I keep my back straight as we walk soundlessly to the studio.

With floor-to-ceiling doors opened wide and facing the mountains, the room is the ultimate in peace, just what I want. Slade takes two beige-colored mats from the corner of the room, handing one to me. I lay it vertically on the wooden floor, facing the windows. We’re side by side, stretching, as four other people enter the room.

“Yoga’s good. I wish I did it more.”

“I try every morning for at least fifteen minutes. It just clears my head in a way nothing else can,” I reply.

And then the class begins. It’s slow at first, but the flow increases.

Slade effortlessly moves from position to position. At first, I’m impressed. But it doesn’t take long for annoyance to take hold. I’ve been doing yoga for years, focusing on the elevation of my practice. Instead of concentrating on myself right now, all I can see is his huge, muscular body contorting in positions that even I have trouble doing.

“Let the pose ground you,” the instructor says, gliding between the two of us. “But don’t go beyond your edge or push yourself too far,” she adds, staring at me. “Feel your apana moving downward through your body as you settle into your squat.”

“Fuck my life,” I whisper under my breath, watching Slade fall into a perfect position.

“What was that?” he whispers, smirking.

Sweat drips into my eyes, the salt burning my pupils.

“Don’t talk to me. I’m centering,” I hiss under my breath.

“Get lower in your squat, Sunshine.”

I glance up just in time to see the tease coating his eyes.

Asshole!

That’s it. I’ve had it. I pick up my mat and move behind Slade, so he no longer has the perfect view of me. Unfortunately, that means I’m the one with the view.

When class is over, the instructor flits over to Slade, asking him where he studies. I decide there is no reason to sit here and watch them flirt. I need a shower.

I arrive back in our room in a huff. Stripping my clothes off my body, I step angrily into the hot spray. The nerve! Pouring shampoo into my hand, I scrub my hair. With each pass over my scalp, my anger intensifies. And, surprisingly, it isn’t because of the fact that I was just in the midst of a mass shooting. Actually, ever since I came out here, I’ve been feeling a whole lot better. The cause of my anxiety is tall, muscular, and moody. The man who saved my life and washed the blood off my body is gone. In his place is a smug and cocky asshole, who’s probably fucking the yoga instructor right now—in the back of his car! I can only imagine the positions she can contort herself into.

Bitch.

My soapy hand glides over my nipples, and I shut my eyes. Flashes of his face, smile, and body overwhelm me. The truth is unstoppable. I want Slade because he’s hot and cool and kind. And so smart. He makes me laugh and makes me happy in a way I haven’t felt in … ever. And he doesn’t want anything with me other than sex. It hurts.