Breathless (Yoga in the City Book 1)

by Leigh LaValle

  “Can you stop chatting with the pretty girls and get a scaffolding lock?”

  I tilted my chin apologetically toward Cathy Cook. “It’s been a pleasure.” I winked at her, actually winked, and I could practically feel her sigh.

  “Ladies.” I nodded, daring one more quick glance at Hannah. She was trying to peek at Cathy’s notes but stopped to look up at me. If she could shoot daggers at me, I think she would have. I didn’t get it. Didn’t she want me to get rid of the reporter? “Good day.”

  My knee groaned as I put all my weight into each step and walked away. No injuries here. No limping. Nothing to see.

  “My goodness,” Cathy said under her breath. She scribbled furiously in her little book. “Jake Marshall returns.”

  “You should know where to find the lock,” Mike called over to me, a grin on his face. “It’s about six inches long and two inches thick.”

  I would have flipped him the bird, but there were ladies watching. I’d worked with these guys too many years to demand protocol or chain of command. They knew I was in charge, and they got their jobs done, but they sure as hell didn’t pussyfoot around me.

  I lowered the bed on my truck and rummaged through the crate of metal parts, looking for the spare scaffolding lock. I needed to calm the fuck down. I could still hear Hannah talking to Cathy—what did she want with the reporter anyway?

  “Well, Ms. Cook.” Hannah clapped her hands. “Hopefully you can come back another day. When things aren’t quite so… When things are quieter.”

  “Seems like that won’t be for some time. You sure you’ll be open for Yoga Week?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Beep, beep, beep. Mike Jr. backed his truck and trailer onto the sidewalk.

  “We have some great workshops planned.” Hannah raised her voice to be heard over the noise.

  I didn’t hear Cathy’s reply.

  “We’ll be continuing the schedule and adding in new classes and workshops.”

  The lady who owned the florist shop next to the yoga studio came out, hands on her hips, to watch the chaos. It was like a traffic accident; everyone wanted to stop and gawk.

  “Each of us has our own specialty.” Hannah was almost yelling now. “We’re like the four—” She had to stop talking because Mike Jr. was driving straight toward them.

  “Be in touch,” Hannah called as Cathy backed away.

  Finally, the nosy reporter left.

  I rummaged through the metal parts, making more noise than I needed to.

  Hannah appeared at my elbow. “Eavesdropping?”

  “I prefer to call it overlistening.” I watched Cathy round the corner, wanting to be certain she was gone.

  “You stole my interview.”

  “What?” I glanced down. Hannah’s cheeks were red, her eyes bright. She looked damn cute when she was angry. But I sure as hell didn’t say that. “I was just trying to get rid of her.”

  “But I didn’t want her to be gotten rid of.” She swiped a stray curl off her forehead and firmly tucked it behind her ear. “Do you know how royally you have messed up my day? And what do you mean, a full renovation?”

  The curl sprang back, refusing to stay put. Hannah swiped at it a second time.

  “What?” I asked again.

  “You told Cathy you were doing a full renovation. Do you mean, like, the whole building?”

  “The exterior and the upstairs, yeah. The yoga studio, the florist, and the café won’t be affected.”

  “Won’t be affected…” She shook her head. No way was that curl staying in place. It bounced back onto her forehead. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Eleven weeks. Well, that’s my part. Four months in total.”

  “Four months!” She sounded genuinely shocked. “How did we not know about this?”

  I shrugged. “We sent the appropriate notices to the business owners.”

  “We? You mean the construction crew?”

  “Actually, by ‘we’ I mean the building owners. My firm bought this building one month ago.”

  “You did?”

  “Small world.” I flipped my hands over. “I think that makes me your landlord.”

  Silence, then, under her breath, “Stacey.”

  “Who’s Stacey?”

  She made a frustrated, growly sound. This girl… She was all emotion. “The former owner. We just bought the studio from her, like, yesterday.”

  My eyebrows winged up. “Wow. You think she didn’t tell you about the renovation on purpose?”

  “What else can I think.” Hannah tried again to pull the curl back. This time she tucked it into the rubber band thing holding her ponytail. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the window. We have a class scheduled in two hours, and I need to figure out how to fix this hole.”

  I turned back to the truck bed and the crate of metal parts. “Not possible. The studio will be closed until we can replace the glass.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “The space isn’t safe.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says your new landlord who pays liability insurance on the building.”

  She huffed and planted her hands on her hips. “Then you need to cover our lost revenue.”

  Brian was going to go ape shit over all this. “Fine. We can put plywood over the window until a new plate of glass arrives.”

  “Oh, that’s classy.”

  I found the scaffolding lock and pushed the crate back into the truck bed. Then I turned to face Hannah. “Do you have a better idea?”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Glared at me. “How quickly can you get it up?”

  I arched a brow. “Oh, I can get it up quickly.”

  Her brows snapped together. “Seriously?”

  “I don’t know. Today, maybe. I have to get someone to go to the hardware store, and all my guys are busy.” Busy trying to fix this epic screwup.

  “So, what? We’re just out of luck? You messed up, and we lose money?”

  I slammed the truck bed closed. “Aren’t yoga teachers supposed to be all calm and shit?”

  “What?” Her head jerked back. “What does that mean?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine what?”

  “Fine, I’ll send someone.”

  “When?”

  Argh, women and their questions. “Soon.”

  “It needs to be today. I’d go but I have to sub for a friend across town. Tell him to get purple and silver paint. And a string of lights. And some gauze.”

  I choked on my laughter. I’d wager that Marshall Architecture had never, in nine years of business, purchased such products. Ever.

  Hannah must have notice my lips quirking up, because she frowned. Somehow it managed to make her look cute. “What?” she asked.

  She had a bit of an edge to her. I liked that. Except when it was directed at me.

  “I’m just thinking about the purchase order is all. I’ll need to buy some nails or something, just to keep my man card.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh heavens, don’t let me jeopardize your man card.”

  I looked her up and down, slowly. I could think of about twenty ways she could help me redeem my man card, starting with her hot ass.

  She flushed. Glanced at me, glanced away, then glanced at me again. There was something between us. Something more than just attraction. It had been there that day on the trail too. I knew she could feel it.

  She gave me a little glare, then pulled out her phone and started typing.

  Could I date one of our tenants? More importantly, did I even care what the rules said? I wanted to touch her again. Talk to her. That was the beginning and end.

  “What were you doing with that reporter?” I asked.

  “Trying to get promo for Yoga Week.” She kept typing. “The renovation is going to take four months? With machines and hammering and loud noises?”

  “Hopefully not too loud.” Yeah, she was going to love me when the big machines showed u
p. “What’s Yoga Week?”

  “It’s the single best way to promote a studio in Boulder, and we really need the money. It runs from June thirteenth to—”

  Hot pain stabbed my leg. I winced, then made myself stand still. Little arrows shot from my knee to my hip, burning my nerves as they went. I shifted my weight and leaned against the truck. That long trail run last night cost me.

  “Are you even listening to me, Jake? You can’t mess it up for us.”

  “Right. Okay.” When was the last time I’d taken ibuprofen? Was it at breakfast? How many hours ago was that?

  Hannah was still typing on her phone.

  “How’s your ankle?” I asked.

  “My ankle?”

  “The sprain. It must be all right if you’ve already forgotten.”

  “It’s okay. Yoga helps a lot,” she muttered.

  “I should have asked for your number that day.”

  Her gaze darted up from her phone and locked with mine. Her mouth made a little “o” of surprise, and a light flush covered her cheeks. Then she shook her head and fluttered her hand. “Yeah, well, funny to see you again.”

  “Good funny,” I said, but I wasn’t sure she felt the same. I brushed the curl behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking about you.” Naked. In my bed. Using that hot mouth in interesting ways.

  Her gaze found mine, then darted away. “Yeah, um, thanks again for helping me that day. I don’t know what I would have done without you. So, can you board up that window today? Or just buy the stuff, and I’ll do the rest. I know my way around hand tools.” She licked her lips.

  I liked her lips. They were a dusky pink. “I do like a girl who likes drilling and hammering.”

  She punched my arm playfully. “Really? Is that funny?”

  I grabbed her hand and held it. “Too many years on the job.” I wrapped my hand around hers. Electricity bolted between us. “Do you have another class scheduled today?”

  “Not till tomorrow morning. I teach five mornings a week. Students like to come before and after work, and I’d rather teach in the a.m. I’m a morning person. Always have been. Even back when I was a kid. I’d be breezing around getting chores done before school. I mean, what kid is like that? But now it’s good. I just go to bed early. I love sleep. But I’m up with the sun like a rooster.”

  So, she babbled when she was nervous. “Sleep is good. It’s easy to take it for granted until you don’t have it. I’ve learned to sleep in any situation.”

  “I can’t sleep if I’m hot. I just have to strip everything off.”

  My eyes flicked over her, and she flushed.

  “Oka-y,” she said too loudly and pulled her hand away. “I’m going to shut up now.”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “What boyfriend?”

  “You’re single, then? Alone in that hot bed?”

  Her face flamed. “Good-bye, Jake.”

  “See you soon, Hannah.”

  I watched her walk away. God bless yoga pants. A man must have created them. Women claimed they were comfortable, but really, they were a gift to men everywhere.

  “Jake, you coming?” Snuffy called.

  “Yeah, yeah. I got the lock. Who wants to go to the hardware store and board up this window?”

  I turned back, but Hannah was gone. Too late did I realize I still hadn’t gotten her number.

  Chapter 3

  Hannah

  Thursday morning started like the last two mornings since the window broke. I looked for Jake as I went into the studio—I had only caught bare glimpses of him, and the anticipation was killing me—and I taught my early morning class. Then the construction noise started, and I went to Mountain Buzz (again searching for a certain broad-shouldered foreman) and ordered a cappuccino.

  This morning, I also got a new edition of the Gazette and a heavily frosted cinnamon roll because, you know, cinnamon roll.

  I went back to the studio to enjoy my treat. Holding my breath, I opened the paper and searched for Cathy Cook’s article about Bloom. God, what could she possibly have written? It was going to be just awful. I flipped through and flipped through…nothing.

  I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.

  I started to close the paper, and a picture caught my eye. I sucked in a breath. It was Jake, wearing a white polo shirt and a big smile and looking crazy handsome. BOULDER’S FAVORITE HERO IS BACK AND WORKING TO IMPROVE OUR TOWN, the headline read.

  There were more photos of Jake—a high school head shot, a photo of him in a U of C football uniform celebrating a touchdown, and a picture of him out on a snowy peak covered in mountaineering gear from head to toe, not an inch of skin exposed. Then there was a picture of our building.

  I folded open the paper and read.

  BOULDER’S FAVORITE HERO IS BACK AND WORKING TO IMPROVE OUR TOWN

  Jake Marshall is the kind of hometown boy that every mama hopes will marry her daughter and every daddy wants to call son. A high school football star who led the Eagles to win the state championship, Jake went on to be starting quarterback for the Cats and earn his Bachelor of Architecture degree at U of C. In 2012, after his first tour in Afghanistan, Jake received his Army Commendation Medal and returned home a hero. Not to settle down, he has since obtained his architecture license in Colorado, summited Aconcagua (a twenty-two-thousand-foot peak in South America), and traversed the Altai Mountains in Russia.

  Jake recently invested in his cousin Brian Marshall’s business, Marshall Architecture, and is now a silent partner. In fact, Jake is silent about many things, and hard to pin down. But I caught up with him on Tuesday in front of the Turner-Smythe building, where Marshall Architecture is completing an extensive renovation project and putting their offices upstairs. Downstairs is a café, florist, and yoga studio. They will remain open, though affected, during the renovation.

  “We are excited for the Turner-Smythe project,” Jake’s partner, Brian Marshall, told me. “We’ll keep the historic nature of the building and bring in some modern elements to make it usable by the community and environmentally sound.”

  One must hope Jake will stay in town this time. Ladies, maybe we can keep him here?

  My God.

  I plopped down on the stool behind the front desk.

  Who was this paragon of male virtue? A football star, a war hero, and an architect—he probably rescued kittens too.

  My gaze lifted to the window, and I searched for Jake before I even knew what I was doing.

  I found him instantly. He was wearing jeans that hugged him in all the right places and a T-shirt that said: My tool lasts longer than your tool. His shoulders were as wide as a doorway, and now I understood why. The guy was some kind of mountaineer, some kind of climber. He must have been crazy strong.

  And he stole my interview.

  And he fought in Afghanistan.

  And he was a charmer. A golden boy. The guy everybody loves.

  Heat climbed up my neck.

  As if he could feel my gaze burning a hole in his (huge and muscled) chest, Jake caught my eye through the glass. Neither of us waved or acknowledged the other, but we didn’t have to. A current of energy zipped between us.

  I knew the type of guy he was. Popular, hot, and sure the world revolved around him. I bet he stole this interview on purpose. Charmed the reporter and made the story about him and his building.

  I needed that article to be about Bloom Yoga. And I needed this construction to be done by Yoga Week.

  I stood up, walked to the door, and yanked it open.

  Jake walked toward me. He was slipping something into his tool belt, and I tried not to notice his hands. Big, calloused man hands. The kind of hands that belonged all over a woman’s body—all over my body.

  My face heated, and I took a gulp of air.

  That’s it. Breathe.

  I was just like the rest of them, swooning over the pretty boy. Didn’t I know better by now?

  So what if he’d been awes
ome and funny and sweet on the trail. My inner radar had been off since I was twelve years old and had my first crush. The more self-involved the guy, the more I adored him. My first kiss—he kissed my (ex) best friend the next day. First lover? Never took the time to help me find my own pleasure and told me there was something wrong with me. First live-in boyfriend? Left when I was at work and took my cat with him. My last relationship—I ended up with nothing but my car and a few dollars in the bank. I had a long line of messy, complicated relationships that had plagued me since hitting puberty, and I vowed I was done with it.

  No more charming charmers would charm me.

  Thus, the man fast.

  “Have you seen this?” I asked once Jake got close enough that I could wave the paper in his face.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Unfortunately?” I bit out. I stepped back into the studio, and he followed. I closed the door with more force than needed. “Ha. You were charming up Cathy Cook, schmoozing her, stealing my story.”

  “Is that what I was doing?”

  “Yes,” I said. Though suddenly I didn’t feel quite so confident about it.

  “Funny, I thought I was trying to distract her. I thought photos and a story about the window crash would be bad news for both Bloom Yoga and myself. In fact”—he raised a brow, challenging me—“I thought I was doing you a favor.”

  “Doing me a favor?” I huffed. “By smiling and batting your eyes at the reporter who was supposed to be writing a story about my class?”

  “And what story would she have written, Hannah?”

  I waved my hand. “There was a lot of good stuff before the window broke.”

  “I see.”

  I planted my hands on my hips, not quite able to look at him. He was just so dang hot. “I needed this story. The studio needed this story. And you stole it from us.”

  “I did?”

  “First, the window breaking, then the scowling and dictating, then the gorgeous smiles and charming the reporter.”

  “Gorgeous and charming, huh?”

  I ignored him. “All the while, I was trying to do what I needed to do for my business, which I’m heavily invested in, and you just…” I threw my hands up in the air, searching for the right word. “Waltzed all over it.”