Breathless (Yoga in the City Book 1)

by Leigh LaValle

  “No.” Crystal patted my arm. “You’ll be great. Your classes are always full. People love you.”

  I didn’t say anything, just let the others think it through. I knew I wasn’t a bad yoga teacher—I wouldn’t keep teaching if I were. But neither was I newsworthy. I was just me.

  “I have a private lesson up the canyon tomorrow,” Annette said, seeming torn. “I don’t think the client would appreciate it if I canceled.”

  Jennifer frowned. “I’m supposed to volunteer at the Y.”

  “And I have to take my mom to the doctor.” Crystal winked at me. “I want you to teach the class, Hannah, so there it is.”

  I took a deep breath. Let it out. Wondered how much longer this meeting was going to last—forget the Diet Coke, I needed a beer. “Okay. I’ll teach tomorrow, and I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “Be sure to mention that we will have special workshops during Yoga Week,” Annette added.

  “Okay. What workshops?”

  “We’ll figure that out later. But make it sound good.”

  Perfect. Easy peasy.

  Jennifer sat up. “Stacey didn’t do anything special for Yoga Week last year, and I think it hurt her bottom line. Yoga Mandala really went above and beyond, with all their extra classes and guest teachers and special contests and drawings. They stepped up their game, and it paid off.”

  Annette nodded. “It’s like they didn’t close their doors the entire week. They even had late-night gatherings.”

  “We should do something similar,” Crystal said. “But different enough that we aren’t just copying them. Does anyone have any ideas?”

  The room was silent.

  “Whatever we do, we must believe that Bloom Yoga is going to be a huge success,” Jennifer said. “We’ve only owned it for a month, and already things are better.”

  Annette clapped her hands together, once, and drew them in front of her heart like a prayer. Seriously, these ladies didn’t even have to try, they were so yoga-fied, it was kind of crazy. “It is meant to be. The four of us”—she swept one hand around the circle like some Bohemian Vanna White, her armful of bracelets twinkling—“we’re like the four directions, each calling in a different element. Together, we’re stronger than we are alone. We’ll make a success of this studio, I can feel it.”

  I nodded like I had the feels too. Really, I wanted to roll my eyes at her talk. The four directions? Whatever. I was more concerned about my empty-to-the-last-drop bank account. This job had to stick. I’d taught at twenty-two different studios over the last seven years. I was ready to settle down and focus.

  And being a studio owner sounded so…mature. Permanent.

  I owned a business.

  How cool was that? I was going to be so professional, so business minded. There weren’t going to be any unprofessional slipups this time.

  “Is the reporter going to take pictures tomorrow morning?” I asked, focusing on the problem at hand.

  “Not during class, but maybe afterward.”

  “Of me?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe of the studio.”

  I tried not to frown. What was I going to wear? On my best day, I looked more like a softball player than a yoga teacher. I didn’t have the cool wardrobe with all the leggings and funky prints and dangling necklaces and scarves. My uniform was a pair of black yoga pants and whatever T-shirt was clean.

  I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”

  The following morning was quiet as I walked to the studio to teach my nine a.m. class. The air, cool and fresh after a midnight rain, made me believe in new possibilities. New beginnings.

  Don’t mess it up.

  I wasn’t going to mess it up. I was going to rock the yoga world with my class and my awesome business prowess. I’d be like Kali, the Indian goddess who cuts through difficulties with her sword. Hi-ya! Take that, past mistakes. Hi-ya! Good-bye, old insecurities.

  Gone were the days when I was one strong wind away from leaving town. One breeze of difficulty and I’d be on the highway, driving to the next studio, the next “best place.” A few years ago, I’d tried to settle down and find my spot in the world. That adventure had ended in disaster and a broken heart.

  But this time it would work.

  Hannah was all woman now.

  She owned a business.

  I had too much money—all my money—sunk into this studio. It had to be a success, or I was in serious trouble.

  The coffee shop on the corner, Mountain Buzz, was packed. Every table and chair outside was in use. The neighborhood was young and hip and busy, a big factor as to why I chose to invest in Bloom Yoga Studio.

  I turned the corner toward the studio, and my feet slowed.

  What the…

  A skeletal network of scaffolding obstructed the front of the building, including the Bloom Yoga sign and the front door. The building was owned by some big corporation—I couldn’t imagine what they were doing. Cleaning windows, maybe? Two guys stood near a white truck, both looking down at a clipboard. I crossed my fingers they wouldn’t make too much noise. Nothing disturbed a yoga class more than noise.

  I let myself into the studio and set up for class. I was like Goldilocks—just the right light, just the right temperature, just the right music. As the clocked ticked toward nine, the butterflies in my belly turned into dragons.

  Don’t mess this up.

  An article in the paper could make us. Or break us.

  My regular students filed in and found their places. For a moment, I dared to hope that Cathy Cook wasn’t going to show up after all. But, just as I was about to close the door and begin class, she arrived.

  I’d googled her, memorized her Twitter profile: “Asks too many questions. Loves chocolate. And the truth.” And I read a few of her past articles. She seemed harmless enough—no scathing exposés.

  Yet.

  “Good morning, Ms. Cook.” I greeted her with a measured smile—just enough teeth but not too much.

  “Hi.” She pushed the hair out of her face, flustered, and looked around. “Good. I’m not late.”

  Actually, it was 9:03, but I was not going to correct her.

  Cathy unrolled her mat at the back of the class, and I jumped into my thing. She seemed to follow along just fine. I was relieved to see there was no pen and paper by her side. Just a water bottle. She looked like someone who did a lot of yoga, with her sleek pants and matching top and pink headband. She looked cute, like yoga girls are supposed to look.

  I was not going worry about my own outfit. I just needed to focus on the class I’d put together.

  We finished all ten sun salutations and moved on to the standing poses. During the flow from Warrior I to Warrior II, Cathy stopped to type something on her phone. My face flushed, and my voice faltered.

  Don’t mess this up.

  “Okay, let your eyes be soft as you focus out over your extended—”

  BOOM. A crash smacked the air. The walls shook. Something exploded, and my ears popped.

  I dove to the floor. Someone screamed.

  I whipped my head from side to side. What the hell was going on? My students were on the floor as well, all of us in some kind of life-preserving cobra pose.

  Shattered glass covered the floor by the plants. The huge front window was broken. A pipe dangled from the scaffolding outside.

  Construction. It was a construction accident. Nothing worse.

  I pushed up onto my knees. “Is everyone all right?” My voice shook. My hands shook. I didn’t trust myself to stand.

  “Was it a bomb?”

  “No, no.” I was panting. I needed to slow down my breath. I sucked in an inhale. Held it. Blew it out. “It’s just a broken window from construction.”

  My students were lying on the floor like shavasana gone horribly wrong.

  “We’re fine. Safe. The scaffolding broke.” I made myself stand up. “The glass isn’t near anyone. No one is hurt. You can get up, if you would lik
e. Whatever feels good.”

  The room stirred. Some people lifted their heads. Some came up to sitting.

  Another crash sounded as the front door burst open and banged against the wall. Tracy screamed again.

  A man stood in the doorway. He wore a yellow hard hat and a tool belt. His face was turned away from me, but I would recognize him anywhere.

  Jake.

  My sexy mountain man.

  My inhale was sharp and froze in my lungs.

  He was here.

  Wide shoulders, low-slung jeans, sharp jaw.

  Jake.

  “Is anyone hurt?” he barked into the room.

  My heartbeat stuttered in my chest, then revved back to life at a gallop.

  He turned to the side. His jaw was clean-shaven, his chest as broad and as thick as I remembered. He hadn’t noticed me—he was scowling at the room, looking large and in charge, like there was a mountain of weight on his shoulders.

  The students were coming to their feet, shaking their heads, murmuring they were fine, staring at him, at the window.

  Shaking. I was shaking everywhere.

  “No one was hurt.” My voice was more breath than sound. I cleared my throat, pressed air from my lungs. “No one was hurt.”

  His gaze swung to mine, and his head snapped back.

  Yeah. Hi. I lifted the corners of my mouth in some semblance of a smile. It’s me.

  He stared at me, his face frozen. His gaze washed over me from head to toe. Then his eyes met mine. Heat burned across my skin. I’d dreamed of this moment. Of what he would say. My God, Hannah. Or: Finally, I found you.

  “Okay, everyone out,” he demanded instead.

  Chapter 2

  Jake

  Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.

  I’d found her.

  I closed the door to the yoga studio and followed her out onto the sidewalk.

  Some god must love me, because I had a second chance.

  And I wasn’t going to pass it up.

  Women dressed in leggings and tight shirts milled about on the sidewalk, watching my men try to fix the broken scaffolding. Like a drunken wrecking ball, a piece of metal had slipped off and smashed right into the yoga studio’s window.

  An epic screwup.

  I jogged ahead to catch up with Hannah. Damn, her ass looked hot in those yoga pants. She was even cuter in the daylight. “I need to contact the studio owner. Who was teaching today?”

  “I’m the teacher and one of the owners,” Hannah said over her shoulder, not stopping to talk to me.

  I shook my head. Life had a funny sense of humor when it wasn’t kicking you in the knees. I wouldn’t have pegged Hannah for a yoga teacher—she was short, for one, and curvy. Weren’t yoga teachers supposed to be tall and long everywhere? Long arms, long legs, long hair?

  She hurried toward a woman with red hair who was typing away on her phone.

  “Cathy!” Hannah smiled and waved.

  The redhead looked up, but not at Hannah. She locked all her attention on me. “Cathy Cook,” she said, passing by Hannah and walking toward me with her hand thrust out. I had no choice but to shake it. “Reporter for the Gazette.”

  Oh, fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

  “Jake Marshall.” I squeezed her hand and dropped it. I could only hope she wouldn’t recognize my name. I’d been out of the spotlight for a few years, but someone always seemed to remember me.

  Cathy Cook shifted, like she could step between Hannah and me. Out of instinct, I moved closer to Hannah and put my hand on her back.

  Hannah stepped away from my touch. “Cathy, how about we finish our interview at Mountain Buzz? They make the best juices.”

  The reporter shook her head, not even looking at Hannah. “Mr. Marshall, Jake, can I call you that?” She flashed a practiced smile. “I thought I recognized you, even with your longer hair. Do you have a moment to talk? The readers of the Gazette would love to catch up with you.”

  I wanted to tell Cathy Cook to fuck off, but I settled with dragging a hand over my face. “Now is not a good time.”

  Cathy laughed and glanced over her shoulder at the chaos. My crew was still struggling to secure the scaffolding. Mike was running around, yelling at Snuffy, the crane operator. The idiot. Harrison was on a ladder, and Mike Jr. was darting in and out of my truck with Marshall Architecture printed on the side.

  “Are you the foreman here today?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” Truth was, I wore a lot of hats on this project—owner, architect, and project manager.

  Cathy frowned. “Bad luck, breaking the window.”

  “Yeah, I’d better get back.” I stepped to the left, away from the women.

  “You’re, ah, cleaning the brick, Jake?” Cathy stepped to the left as well.

  “Full renovation.” I took another step away. Was she really going to push this? “You can see the plans on our website.”

  “Which is—”

  “A full renovation?” Hannah interrupted.

  A glanced at her—yeah, she was pissed—and glanced away.

  I was in the pressure cooker now. I shifted my attention to my crew. “Drop the right side,” I yelled, referring to nothing. My men turned to me with confused expressions. “I need to get going,” I said to the women. “My crew needs my help.”

  “They’ll be fine.” Cathy took out a little paper and pen and start scribbling things down. “Are you in town for a while, Jake?”

  “A little while.” I’d just have to be rude and walk away.

  “You were just in…” She paused and scrolled through her phone a moment. “Russia. The Altai Mountains.”

  For crying out loud.

  “The power of the internet,” I muttered.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Is this an interview?”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “I’d love it to be one.”

  I sighed. Should I give her a little information and hope it was enough? Or give her nothing and hope she moved on? “It was a successful expedition.” I threw her a bone. I didn’t tell her I fucked up my already fucked-up knee on the trip and spent the last six months doing rehab with no progress.

  “Where will you go next?” she prodded.

  I figured I might as well tell her. She’d probably just pull the info up on her phone anyway. “I’m here until June fifth. Then it’s Alaska for the summer.” Alaska. The Big Trip. The one I’d been planning for years.

  “So, just in town a short while.” She scribbled in her notebook.

  “Yup.” Too short, really.

  I had a lot ahead of me before I could get to Alaska. Fix my knee, for one. And finish the Turner-Smythe renovation project. Even though I was only supervising demo through rough in, I was working under a tight deadline. Plus, my sketches for the Carter deal had to be done.

  I couldn’t afford broken windows and impromptu interviews.

  Mike yelled something to Snuffy, and all heads turned as they finished removing what was left of the broken window. More glass shattered on the sidewalk, and I winced. Today was just one big fuckup.

  Cathy whipped out her phone and pointed it at the chaos, like she was going to document the mess.

  “No photos!” Hannah and I yelled at the same time.

  We glanced at each other, and I couldn’t help but wink at her.

  She stared back, her brows raised like I was supposed to understand her thoughts.

  We both looked at Cathy.

  “Just one picture,” Cathy said as she took about a hundred.

  I sighed, knowing what I needed to do. I tucked my chin and smiled what my cousin called my shit-eating grin. I don’t know why, honestly, but women ate it up. Cathy Cook was not immune, for she dropped her phone at once.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Hannah muttered.

  “You don’t want pictures of this, Cathy,” I said, channeling my inner Obi-Wan Kenobi. “It’s just a small mishap that will be quickly remedied.”

  Cathy tilted her
head to the side. “I think our readers would be interested in anything and everything about you, Jake Marshall. If I can’t get a picture of the building, how about a picture of you?”

  I shook my head, freezing my friendly expression in place. “All that stuff”—I waved my hand—“was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long ago. And it’s part of the town’s history. Like this building.”

  “Surely there are other stories to tell.”

  “But your story has a happy ending, and readers love happy endings.”

  I turned away, as if I was surveying the crew. I wished I could say my story had a happy ending, but that would be a lie.

  At least she wasn’t taking photos of the broken window anymore.

  “Bloom Yoga is part of the renovation,” Hannah piped in. What was she talking about? I must have given her an odd look, because she glared at me, then smiled at Cathy. “We’re excited for the changes in the building.”

  Cathy barely glanced at her. “And how is your leg, Jake?”

  I was done.

  “Better,” I ground out between my teeth.

  “How about—”

  “You’re one tenacious woman, Cathy Cook.” I kept my eyes on my crew.

  “Thank you. I am a reporter.”

  I flashed another smile, or at least I hoped it was a smile. “I bet you’re a good reporter. Are you going to stay in print? I would think you could be on TV one day. You certainly have the looks for it.”

  “Thank you again,” Cathy said, turning her head coyly. “I’m happy in print for now, but who knows what the future may bring.”

  “What topics do you cover?” Blood was pounding in my head, and I barely knew what I was saying. I needed to be done with her questions.

  “Right now, I’m doing the lead-up for Yoga Week, writing exposés on the major studios in town.” She said this like she was uncovering a sinister plot, the black-market yoga-mat trade or something.

  I raised my brows like I was impressed. “That sounds—”

  “Jake!” Mike yelled, and I jerked my head up. What now?