Teardrop Lane (15 page)

“Absolutely. Now, tell me about your winter nights.”

“What time are you planning to leave Friday?” Rose countered.

“Rosemary,” Sage groaned. She gave her long, wavy red hair a toss. “Give me something, here. Just because I’m married to the sexiest man alive doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate the attributes of a man as potent as Hunter Cicero.”

Potent. Yes, that was a word that suited him
.

“How serious is this?”

I don’t know
.

“It’s barely been a month, Sage.”

“So? Sometimes love happens fast. Believe me, I know.”

Rose didn’t recall Sage’s romance with Colt being fast—just the opposite, in fact. “Whoa, there. I haven’t had very good luck with serious. I think I’m much better off keeping things casual.”

“Don’t take this as a criticism, because it’s not. But you’re not one who usually indulges in casual sex.”

“I never said I was sleeping with him.”

“Phfttt. Pull the other one, Sister. You’re glowing.”

“It’s from the radiation,” Rose shot back, flippantly.

Sage’s complexion drained of color and her expression grew stricken.

“Rose? Are you keeping something from me? Are you in some sort of treatment I don’t know about?”

“No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t joke. Everything’s fine.”

“When is your next checkup?”

“June.”

Then, because she really wanted to deflect the conversation from that particular conversational path, she said, “Okay, I’ll admit I’m sleeping with him. He’s a fabulous lover. Yes, those hands of his are magic—and he speaks to me in Italian when we’re making love.” Her ruse worked. Sage immediately brightened, and she patted her hand over her heart. “Oh, Rose. That’s so
romantic
. Do you remember enough of the language to know what he’s saying?”

“Let’s just say that it’s not difficult to infer the meaning of the words I don’t recognize.” She opened her yogurt and said, “Tell me about your trip. Where in California are you going?”

“Palm Springs.”

The sisters talked about babysitting arrangements while Rose ate her yogurt and nuts, then Sage glanced at the clock and said, “You’d better change or we’ll be late. I don’t want to miss the opening stretches. They’re my favorite part.”

The Monday night yoga class was a relatively new item on the Eternity Springs activity calendar. Upon discovering that Shannon O’Toole had been an instructor prior to moving to town, Ali Timberlake had convinced
her to begin a class for local residents on a night when the bar was closed. The class had become so successful that Shannon had added a couple of early morning sessions, too.

Rose enjoyed the classes. Shannon was a patient instructor who made all her students feel comfortable, no matter their age or ability—a characteristic that Rose was counting on tonight. “Speaking of Hunter and wagers,” she said, as she and her sister approached Murphy’s, “I think there’s a chance he might join our class.”

Sage abruptly halted midstep. “Yoga class? He’s coming to yoga class? Like Lenny Winston?”

“No, not like Lenny Winston. Lenny needed the exercise, but that’s not why he came to class. He was being a creeper. Hunt isn’t a creeper.”

“He doesn’t need the exercise, either. The man runs every morning, skis at least twice a week, and does push-ups in the library. That doesn’t count the more personal exercise he gets with you. He’s a hard body in a town full of hard bodies. So what’s the deal?”

“It’s my idea. The man is focused and intense and overstressed. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but I walked into his studio the other day and he was punching the keys on a calculator as if they were a speed bag. Before I could say hello, his phone rang and someone laid some sort of problem at his feet. When he hung up the phone he had enough torque in his jaw to run a motor.”

“Yoga is great for stress relief.”

“Yes. But I think the main problem is that he’s struggling creatively. He’s only mentioned it once weeks ago, but I sense that he’s not happy with the work he’s producing.”

“That I totally understand. Nothing makes me more cranky than to see an image in my head and be unable
to get it onto my canvas. Artists have earned the term
temperamental
honestly.”

Rose understood it, too. It made her downright grumpy to sit down to write and not know where to go with her story. “I think Hunt needs a little balance in his life, and yoga just might help.”

“Feed the creative Zen. I get that. So, you call him Hunt? I’ve never heard anyone use his first name before.”

Rose didn’t want to get into the whole name-use silent battle she had going on with her lover. A month into their relationship, he still hadn’t called her by her given name. As a result, she’d taken to using generic endearments with him, too, her favorite being Fireman. She doubted he’d even made the connection, but it had become a matter of principle with her.

“I like being different. Anyway, once I had the idea to drag him to yoga, I lured him into a bet on a game of darts.”

Aware of the many hours of playing time Rose had put in all over the world, Sage murmured, “Sucker.”

“Yeah, well, he accused me of being a ringer, so I’m not sure he’ll show up. He’s skeptical and I think maybe just a little bit intimidated.”

“Because it’ll be a class full of women?”

“No, he’ll like that part.” Rose popped almonds into her mouth. “He is probably the most competitive person I’ve ever met. He knows he’s not going to win the pose wars.”

“Pose wars? Since when are there pose wars in yoga?”

“Don’t try to tell me that you don’t sneak looks at Nic Callahan’s poses wanting to do yours better.”

“We started class the same night. I want to be sure I’m keeping up. Besides, what I’m really checking out is the way she looks in yoga pants. I’m so totally jealous of those long legs of hers.” Sage tapped her finger against
her lips in thought for a moment, then added, “Speaking of yoga pants, what do you think the man who plays with fire will wear to class tonight?”

“I gave him some yoga pants, but I don’t know if he’ll wear them. The look on his face when I gave them to him was priceless. I told him if he chooses something else he needs to go either tight or loose. And no going commando.”

Sage waggled her eyebrows. “Does he ordinarily go commando?”

Rose made a zipping motion across her lips.

Her sister laughed and added, “I thought about skipping tonight’s class, but now I’m sooooo glad I decided to be healthy. Enough of this lollygagging around. Hurry up, Rose. Let’s get there in plenty of time to get a good spot in the back row. I want to be sure I have an unrestricted view of a certain downward facing dog.”

Cicero stood outside of Murphy’s Pub and muttered, “Nothing like getting an early start on being an April Fools’ joke.”

He tried to remember the last time he’d felt this awkward. What the hell was he doing here anyway? Carrying the rolled up piece of puffy plastic Rose had dropped off at the studio for him along with the pants he had on. Yoga pants made for guys. Who knew they even made such things?

He wasn’t going to wear them. He’d put them on, taken them off, pulled on sweats, thought about how cute Rose had been when she’d given him the damned things, then put them back on.

At least they were damned comfortable—though he wondered if they didn’t hug his package just a little too much. Is this how women felt when they asked if pants made their butts look big? Ordinarily, he didn’t give what he wore a second thought, so the fact that he thought about it now only increased his sense of discomfort.

He couldn’t believe he’d let Rose manipulate him into giving yoga a try. When she’d suggested the dart game, he’d known by the look in her eye that she had something sneaky up her sleeve. The fact that he went
along with her was a sign of just how desperate he really was.

He’d been working on the Albritton project for over a month and had nothing worthwhile to show for it. The ideas he’d entertained—and pieces he’d produced—had been about as pedestrian as anything he’d ever done. Hell, he’d done more inventive work when he’d been making souvenirs for the tourists in Venice.

So far, the ideas that flowed following physical exertion hadn’t been worth a damn. Nothing had sparked his artistic fire. Doing push-ups hadn’t helped. Running hadn’t helped.

Not even sex had helped.

Lots of sex. Lots of really great sex
.

The situation unnerved him. His creativity had been one thing he’d always been able to count on. Sure he had a lot riding on this project, but he’d always been one to thrive on pressure. He should be cruising along with a clear vision of his design and half a dozen test pieces sitting on his studio’s shelves.

Instead, he had empty shelves and a yoga mat tucked beneath his arm.

Wuss. You’re pathetic, Cicero. Totally pathetic
.

At least his mat was black and not hot pink or aqua. He knew that yoga wasn’t the exclusive domain of women. He could name male members of every professional sport who’d added yoga to their physical routines. Some guys swore by it.

Cicero was just swearing, period. He truly didn’t want to do this.

Once he’d gone down in ignominious defeat in their dart game, Rose had promised him he’d shift from stressed to blissed in ninety minutes worth of yoga. He’d been quick to point out that a round in the sheets only took a fraction of that time, but of course, she hadn’t considered that an argument in his favor.

Muttering a curse, he opened the door and stepped inside to see the pub’s interior transformed. Tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls and a dozen or more women sat on a rainbow of yoga mats lined up in rows. An elevated platform had been positioned at one end of the room, and Shannon O’Toole sat atop it, donning socks that had no toes.

Cicero hesitated, wondering where he should put his mat. He looked closer at the other participants. He recognized about half of them: Celeste Blessing, Sarah Murphy, Nic Callahan, Gabi’s two sisters-in-law and her mother. His apprentice wasn’t here, which relieved him. Knowing Gabi, she’d give him grief about doing this.

The women he didn’t recognize were older, closer to Celeste’s age, though admittedly he could be totally off base where the owner of Angel’s Rest was concerned. Sometimes he’d peg her as being in her sixties. Other times, she seemed older, almost ageless.

It doesn’t matter how old Celeste is. Quit delaying. Pick out a spot for your mat
.

If he put it in the back row, he’d look like a perv. If he spread it out in the front row, he’d look like he was trying to avoid looking like a perv. Safest place would be the men’s room, except he wouldn’t sit down in there with three layers of yoga mats between him and the floor.

“You made it!”

He turned toward Rose’s voice like a lifeline, then was distracted by the sight of her. She wore a patterned sports bra in shades of red and black and matching pants that hugged her ass and hips. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a waste of time, after all.

“Yes I made it. I don’t welch on bets.”

A grin teased her lips. “We’ll start in a few minutes. Want to spread out your mat?”

Not particularly
.

“Where?”

“I’m over here.” She gestured toward a blue mat at the end of one row. “I saved room for you beside me.”

“Great. Thanks.” He stepped around the mats, nodding hello to familiar faces, trying not to let his eyes linger on cleavage or Lycra-clad hips. At Rose’s direction, he rolled out his mat, then knelt on one knee. That’s when he noticed the woman in front of him. Cat Davenport stood bent over touching her toes. She wore a long, oversized yellow shirt over formfitting Spandex—and her ass was directly in his line of vision.

That gave Cicero pause. He’d met Cat’s husband, Jack. The man struck him as one scary dude. He shifted his gaze to Rose.

“Tell you what, I’ll set up behind you. That way I can copy your movements.”

And watch your ass, not Mrs. Davenport’s
.

What followed was ninety minutes of near humiliation set to music that made him want to sleep—or slit his wrists. He was bigger, taller, and stronger than every other student in the room. He was athletic. Coordinated. Competitive. But tonight in Murphy’s Bar, he was the proverbial bull in the china closet, awkward and cumbersome and clumsy.

When it came to yoga poses with names like Warrior and Tiger and Tree, these women made him look like—Loser. They twisted themselves into pretzels, and did it with grace and ease. He tried to stand on one leg and damned near fell over. He shot a silent glare toward Rose.

Where the hell is the bliss in this?

Two thirds of the way through the class, when his head was on the floor and his butt was in the air and sweat dribbled down his forehead and onto his mat, a
sensation of light-headedness had him swaying. He fired a hiss just loud enough for her to hear.

“If I pass out, Dr. Anderson, you have to promise to give me mouth-to-mouth.”

She looked back at him through her spread legs, blew him a kiss, and wiggled her butt. He groaned and surrendered and lay prone on the floor.