Breathless
Yoga in the City
Leigh LaValle
Heart Bay Publishing
Contents
Prologue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
More Jake and Hannah!
Yoga in the City
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Hannah
Sometimes life calls for laughter and celebrating. But sometimes life calls for a good cry and a handful of choice swear words. This was one of those moments. About four miles ago, I slipped on some ice, flailed through the air, and smacked down hard on the dirt.
Yeah, I’m graceful like that. I’m the girl who hurts herself just walking.
I limped down the trail, pain shooting up my left leg, and gave in to my woe. I still had at least a mile to go to reach my car, maybe more. My ankle was either sprained or fractured and hurt like the devil. My hand and chin were scraped and bleeding. I was alone in the Rocky Mountains with no cell service on a strange, deserted trail. And, to make matters worse, the sun had set some time ago. Darkness was gathering around me like the movie set of a horror flick.
Not my best moment.
Sniffles turned into tears turned into inelegant, messy sobbing. I figured the strange honking sounds I was making might not improve my mood but would hopefully scare away any blood-scenting wild beasts.
Like that huge animal behind me. Little hairs stood up on the back of my neck and alarm zinged down my spine. Something was running at me. A bear? A mountain lion?
I clambered over a fallen log and tried to hurry-limp. I should have grabbed a stick or a rock—
“Hey.” A sharp male voice hit me from behind. “Hey, lady.”
I shrieked so loud, I scared myself. Then I whipped around to confront the axe murderer who had stalked me when—Oh, good God—I came face-to-face with six plus feet of muscled sexiness. Chiseled, sweaty, in-amazing-shape, muscled sexiness.
Standing about ten feet away, the stranger held up his hands in the universal sign of peace. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you all right?”
I put my hand over my heart as if I could keep it from beating right out of my chest.
Three things occurred to me. One, I must look a complete fright. Two, he must have heard my ridiculous sobbing. And three, he was really, really gorgeous. Like knock-the-breath-out-of-you gorgeous.
One might assume I’d think of survival, or relief, or even fear, but no. Vanity trumped all.
Hoping to hide the worst of my crazy state, I pulled my wool hat down low over my forehead and scrubbed away my tears. “I’m great, thanks. Just peachy.” My voice sounded breathless, my heart still pounding in shock and fear.
He stepped forward and swept his gaze over me from head to elephant ankle and back up again. I flushed hot from the inside out.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. I couldn’t see details in the dusk, but his hair was shaggy, his eyes warm, and his face marked by high cheekbones and an angular jaw. He was wearing a zip-neck fleece that clung to his large chest, jogging pants, and a sporty backpack with one of those fancy drinking hose things.
“You don’t look like an axe murderer,” I blurted.
“I’m taking the day off.” A smile tugged at his mouth, and I noticed a small scar, just there on the right side of his upper lip. “Are you injured?”
“A little cut up and bruised.” And muddy. And tired. And embarrassed.
He stepped closer and scanned my body again, his eyes focused and alert, as if he could X-ray me right there on the spot. Like he was some kind of Superman. When I was younger, I used to argue with my neighbor Sam about whether Superman could see through clothes. I let out a nervous giggle.
His gaze snapped to mine. “You fell?”
“Slipped on ice.”
“And you hit your head?”
“I smacked my chin.”
His brows lowered. “Sit down.”
I searched the trail at a loss. There was nothing to sit on. No rock or fallen tree.
“You could just sit on the ground,” he drawled, amused.
My face hot, I plopped down in the middle of the trail before he could help me.
Not a good move.
Flames bit through my ankle like rabid little dogs.
I clenched my teeth—be cool, be cool—but tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes.
Frowning, he crouched down and removed my hat and backpack. His eyes searched my face as he checked my pulse at my wrist, then touched the back of his hand to my forehead.
“I don’t think I have a fever,” I muttered, looking up at the bare trees and not at him.
“I’m checking for shock. You’re a little sweaty and uncoordinated but not cool and clammy. And your pulse is rapid but normal.”
I nodded. Sweaty and uncoordinated with hat hair. Great. I think I’d take shock.
“I’m going to check your head for bruises.” He slipped his fingers into my hair. Bolts of electricity curled around my ears and down my spine.
With a light caress, he ran his fingers over the top of my head, around my temples, then back toward the nape of my neck. Shivers coursed over my skin, and my pulse spiked, hopefully to dangerous levels. Maybe if I passed out, I wouldn’t have to endure this embarrassment.
He untangled his fingers from my hair and cleared his throat. “Seems like the only bruise is on your chin.”
“And my hand.”
“This one?” He took my right hand—I hadn’t even noticed I was cradling it in my lap—and gently prodded my wrist and fingers, then examined the cut. His hands, swarthy and callused, dwarfed mine.
“Nothing serious, but it needs to be cleaned.” He glanced up at me. Our faces were close, our foreheads almost touching. He had curly eyelashes and brown eyes. Heat flooded my cheeks and I looked away.
“Let’s see your chin.” He slipped his fingers beneath my jaw and tilted my head up. It was a kissing position. He had to know this. Naturally, I looked at his mouth. Yep, there was a little scar on his lip. God help me, he was sexy. Stubble darkened his jaw, and I’d bet his lips were pillowy soft. There was no way to look at him without getting hot, so I closed my eyes.
“Do you have a flashlight?” He sounded like a doctor. And not the kids’ kind of play doctor, but the real, medical kind.
“Nope.”
He prodded my chin.
“Ow.” I pulled my head back, bu
t he held on. “If I had a flashlight, wouldn’t I be using it?” I muttered.
“Moderate abrasion. No laceration. And marked irritability.”
I huffed, pulled out of his grip, and snapped open my eyes. He was smiling at me. Or his eyes were smiling, anyway. His mouth was set in a flat, serious line.
“Your phone has a flashlight,” he said.
“Out of batteries.”
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“No.” I was a model of what not to do on a hike.
“I didn’t bring mine either.” He sat back on his heels. “What are you doing out here in February with no provisions? These mountains are dangerous and cold at night.”
“It was warm and sunny when I left my car,” I grumbled, “and I didn’t exactly plan to sprain my ankle.”
“Too warm for winter in Colorado.” He poured some water from his pack over my skinned palm. The abrasion was about the size of a quarter and deep in spots. “We’ll wash the cut on your face at the car. Try to keep you hand clean. You don’t want it to get infected.”
I bit my lip to keep from saying something inappropriate, like I thought dirt was good for cuts. I wasn’t used to people taking care of me and giving me simple instructions as if I were a child.
He pressed the back of his hand to my face again, then crouched down by my outstretched left leg.
“This ankle?” He didn’t touch my leg, which I was grateful for. The pain really was intense.
“Yeah.” I was wearing black yoga pants—an absolute staple of my wardrobe—and I pulled the pant leg up. “It’s swelling like crazy.”
Swelling was an understatement. My ankle was practically purple. He let out a low whistle. “You did a good job with that one. Do you have any numbness? Tingling up your leg?”
I shook my head. “Just my ankle.”
“Mind if I check you out?”
I flushed but nodded. He gently lifted my pant leg higher, above my knee, and ran his hands up my calf. His touch felt way too good for the situation. Little shivers danced up my belly and across the backs of my arms.
“Can you move your foot?” He held my calf gently, and the feel of his rough hands on my skin was all the distraction I needed from the pain in my ankle. I wiggled my foot a tiny bit in all directions. “Good. I don’t think we’re going to have to cut your leg off.”
“Ha-ha,” I replied. Dang, my ankle throbbed like fire. It was getting worse by the minute.
His gaze met mine, and his lips lifted at the edges. “I’m Jake, by the way.”
“Hannah.” Was I sweating? A hot blanket of pain was smothering me.
“Nice to meet you, Hannah.” He crouched back on his heels and rested an elbow on his knee. “You out here on your own, or did someone already go ahead for help?”
“Alone.” Don’t pant, Hannah. Just breathe.
“Well, good thing I came along, then. Take a breath. This is going to hurt a little.”
Some kind of strangled, laughing, moaning noise was my only reply.
He held my calf and heel and slowly lifted my leg and placed my ankle on top of my backpack.
I squeezed my eyes closed and lay back flat on the cold ground. The whole world was throbbing around me like a bad hangover. “Is that it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Gently, gently, he unlaced my shoe. I tried to catch my breath.
“Now for the fun part.” He peeled open my shoe. “We’ve got to get this off.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“It can stay on.”
“Hannah.”
“Jake.”
I heard him take a breath. Then, softly, “I promise I’ll take care of you.”
Hot liquid burned behind my closed eyelids. For Pete’s sake, I had to stop crying. “Fine. Do it.”
I didn’t scream. That was my only accomplishment as he gently, torturously, pulled off my shoe.
Pounding, raging, throbbing, hot pain radiated up my leg. Stars twirled behind my eyes.
“It’s done.”
I threw my forearm over my face. “Great. I’m just going to lay here awhile. Let the bears eat me.”
His big, warm hand landed on my shoulder.
“We’ll just rest a bit, all right? Then I’ll help you out of here. The moon should rise soon. Are you cold? The temperature plummets this time of year.”
“I’m warm enough. You don’t have to stay,” I said automatically. I was used to being alone—I could survive this without his help. Somehow. Maybe.
“Are you kidding? What guy in his right mind would leave a beautiful, wounded female on the trail alone? It’s in our DNA to save you.”
“Oh, you’re going to save me.” I dropped my arm, opened my eyes wide, and fluttered my lashes. I should’ve gotten up and told him this girl didn’t need a hero, but no way was I moving for another few minutes. “Wow. I’ve always wanted to be saved.”
He huffed a laugh. “The snow’s all melted down here. I’m going to fill up my water bladder in the river, then I’ll put it on your ankle to reduce swelling. All right?”
“Um, sure.” He was going to leave me?
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Well, I was going to go dancing.” I lifted my head and looked around. The woods were dark and strange and encroaching. “If I’m not here when you get back, it’s because something ate me.”
He scuffled through the undergrowth beside the trail, picked up a few rocks, and placed them on the ground by my side. “These will scare away anything but a bear, but bears should still be hibernating. I’ll be quick.”
His footsteps retreated up the trail, and I was, once again, injured and alone. Sadly alone. I closed my eyes and told myself not to panic. But, now that I thought about it, the river was a good mile away. How long would it take him to get there and back? What if he got hurt in the dark?
He returned much more quickly than I’d anticipated. He was breathing deep but evenly and placed the water pack on my ankle. It was freezing-cold heaven.
“Thank you.” I sighed with pleasure. The pain was being frozen right out of me.
“No problem.”
“Did you just run two miles?”
“Something like that. Maybe three. How long ago did you hurt your ankle?”
I shrugged, which was kind of awkward when lying down. “A few hours? I hobbled down from the waterfall.”
He sat down next to me and stretched out his long legs. “That’s a good four miles.”
I pressed up onto my elbows. “I wouldn’t call them good.”
“You always hike in sneakers?”
“No.” Truth was, I didn’t always hike.
“A good pair of hiking boots would help protect your ankles.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” The guy was hot but a little bossy.
“Sergeant.” He threw the word out like he was joking.
“Not Lieutenant?”
“God, no. Those guys are jokers.”
I was about to ask him if he really was in the military when he leaned forward and stroked my foot lightly. It was probably a medical touch, but it sent heat curling through me.
He must have heard my sharp intake of breath, because his gaze shot to mine. “Does that hurt.”
“It tickles,” I lied.
He looked at me like he could gauge the truth for himself, and I willed my face to be passive. I didn’t want him to see how sex starved and attracted to him I was. He was touching my injured ankle, for Pete’s sake. With a slight flick of his eyebrow, he turned back to his work and checked the pulse on top of my foot, then the pulse at my wrist.
I lay down flat again, ignoring the cold seeping into my back. “You really know what you’re doing. Or at least you’re good at pretending.”
He lips tilted up but fell short of a smile. “I know more than I want to.” With one last long, searching look from the top of my head to my toes, he asked, “You feel
better at all?”
“I do. The cold water is like magic.”
He nodded. “I don’t want you losing body heat. The temps will drop another ten degrees in an hour. Ready to go? I’ll support your left shoulder so you can keep weight off that foot.”
I sighed and began the arduous task of putting my shoe back on. By the time I was done, I was panting and sweaty and Jake was frowning.
I thought about trying to stand on my own, but practicality won out. I held out my good hand, and he pulled me up to my feet.
Yikes.
It seemed all the blood in my body rushed into my ankle at once. The hot throbbing was back. I cringed my shoulders, trying to hold the pain inside.
“Are you going to cry again?” Jake asked, supporting my elbow.
“I wasn’t crying.”
He cleared his throat. “I heard you before I saw you.”
“Fine. I was…well, sobbing, to be honest.”
“Is that what that sound was?” He winked at me, and my heart did a little joy dive into my belly. I glanced away, and he threw my pack over his shoulder. Then he shifted so we were side to side. He was taller than I realized, and thicker.
“I’m going to wrap my arm around you.” He slid his hand around my back and secured it above my right hip. Heat seared me everywhere, not just where he was pressed up against the length of my side. “Can you wrap your right arm around my shoulder?”
I tried to wrap my arm across his strong, broad back, but I could just reach his shoulder. “It’d probably be better if I hold on to your waist.”
“All right.” His voice sounded different, husky. Or maybe that was just my positive thinking.
I dropped my hand to his waist, and we stood there, arms wrapped around each other, like we were enjoying an evening stroll in the woods. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
He gave my hip a gentle squeeze. “One mile is a piece of cake. I’ll match my steps to yours.”
We took a few awkward, bumbling steps. I kept as much weight off my ankle as I could, which was beating a hellish rhythm. I tried to take my mind off the discomfort and focus on the feel of his large hand wrapped around my side. He was practically lifting me off the ground. But we misstepped. My injured hand slipped off his waist. Our gaits faltered. I stumbled and put weight on my bad ankle. Pain ripped through me, and I gasped.
Breathless (Yoga in the City Book 1) Page 1