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CHAPTER FIVE

STAR

The light in my studio is perfect—honey gold slicing through the front windows, dancing on floating dust motes like a thousand microscopic disco balls.

The bell over the front door rings with a cheery “ding!” and the air in the studio shifts, like someone turned up the oxygen. Maggie Carrington is first through the door, looking effortlessly expensive in black leggings and a pastel tank, hair in a fierce braid, aviator sunglasses propped on her head. She’s the human embodiment of high-gloss perfection, and today, as usual, she’s got back-up. But not Saoirse.

This time, she’s flanked by a man who looks like he’s just been yanked out of a GQ cowboy issue and forced, at gunpoint, into gym clothes.

He’s really tall, at least six-foot-six, with shoulders so broad he has to angle them through the door. His hair is sandy brown and just long enough to look a little rebellious, falling over one hazel eye. He’s wearing a navy Lululemon T-shirt and black shorts that cling to his tree-trunk-sized thighs. His sneakers are new and spotless, but his hands are working-class all the way. Holy cow. This must be her brother.

He radiates the kind of intensity that makes everyone in a room want to either win his approval or get as far away from him as possible. And for some reason, he looks like he’s the cat who just swallowed the canary. Oof. I want to be the canary.

Maggie, of course, drags him right up to the front desk.

“Hey, Star,” she calls, beaming. “This is my brother, Tanner. He’s a yoga virgin, so take it easy on him.”

“Absolutely,” I say, nearly choking as the word “virgin” echoes around the room.

I force a smile and extend my hand, because that’s what normal, functioning humans do. “Star Wilder.”

He takes it, and the jolt is immediate—hot, sharp, running all the way up my arm and straight down my spine. I am not a believer in “soul connections” or whatever, but I know a dopamine hit when I get one. My pulse doubles; my cheeks go bright red. Our hands are locked for way, way too long, and I can feel the calluses along his palm and the rough patch at the base of his thumb. I try to let go. He doesn’t immediately oblige, and when he finally does, his mouth quirks into the most infuriating smirk mixed with a hint of a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Star,” he mutters, and his warm, smoky voice cuts straight down my middle and lands in my hussy lady bits.

I’m hyper-aware of the fact that my hair is up in a lopsided bun and I have dark circles under my eyes from Bruno keeping me up last night during the thunderstorms. Not the look I would’ve chosen to make a first impression if I’d known the hottest man I’ve ever seen was about to walk in.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, rallying my professional calm. “I’ll take good care of you.” Fudge. Why in the world did that come out so suggestive?

He stares down at me with a heated look that sends a shiver shooting right down my spine. “I look forward to it.”

Maggie leans in and stage-whispers, “He threw his back out moving furniture for me, and Dr. Lawson thought this might help strengthen his back.”

“It definitely will.” I smile at Tanner.

God. I barely resist the urge to fan myself. The air around us crackles as I motion them to the cubbies and point out where to stash their shoes and phones. He glances over his shoulder and winks at me as they wander off. Get a grip. My heart is hammering so loud I’m shocked no one else in the studio can hear it.

Within five minutes, the rest of the class filters in, and I force myself to breathe deeply. There’s a stampede of yoga pants, ponytails, and nervous giggles. Suddenly, the studio is packed with women, and every single one of them zeroes in on Tanner like he’s the last slice of cake at a birthday party. But he seems to only have eyes for me. He smiles politely and tells each woman hello, but it seems like he’s reserving his steamy glances for me.

And, for the record, I’m not immune to him. Not even close. He glances over at me, and I try to look busy by double-checking mat placement, but my eyes keep getting dragged back to him like I’m a freaking magnet and he’s the only chunk of metal for miles. I can feel his intense attention on me. He glances up, catches me staring, and that slow, wicked smirk curves one corner of his mouth. Jesus. I’m in so much trouble here.

My stomach does a full flip as my mind goes totally blank.

Okay. I need to get myself together. I clear my throat and raise my voice just enough to be heard over the chatter. “Grab a block, a strap if you want, and settle in on your mat. We’re starting in two.”

He picks the spot right up front, just a few feet from mine. Once the room is quiet, I take a breath, let it out slowly, and plant my feet.

“Let’s begin,” I say, but the words feel different today. Like I just opened a door and the room got a little smaller, the air a little more charged.

I wonder, wildly, if anyone else feels it. Oh, man. I really, really hope not. I lead the class through the first breathing exercise. It’s supposed to be grounding and calming and all that woo-woo. Except? My heart is going a thousand beats per minute, and every time I inhale, all I get is the scent of clean sweat, sage, and whatever cologne Tanner’s wearing.

It’s devastating. Like, prescription-grade pheromones.

I glance up, and he’s sitting cross-legged, arms braced on his knees, biceps stretching his shirt. His eyes are closed, and every muscle in his body is starting to get into the pose.

There’s this weird, hyper-aware connection zinging between us. Every time I move, I feel him track it. If I tilt my head, his eyes flicker open and zero in on me. When I walk by, his gaze drags up and down my body like he’s mentally undressing me in real time.

Holy. Hell.