’t.
C’mon, chia seeds. Lodge between my teeth.
After we grab our order to go, we head up the street, and I focus on non-romantic, non-flirty topics. “I’ll have to give Emerson a hard time about Nirvana’s get-the-hell-out-of-here vibe. She was raving about it on her show the other week, and she told me I had to check it out. I try to support her as much as I can.”
He tilts his head, his gaze curious. “What’s her show?”
I tell him the name of Emerson’s bona fide online hit. “She’s a vegetarian, and several years ago she started reviewing the places where she ate. At first, it was just for fun. She was having a good time, giving reviews like, No, this vegan meat doesn’t taste like chicken, and I don’t want it to taste like chicken. It tastes like yummy grainy goodness dancing on my tongue. Then her videos took off because she’s so accessible and real and people love it.”
“Good for her. Sounds like she loves what she’s doing,” he says as we reach the top of the hill.
“She says that’s the key to a happy life. Doing what you love.” We cross the street into a tiny park ringed by trees and tall hedges. It’s a hideaway here, an escape from the rest of the city. Birds chirp, a light breeze blows, and the sun—rare in November—warms my shoulders.
“That seems like a pretty good gauge of happiness,” he says, as we find a picnic table and settle in. “Sounds like you agree?”
Briefly, I let the last few years run through my mind, from the highs of building a business with my sister to the low of being left at the altar and betrayed by my mother. I focus on the joys and the pain, but ultimately, the triumphs. Olive and I love Sassy Yoga fiercely, and it feels like ours, not only because it is, but because we truly love what we do.
“I do. I worked in fashion before, doing retail buying. And while I love the fashion line we built at Sassy Yoga, I adore sharing something that’s helped me with many others.”
“You do seem pretty intent on helping. I’ve noticed that when you’re with the team. With me too, but especially the team. You take time to make sure everyone gets it, knows what they’re doing. To add a compliment or a quip. You make it fun,” he says with a smile as he unwraps his sandwich. “You’ve always been a yoga person?”
“No. Not at all. I was very much an eye-roller back in the day.”
Harlan tosses his head back, laughing. “Love that term. That’s perfect.”
“Because so many people are, right? Basically, the world breaks down according to those who love yoga, and those who go full Robert-Downey-Jr.-eye-rolling gif at the practice.”
He bites into his sandwich, nodding as he chews. When he’s done, he says, “That’s spot on. So, you were a Robert Downey Jr.?”
“Absolutely.” I pop open the lid to the salad, then grab a fork.
“What changed for you?” he asks, eyes intent on mine. Harlan is a fantastic listener, I’m learning. He stays on topic; he asks questions. It’s refreshing.
“My friends and my sister,” I say after I take a bite. “I was resistant to it, but Skyler and Olive—my sister—had started going way back when.” I flap a hand over my shoulder toward the ancient history of my life.
“Way back when? In the dark ages?” he teases, his eyes alight with self-deprecation.
“Yes. It was eons ago. Seriously, though, it was shortly after college. They both went to yoga at the gym and told me to try it. Olive, the perv, said it was good for sex. Skyler, who now prays at the altar of eight hours of sleep a night, said it helped her insomnia. So, I went. Reluctantly.”
“I think you just described half of my team,” he adds.
But their mixed reactions don’t faze me. “They’ll realize the benefit over time,” I say. I believe in what I do, and I’m confident it’ll help the guys. “And you? Are you reluctant? Skeptical? Totally devoted to the bennies of shavasana and wine forever and ever?”
His smile catches me off-guard. It’s so magnetic, but it fades quickly. He takes another bite, sets down his sandwich, then sighs. “I’m open to it, but I’m in a different place than some of the young guns, you know?”
Ah, the age conversation. I figured it was coming with Harlan. I’m aware of the chatter about whether or not this is his last season. “Because you’re thinking more about the future?”
He nods decisively. “I think a lot about what’s next. Worry about it. Wonder. I love football the way your friend Emerson says you should. The sport is like air to me. I’ve loved football since I was a kid, and it’s hard to imagine not playing.”
There’s wistfulness in his voice. It’s a sound I rarely hear from him. He’s usually so playful and upbeat. But now and then, he reveals the things that seem to weigh on him. This definitely seems to.
“But I also really like taking my daughter to school, and teaching her to read, and letting her sneak-polish my toes when I conk out on the couch when her friends are over. I love seeing her as often as I can, and I don’t love spending every weekend from August to December pretty much unavailable. Know what I mean?”
My heart catches in my throat and thunders there. A man who wants to be there for his kid is so damn appealing. His affection for parenting makes me all kinds of mushy. Makes me think about things I haven’t thought about in ages. “I don’t have kids, but I can imagine.” I say it casually; I’m not opening a kid convo, and I doubt he wants to have one. That’s not what today is about.
He sighs, his brow knitting. Sounds like he’s gearing up to
say something hard. “Did you want to? With your ex?”
Or maybe that is what today is about. The question of kids pushes me out of my comfort zone, and I answer with another question. “Have kids?” It comes out a little squeaky. “With Silvio?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
The intensity of his gaze says he’s genuinely interested. I’m not sure why it matters what I wanted with my ex when he’s so far in the rearview mirror. “We never talked about it,” I answer honestly.
“Hmm.”
He leaves it at that, but I don’t drop the subject yet. With time and distance from my ex, I’ve learned more about myself. What I want. What I hope for. And kids are part of that. An unanswered question, but still a part.
“I suspect that was yet another reason why it didn’t work out with him,” I say. “Looking back, we didn’t have a lot in common. We didn’t talk as much as we should have. I suppose I wasn’t sure how to tell him the truth.”
“That you don’t want to have kids?” Harlan asks, his voice speckled with nerves.
A stone wedges in my chest. This is hard to say. I do want kids, if the timing is right, if the relationship is right, if I’m with someone who feels like my forever. But that sounds so fairy tale, so I answer more plainly. “I worry that the opportunity has passed me by. I’m thirty-five. I don’t know if I’ll have the chance.” I glance around the park, not sure what I’m searching for. Maybe just the courage to voice the rest. His vulnerable eyes give me that strength. “I’m still single. So I don’t know if it’ll happen, and that’s the truth.” I hold up my hands in surrender.
To time.
“Do you want it to happen?” he asks.
“If it’s right. The right man. The right relationship. I won’t force it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life comes at you on its own terms, in all sorts of unexpected ways. You have to roll with the punches.”
He takes another bite, nods like he’s absorbing what I said. When he’s done chewing, he says, “That is definitely true. The key is to adapt.”
“Like you did when your daughter was born,” I say, returning to the center of his world. “It must be hard when you can’t see her as much as you’d like.”
He takes a steadying breath. “It is, but hey, we make it work. I don’t get to see her on weekends during the season, but when I do, we have a blast together.” He flashes me a smile, almost like he needs to slap it on for bravado. “But hey, my weekend job isn’t too shabby. I’m hanging in there at thirty-six.”
I want to ask him more about Abby.
About being a dad.
But he’s returned to football now, and that seems where he wants to stay. Maybe wise for me too, given the way my heart flips when he talks about being a dad.
So, I keep the conversation in that zone.
“I’d say you’re doing more than hanging in there.” I tap my temple. “You have all the advantages up here. You have wisdom and insight. You have instincts. As well as moves on the field,” I say. “Hello! Did you see your game last weekend? You had that gorgeous twenty-five-yard catch at the end of the half. And how about the fifty-six-yard catch when you were nearly out of bounds?” I lift my arms high in the air, then stretch to the side, doing my damnedest to imitate his grace and power on the field. “And you grabbed it before it hit the ground, then you spun around and ran into the end zone.” My voice pitches higher, my excitement spilling over as the instant replay flashes before my eyes. “It was glorious, and my friends and I were shouting your name in my living room.”
I pick up my fork and dive into the salad again.
Harlan’s eyebrows rise and his brown eyes glimmer with . . . delight.
Utter delight.
And pride too, it seems. “You liked that? My play? You cheered hard?”
“The hardest,” I say emphatically.
“The hardest, you say?” It comes out a little dirty, a touch suggestive.
“Yes, you sexy beast. I cheered the hardest.”
Oops, I objectified him again.
And he seems to love it, judging from the sly smile gracing those full, gorgeous lips.
Lips I want to taste desperately.
Harlan’s eyes never stray from mine. He stares at me darkly. Speaks seductively. “And did your friends want to know why you were cheering so hard?”
That rumbly voice sends a shiver down my spine. “They know I’m working for the team,” I say, teasing him, playing it coy.
“That’s the only reason they think you cheered hard?”
“Fine, fine. They know you’re an orgasm dealer,” I add, with an over-the-top huff and a puff.
A laugh bursts from him. “That’s what you called me?”
“That’s what you are,” I say, squaring my shoulders, owning it. “Wait. Am I objectifying you for being spectacular in bed? They also know you’re a sweetie-pie, a funny guy, and a good dad.”
He waves a hand dismissively “Back it up to spectacular between the sheets.”
“Ha. Is that all you care about?”
With utter intensity in his eyes, he nods. “At the moment, yes. I’m into this nickname. A lot.”
A flush races across my chest. “Well, it’s the truth. I speak the truth. And I also got a wicked thrill watching you use those hands so expertly on the field, knowing what those hands had done to me.” I take a beat, let my eyes drift down his chest. “Your whole body.”
Oh hell, I’m terrible at not flirting.
Harlan leans closer across the table. “Do you have any idea how much I want to take you home, toss you on my bed, and make you feel incredible?”
A pulse beats between my legs. I ache for him.
So much for arugula’s help.
“As much as I want you to?” I toss back, since flirting with him is too fun.
“That much,” he says, then we stare at each other, a lot heated, and all kinds of heady. The air crackles, and I want to forget the rest of the world, screw the day, and spend the afternoon in his bed.
In his arms.
But I’ve got to have some self-control.
Deep breath.
I take a bite of my salad.
Trying to let the lettuce do the trick.
When I set down the fork, he chuckles under his breath.
“What?”
“You’ve got a chia in your teeth.”
Saved by the seed.
19
Harlan
That weekend, Danielle and Jamie bring Abby and her friends to the stadium.
They watch the game from the owner’s suite, and I wish I could pop up there and see my girl before kickoff.
But that’s not in the cards.
The team has rules about no distractions, and the rules work.
They put us in a football-only mindset.
On the field, Cooper is unflappable in the pocket, marching the team closer and closer to the end zone with every play it seems, trading off throwing to his favorite targets—Jones and me.
The two of us combine for three touchdowns when the game ends with a win for the Renegades.
I yank off my helmet after the clock runs out and knock fists with my bud. “Good game, and don’t forget I had one hundred one receiving yards to your ninety-nine.”
Jones rolls his eyes. “Hope those two extra yards keep you warm at night.”
And . . . he has a fair point.
But the most important point is this—we’ve only lost two games this season, and we’re in playoff contention again.
Something that makes the owner very happy.
Once I’ve showered and talked to the press, I head to Wilder Blaine’s suite.
The billionaire team owner waits at the door, wearing his custom suit and game-winning grin. “Excellent work, Taylor,” he says.
“Thank you, sir. And that is a most excellent suit.”
He laughs politely, his green eyes glinting, then claps me on the shoulder. “I know our GM is looking forward to talking to your
agent.”
Ohhhh.
That’s a sign if ever I heard one.
“That’s great,” I say, buoyed by his words, since it’s not often the owner himself makes it clear he wants you.
“And your family is welcome anytime in my suite,” he says.
It’s a great offer.
Truly it is. “I appreciate that, Mister Blaine.”
“And we appreciate you,” he adds, punctuating his praise.
I make a mental note to pass on his words to my agent, since I’m pretty sure they’re a guaranteed offer in free agency.
But I’ll do that tomorrow, because once I head inside, my favorite person rams into me. “I saw your catch. Also, Simone Biles did the coolest thing ever and you need to see that too,” Abby tells me.
We watch gymnastics on Danielle’s iPad, Abby in my lap, until it’s time to go.
On the way to school one day next week, we pass Fog City Bakery. The shop catches Abby in its tractor-beam scents of sugary sweetness and pillowy bread.
A sign on the glass beckons, and she moves trance-like to it. “Mun-kee,” she reads, sounding out the word. “Monkey bread!”
I clap a few times. “Well done.”
She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “That’s what smells so good. Can we get some?”
“Before school?”
She stares at me like she can’t believe I’d question her request. “Why not? It looks yummy and smells good.”
I peer through the doorway at the shelf of treats, zeroing in on the cinnamon-y, caramel-y pastry calling our names. My stomach rumbles. “It does look tasty, but you just had breakfast. How about we make monkey bread this afternoon?”
Her smile spreads across the city. “Deal.” We resume our pace. “But, Daddy, do you know how to make monkey bread?”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to research recipes and buy ingredients.”
She pats my arm. “You’re so smart.”
“So are you.”
When we reach the school, a dark-haired dynamo whirls into Abby from out of nowhere, smash-hugging my kid. “You should come to my gymnastics class today,” the kid declares when she lets go.
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