by Jamie Howard
Real smooth, Bianca.
He shifted in his chair, looking suddenly uncomfortable. The frown was back.
I preempted his brush-off by barreling forward. “It’s fine, I can totally go by myself. And I didn’t mean like a date or anything, to be clear. I just thought if you weren’t busy, or were bored, that maybe you’d wanna hang out or . . . never mind.”
God, now I was definitely blushing. Someone please hand me a shovel so I can dig this hole a little bit deeper. You’d never know that during a typical summer I held intelligible conversations with U.S. Congressmen on a frequent basis, yet here I was, stuttering with the best of them in front of some random guy. Man, I missed Renée. She always knew the perfect things to say.
He looked like he was trying to bite back a smile as my cheeks flushed even darker. Shifting the coffee cup from one hand to the other, he leaned forward. “Turns out, I actually don’t have any plans on Thursday.”
I gave myself a full five seconds to form a fully coherent response in my mind before actually allowing myself to speak. “Really? Great. I’d love some company.”
Tilting his head to the side, he asked, “So, what’s on the agenda?”
I ignored the little flips my stomach was doing from the way he was looking at me. “Yoga.”
“Yoga? Like, a yoga class?”
“I know.” I shrugged. “Not the best place to have a conversation.”
“Should I meet you there?”
“That works. I can give you the address . . .” I hopped up from the chair like it was on fire, grabbed a napkin from the front counter, and snatched an abandoned pen as well. By the time I got back to the table, my face had finally returned to its normal pale shade.
Pulling the info up on my phone, I scribbled the details down and added my number at the bottom. “This is my number, just in case you decide you don’t want to spend your Thursday night doing yoga with me.”
He glanced down at the wrinkled brown napkin and then shoved it in his pocket. “Alright, well, I’ve got to run, but it was really nice meeting you, Bianca.”
His hand hovered in the air between us, and I reached out mine to shake it. He was warm, much warmer than I was, and it made me wonder again why in the world he was wearing a damn thermal shirt.
“Nice to meet you too, Ian.”
Picking up the second coffee cup, he set it back in front of me. “Here, my good deed for the day.”
I smiled. “I’m not sure I really buy that, I mean, I did just give you my number, after all.”
An answering grin split his face. “Touché.”
Chapter 8: Bianca
Standing at the end of my bed, I stared at the outfit I’d laid out this afternoon for tonight’s yoga class. Black yoga pants with an aqua and lavender tie-dyed tank top. I considered swapping the tank top for something else for the thousandth time, but finally just let it go. It’s not like it was a date or anything, just two people hanging out. Not that I would’ve minded if it was, but . . . baby steps. If nothing else, it wouldn’t hurt to have another friend in the city.
The sun was just dipping below the tops of the buildings when I stepped outside, injecting pink and orange hues into the brilliant blue sky. My strides were long and measured as I wound my way across the street and down several blocks, dropping my gaze to my phone and quadruple-checking I was heading in the right direction.
The glass front of the yoga studio had its name, Studio D, scrawled across it in a sweeping white font. Through the window I could see golden hardwood floors, clean white walls, and small shoots of bamboo poking up from the reception desk.
I tugged my purse up an inch higher on my shoulder and paused with indecision outside the door. I could wait for Ian inside, but then I’d probably need to explain that I was waiting for someone, and if he didn’t show then I’d look like an ass. So, I decided to wait right here, and pretend that the woman at the front desk wasn’t watching me anyway.
Flicking my phone on, I glanced at the time. Fifteen minutes before the class started. I’d give him ten more before I went inside alone.
I counted cars as I waited, people-watching the few men and women that scurried across my path. I could almost hear the seconds tick by even though I knew the clock was an imaginary one in my head.
My phone buzzed, and I pulled up a new message from Harper: Have fun tonight! Text me when you’re home so I know you made it there safely. Xoxo.
It’d been hard letting Harper in. Everything with Renée was so fresh, so raw, that letting another person get close to me was a risk I was afraid to take. Now, I was glad I’d taken the chance. I sent her back a quick message—Will do. As my text whisked off into cyberspace, the time flashed back at me—seven twenty-five. Game over.
I wanted to sigh again, but cut it off before it even started. There were other nights, other guys. Dropping my phone back in my purse, I reached for the door handle and tugged it open.
“Bianca!”
I froze and my hand slipped off the handle, the door slamming shut. The girl at the desk gave me a dirty look before averting her gaze back down to the computer screen in front of her.
I took two steps back so that I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Ian hurried toward me in his typical gray thermal, with the sleeves pulled down this time, and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He’d swapped his jeans for a pair of black athletic shorts that emphasized how narrow his hips were in comparison to his broad shoulders.
He came to a stop a few feet in front of me and seemed to sway toward me. At this distance I could see the prickling of stubble shadowing his jaw, and it looked like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a week if the dark patches underneath his eyes were any indication.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
My nose wrinkled at the overwhelming stench of whisky that wafted toward me. I kept the realization from my face and plastered on a practiced smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes drifted over my face, his gaze looking almost as unsteady as he did. I made a move for the door, and he followed behind me, managing to catch the toe of his sneaker on the doorjamb and stumbling forward. He gave me a sheepish smile, and I had to stifle the urge to roll my eyes.
Ian fiddled with a plant in the corner while I signed us in and paid. For both of us. I didn’t really mind. I asked him to come with me after all. The entire time I stood there, the receptionist’s eyes were glued to Ian, and the worst part was that I couldn’t even blame her.
Damn him and those tight thermal shirts.
I had to tap him on the shoulder to regain his attention, and even then it looked like he had difficulty focusing on my face. God, this was going to be a long night.
As we slipped into the classroom, I grabbed two yoga mats and maneuvered us to the back of the room. Laying his out next to mine, I lowered myself down to the mat.
Ian did the same, but with not even an ounce of grace. He thudded to the ground in a move that would probably leave a grapefruit-sized bruise on his ass. A few women glanced around in his direction, but most were too intent on stretching to pay either of us any attention.
Sealing my feet together at the instep, I bent forward for a deep hamstring stretch and let my cheek rest on the top of my thighs. To my left, Ian had also pulled his heels together in some awkward type of butterfly stretch and bounced his knees up and down, the nervous energy seeming to flow straight out of him. The only brief pause in his agitated movements came when he flipped his hat around so that it faced backward.
A minute later, the yoga teacher walked in, dressed in black spandex capris and a matching racerback tank top.
“Good evening, class,” she said, letting her gaze roam over the entirety of people gathered before her. “It’s always lovely to see new faces. For those of you who are unfamiliar with yoga or who might be taking their first class,” her eyes swept over to Ian where he swayed like an unstable Buddha, “I hope you enjoy yourself and will be back to visit us again.”
She sat down on her mat, and I copied her position. I’d already done my yoga googling before coming here, checking out some beginner poses and practicing them in the comfort of my own apartment. Life lesson from my father—never go into anything unprepared.
As we shifted through the routine, I felt my muscles wake and stretch. Pushing up into Downward-Facing Dog, I peeked through the crack in my legs at my drunken companion. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he tilted toward one side and then righted himself.
We moved through a few more exercises, which were accompanied by Ian’s grunts and muffled oaths
It was as we switched to Reverse Warrior that things went significantly downhill. A few of the women in front of me swayed but held firm. My super sweaty friend wobbled, flailed his arms in a strange helicoptering motion, then slammed down onto his mat.
Surprisingly, not one person turned around. Apparently they were in the zone or something. The teacher quirked an eyebrow toward him, quickly hiding a smile. Uncurling myself from the position, I crawled over to him.
“Are you all right?” I whispered.
A few strands of dark brown hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes squeezed shut.
“Fine,” he answered. Pulling back one eyelid, he tried to focus on my face. “I think, maybe, I’ll just watch the rest.”
“That might be a good idea.”
Rolling onto his stomach, he half belly-crawled, half crab-walked to the wall and propped himself up against it behind my mat, turning his hat around one more time and pulling it low. I took one last look at him and the green hue his skin had taken on, hoping he wouldn’t end up vomiting all over the place.
Shaking him free from my mind, I bent in half into a Seated Forward Fold and took deep cleansing breaths. Another few moves, and we moved into a cool-down. When we were finished, I rolled up both our mats and returned them, stopping to scoop up my purse. I turned, offering him a hand and tugging him up to his feet.
He leaned a little too heavily toward me as I pulled, and his balance quickly shifted in my direction. I tried to sidestep to regain my equilibrium, but he still had a hold on both of my hands, so instead we twirled in a circle. Two hundred or so pounds slammed me into a wall, and my head snapped back with a resounding thunk that pinged off the walls of the now empty room.
I blinked hard and saw spots.
“Shit. Are you okay?”
My fingers trailed up to the back of my head where a lump was already starting to bloom. I waved him off. “All good. Don’t worry about it.”
Opening my eyes, I found his mere inches from mine. He jerked back, nearly stumbling and landing on his ass again. What a mess.
Ian trailed my heels like a lost puppy dog on the way out, managing to bump into me when I came to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk. The air hadn’t lost any of its heat and hung heavy around me like a flannel blanket.
I surveyed Ian with an exasperated glare and cursed my good upbringing. “I guess I should probably make sure you get home safely.”
His lips sunk into a frown, the emotion reflecting in his eyes. “Shouldn’t that be my job?”
“Well, we both know what the key word there is,” I muttered.
He blinked at me like a solemn owl. “What?”
“Nothing, forget it.” I waved a hand at him. “Are you close enough that we can walk, or . . . ?”
“Cab,” he said. “Definitely need to take a cab.”
I only hoped he still remembered his address. How drunk could the guy be if he could still partially participate in a yoga class? Not that drunk, right?
I stepped to the curb and flagged down a taxi, holding the door open so that Ian could fold his long frame into the backseat. He looked cramped with his head ducked down from the ceiling and his knees drawn close to his chest.
I fiddled with my phone while he gave the driver his address. As the taxi peeled away into the street, I focused on my breathing and tried to tamp down the nearly immediate motion sickness. Unclenching my hands, I folded them neatly in my lap, keeping my eyes trained on them so I couldn’t see the scenery hurtling by.
With a slam of the brakes, we came to a jolting stop. The cabbie waited patiently for his fare as Ian’s hands slapped against his shorts. “I swear my wallet’s in here somewhere . . .”
When his search produced no results, I unsnapped my wallet and passed the driver a few bills and threw the door open. Worst. Night. Ever.
A light breeze blew through, which somehow disrupted Ian’s equilibrium, and I was forced to wrap an arm around his middle to steady him. The guy may have been a supreme jackass, but he felt amazing tucked up against my side. In sharp contrast with his balance problems, every part of him I touched was solid and firm.
We made our way carefully to the front door, past the doorman who tipped his cap at Ian, and rode the elevator up to the top floor. Trudging down the hallway, he paused outside a door to our left and shoved a key into the lock.
I debated bailing then and there, but I’d seen Renée like this more than a few times, and knew that he was just as likely to curl up in a ball and sleep in the bathtub as he was to actually make it to his bed. Not that it was my problem, but I was just that person. I shook my head; I should have just left him on the curb outside the yoga studio.
Kicking off his sneakers as he went, he zigzagged for what looked like the bedroom. I took a slower route, ambling along behind him while sizing up the place. For starters, it had a doorman, so that automatically told me it was a good place. Hardwood floors stretched out from the modern kitchen all the way to the floor-length windows that decorated the far wall. The walls were painted a color reminiscent of navy, and a well-worn brown leather couch sat across from a monstrously large television.
The place screamed bachelor pad, although I had to give it to him that it was surprisingly neat. A small wire wastebasket, nearly overflowing with crumpled-up paper, was the only sign of untidiness that I could see. With one last glance around me, I walked over to the door Ian exited through and leaned against the door frame. He’d already stripped off his shirt and hat. As I watched, he shoved his shorts off his hips into a puddle on the floor, leaving him standing in a pair of black boxer briefs.
My mouth may have watered—just a little. It stood to reason that a guy this hot, rocking that kind of body, just had to be an asshole. If he wasn’t, well then, there was just something plain wrong with the universe.
Two steps brought him to the edge of his massive bed, and he flopped down face-first onto the gray striped comforter. At that point, I wasn’t sure he was even still aware that I was there. Following my typical post-drunken roommate checklist, I relocated a trash can to the side of the bed, unearthed some Advil from the bathroom, and placed a full glass of water on the nightstand.
My hands found my hips as I stared down at him, passed out with his face buried in a pillow. I had an absurd urge to run my fingers through his hair, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked. I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and went to step away.
The unconscious man was apparently not that unconscious, and as his hand whipped out toward me, fingers wrapping around my wrist, I let out a little yelp.
Other than his hand, nothing moved. He didn’t even open his eyes. “Don’t go.”
He was kidding, right?
His fingers tightened, pulling me down on the floor so that I was sitting next to the bed. Tracing a finger down around my hand, he wrapped it in his, let out a deep sigh, and promptly started snoring.
What the hell.
I waited a few minutes before trying to extract myself, but every movement I made only tightened his hold. This is why being a nice person sucks, because you get yourself into situations like this. Had I been any rational human being, I’d probably already be at home, asleep, in my own bed.
Instead, I shifted so that I could stretch my legs out and twisted my neck so that I could lay my cheek against the soft comforter. The trash can bumped against my back, and I sent a sile
nt prayer heavenward that I wouldn’t be woken a few hours later by a hot gush of puke. Brimming with resignation, I willed myself to sleep.
Chapter 9: Bianca
If I slept three hours, I was lucky, and I’d probably herniated one of the discs in my neck with the way it was bent all night. As the first fingers of dawn began to filter through the cracked curtains, I once more tried to extricate myself from Ian’s grasp.
This time, his hold loosened a smidge, which was immediately followed by his eyes snapping open. His very red, very bloodshot eyes. He stared at me, then transferred his gaze to his hand where his fingers were still tangled up in mine. Releasing me, he rolled onto his back and scrubbed his hands across his face and through his hair.
I considered fleeing the scene—as in grabbing my things and literally running out of this place. But at the moment, I was annoyed, pissed even. I wanted an explanation. No, I deserved one.
Freed from his grasp, I stiffly got to my feet, all the while rubbing my neck with my hand. I shuffled into the kitchen, desperately in need of some caffeine. I took it upon myself to make coffee, rummaging through his drawers and cabinets to find what I needed. For once, I didn’t really care how rude that was. It couldn’t have been any ruder than the stunt he pulled last night.
Around the time I was pouring the steaming liquid into mugs, Ian emerged from his bedroom, his hair wet like he’d just gotten out of the shower, a pair of blue pajama pants resting low on his hips. My eyes reversed their direction from the delineated V of his hip muscles, to the bold tattoo of a raven that curled up his ribcage, to his face, firmly ignoring the hard planes and bumps that made up his stomach.
“You made coffee? For me?” he asked.
“Technically, I made coffee for me. Coffee for you just happens to be an unintended side effect,” I replied, raising the cup to my lips.
Circling around the granite island, he drew his mug to him and drank it as is. Well, that explained why I couldn’t find any creamer in the refrigerator.
He cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, surprised you’re still here.”
