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He traced the slatted headboard with his wide thumb and she swore she felt her panties disintegrate. “Interesting design. Lovely craftsmanship.”
“It is.” She sounded entirely too breathy. “I’d put candles in those grooves in the headboard. With the canopy, and all those pillows—” and that hard, toned body fucking her into oblivion “—the scene would be set for romance.”
He slanted her a look. “Or extremely hot sex.”
“My, my,” she murmured. “Someone’s mind is in the gutter.”
“Potato, potahto. You call it one thing. I call it something else.” He shrugged and flipped the photo over. Slipping it into the keep pile, rather than the discards.
She suppressed a sigh. If he kept this up, she’d bind her wrists for him herself.
Then he delivered the kill shot just before she left.
“Sunday night my parents have a thing.”
She blinked innocently. “Well now, that sounds thrilling.”
A smile played around his mouth. “Do you have plans?”
“Unless hanging out with Jill counts, no.” She gripped the doorknob at her back, suddenly realizing she should’ve lied. “This is…a date?”
He leaned a hip against his desk and gave her a hard stare. Eyebrow lifted, of course. “You’re my girlfriend, are you not? You campaigned for the role with all the zeal of a missionary.”
“The only missionary ever mentioned in conjunction with me is sex.”
“No wonder you ran from my balcony.” Though his tone was teasing, his eyes were dark and broody. “Never would’ve pegged you for a strict traditionalist.”
“I’m not that traditional,” she muttered. Slippery slope, Townsend. “And I did not run.”
“Not all running involves your feet moving, sweetness.” While she went goggle-eyed at the nickname, he folded his arms over his chest. “You’ll be eating with us. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Is six-thirty okay? I started teaching an hourlong yoga class at four thirty on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays at Wyland’s gym.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Six fifteen. Haul your cute little ass home faster.” She started to argue, but he held up a hand. “Invoking boyfriend privilege. Now go pick out your paint chips and let your man do some damn work.”
Not smiling would’ve been a Herculean task. At least she waited until she was alone in the hallway outside his office.
It was the little victories that counted the most.
Their meeting lingered in the back of her head all day and into the next, popping up again the following afternoon when she was getting ready for her Tuesday hot yoga class. Last night she’d learned from Dillon that Cory hadn’t only come up with the Santa’s toolbox display at the hardware store, he’d also set up the donation program to collect tools and supplies for needy families so they could repair their homes after the big coastal storm last fall. Haven hadn’t been affected nearly as badly as many other places, but there were still downed trees and damaged homes. With all the budget cuts, supplies were badly needed, and her fake boyfriend-slash-corporate raider wanted to get them into people’s hands.
He had no business being sweet. How was she supposed to resign herself to never drizzling caramel sauce on his naked body when he could be so damn nice?
She exhaled and bent at the waist to stretch. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about convincing the world at large she and Cory were a couple, dinner with Cory’s family promised to be interesting.
In the plus column, at least Bryan had visited for only one day to consult with his local physician about a recurring knee injury, then flown back with his dog, Bingo, to rejoin his team, the Maryland Mariners, the next morning. If he’d stuck around longer, she would’ve had a situation on her hands once he heard about the pictures. Since high school, Bryan had thought Cory was a stuck-up prick. The phone call last week hadn’t exactly convinced him otherwise. She’d have to face the music with her big bro soon enough, but one problem at a time.
Like spending Sunday night acting all lovey-dovey with Cory in front of witnesses. She should probably start drinking now.
Thank God for yoga. It always helped her find her Zen. She’d discovered it when she’d been desperate to find something to quiet her mind a few years ago. Eventually she’d ended up getting certified in Bikram yoga and led four beginner’s sessions a week. Usually she had energy to burn afterward. The high lasted hours.
As the first student slipped into the studio, she smiled and handed out a wireless headset. Though they all heard the same instructions, the headphones helped contribute to the impression of becoming one with the movements.
Class went by quickly. As usual, the rhythm of the poses along with the cooperative environment lessened her agitation. It was hard to carry stress into a yoga studio. She watched her breathing and made sure to keep her spine straight. Her mind emptied as her skin heated to the room’s standard 105-degree temperature, and the sweat that left her pores helped clean all the junk out of her head.
As she glanced at her flushed face in one of the mirrored walls, she noted her smile. That resilient woman was who she was now. She no longer allowed fear to rule her, and she refused to worry about what might happen with Cory. After all, she’d helped set things in motion. He couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t hand him the knife.
After the final savasana, she maintained her corpse pose on the floor while the students filed out. She didn’t have to fake her sense of calm. The benefits of yoga aside, it was hard staying stressed out in this room. The owner of the gym had temporarily relocated classes there while the usual yoga area upstairs was renovated, so it wasn’t the more traditional glass-walled studio. High-polished hardwood floors and colorful panels of stained glass contributed to the soothing experience. The dimmed lights and utter silence also helped lull the class members into a state of total relaxation, and she didn’t want to jar anyone by getting up too soon.
