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CHAPTER SEVEN

STAR

It’s six-forty-five p.m., and the studio is empty except for me and my mounting anxiety. Calm the hell down, Star, I tell myself, but it doesn’t help. My heart is doing somersaults in my chest, and my palms are so sweaty I almost drop my water bottle.

Why did I think this was a good idea? Me alone with Tanner Carrington is definitely a bad idea. A very, very, very bad idea.

I check my phone, even though it’s only been two minutes since the last time. Still nothing. I put it face-down, then flip it over again, then groan at myself. Get it together, Wilde.

The bell over the door chimes with a soft, dignified “ding,” and I nearly break my neck whipping around.

Tanner Carrington is standing in the doorway wearing a gray T-shirt and black gym shorts, both perfectly fitted to his perfectly sculpted body. His hair is a little rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it all day. I get a full-body memory of those hands from the last class, how warm and rough they were, and my knees go straight to gelatin.

“Hey,” he says, and the word is soft and deep and does terrible things to the inside of my skull.

“Hi,” I manage, before my brain starts projectile vomiting anxiety into the void. “You’re, uh, early.”

He glances at his watch, sheepish. “I didn’t want to be late and get docked participation points.” Then he grins, slow and sly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “I can wait outside, if you need more time to, uh, get ready.”

I roll my eyes and tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, which does nothing to hide how my cheeks are on fire. “I’m ready for you.” That’s an understatement. I’ve been counting the minutes until this private session since the last time I saw him.

He laughs, then looks around. “This place looks different at night.”

“Better or worse?” I ask, because I am apparently incapable of having a normal conversation when he’s in the room.

He shrugs, taking his time scanning the space like he’s committing it to memory. “Warmer. Feels more like… I dunno. A home, I guess?”

I swallow hard and gesture toward the mat I set up near the window. “You can take your shoes off and put them in a cubby. We’ll start with a basic flow, nothing fancy.”

He toes off his sneakers and steps onto the mat, and I can’t resist the urge to watch him. My brain, true to form, serves up a movie reel of him pinning me to the wall with those big, solid hands and⁠—

Nope. Not going there.

He is going to be the death of me.

I clear my throat and try to sound professional. “The only real difference between a yoga class and a private session is I’ll be hands-on with corrections, if that’s okay with you. I promise not to pop your back like a balloon unless you request it.”

He gives a low chuckle, the kind that seems to vibrate from the ground up. “You can do whatever you want, Star. I’m all yours.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. I’m glad the lights are low because my ears are definitely as red as a stop sign.

“Alright, cowboy,” I say, trying to rescue the moment. “Let’s get started.”

He mirrors me, and the room goes still. His eyes are on my face, unwavering.

I walk around him, checking his posture. “Press through your heels. Shoulders down and back.”

I step closer, close enough to touch, and do. Just a light press between his shoulder blades, guiding him to open his chest and drop the tension. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the barely-there tremor of his muscles as he resists the urge to react. Or maybe that’s me.

I pull my hand away, quick. “Perfect,” I say, voice all wrong and breathy.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me with that impossible focus, like I’m the only thing in the world.

We move together, arms reaching up, then folding to the floor. He’s surprisingly graceful for a giant. He picks up the poses insanely fast for a beginner. When I slide into plank and glance over, he’s already there, strong and steady, holding the pose without a flinch.

I adjust his stance, hands briefly skimming his forearm. “Nice alignment,” I say, as if I’m not counting every single point of contact between us.

He holds the plank longer than most pros, then sinks into downward dog when I cue it. I give his lower back the gentlest nudge, and the sensation is electric, like we’re both standing in a thunderstorm waiting to get struck by lightning.