I WATCH BASH GO WITH MY HEART IN MY THROAT AND MY eyes on his ass. I don’t even think I’m being subtle about it. Which is probably why Rhys pipes up with, “Do you know him from yoga?”

    From yoga. It takes me back to that night in the airport. The heat of his gaze on my body as I flowed through some of my favorite poses. I’d felt sensual—desired—in that moment, like I could sense his appreciation humming in the air around me. It’s something I’ve never felt before.

    So you could say that I know him from yoga, but it’s be so much more than that. And saying that I know him because the universe keeps pushing us together would probably get me an eye roll.

    Plus, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know he lived in this town. I’d tried looking him up online with little sess. It was only when I read the job offer that a memory surfaced of Tripp telling me his dad lived in Rose Hill.

    I got an email straight to my inbox asking me to take on a one-year contract in this exact town. But the studio’s owner, Kira, didn’t know that—she only knew she wanted to travel around Asia for a year and needed someone to fill in. The bonus was that her furnished apartment above the studio was rent free.

    Apparently, a former employer rmended me, which is exactly how I keep getting gigs like this. I’m almost always ready for a new adventure, especially ones where I can work, learn, and save up to do some traveling of my own. What I love most is studying yoga abroad and learning from experts in other parts of the world. I’m on a mission to gather as much knowledge as possible, with the dream of one day opening my own studio.

    So room, board, studio hours, and a consistent paycheck made for the perfectbination.

    It all feels like something bigger is at y, so I settle on a quiet “No”, ignore the lingering silence, and allow the conversation to flow in another direction.

    The truth is, I knew Bash would be around at some point, but I didn’t know when we’d run into each other.

    When I came into Rose Hill Reach tonight, my n was to sit at the bar, have a drink, and enjoy a little people-watching. But that was before I met Doris, the shrewd, overly direct bartender who owns this ce. She talked to me for a while and then marched me over here to team up with Tabitha, Skr, and Rosie. Like she just knew we’d hit it off.

    And we did. We were a good trivia team. They were weing, fun, and down-to-earth. Rosie, outgoing. Tabitha, more sardonic. And Skr—a country pop star known all over the world—quiet andpletely grounded.

    It was everything I love most about starting fresh. Meeting new people, trying new things. Yeah, so far, Rose Hill has been pretty damn perfect.

    Cool women.

    A stable job.

    Mind-blowing mountain views.

    The guy I met a year ago.

    The one I haven’t been able to forget. The one who still hasn’t reached out to me, even with the correct number. The one who probably hates me now for having dated his son.

    And that all stings just a little more than it should.hr

    The small charm above the studio’s front door jingles, pulling my attention from theputer screen. A short man with scraggly, white facial hair, a cap perched on his head, and a cane clutched in his hand enters the room. Knobby knees peek out between loose shorts and clunky snow boots, an odd choice considering snow hasn’t fallen in the valley yet. My brows furrow, curiosity piqued.

    “Hi. Wee to Bliss Yoga.”

    He mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath.

    “Can I help you?”

    The man eyes the space carefully, taking in the pale-pink walls, wicker cabry, and neutral fabric draped artfully across the windows almost critically.

    “Are you Gwen?”

    My head tilts. “I am.”

    “Are you a yoga teacher?”

    “I am.”

    He stomps his boots, nods, and points his cane toward me. “Good. You’re the one I’ve heard about, then. I want to take a yoga ss with you.”

    I hold my head high, careful not to preen too obviously. Stepping into someone else’s established studio alwayses with added pressure. I need to keep regrs happy while offering sses that feel both fresh and familiar. And his wording makes me feel like there has been some good word of mouth happening in recent weeks.

    “Well, I’d love to have you in a ss, but the next one on the schedule isn’t until four p.m. Would you be willing toe back then?”

    He waves me off with a little scoff. “No. I’ll take a private lesson.”

    I blink. He knows what he wants, and he wants it now. “Okay. Do you want to look at our price list?”

    His cheeks pinch like I’ve offended him. “Can’t put a price on quality.”

    A small chuckle escapes me. “That’s fair.” I pull out a waiver. “Can I get you to fill this out for me? Just so we have some of your information on file.”

    The man steps forward, grumbling something that sounds an awful like that motherfucker is going to owe me as he reaches a shaky hand for the pen on the counter.

    I watch as he scratches in all caps, skipping entire sections, marking other ones with NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS.

    Woof. I can tell he’s quite the character. And tense from head to toe.

    “Have you done yoga before? What’s your experience level?”

    “Never. Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me, but I’ll try it anyway.”

    He pushes the iplete form back to me, and I let out a genuineugh at his blunt honesty. My gaze drops to his name at the top of the paper. CLYDE GIBBONS. What a bizarre little man.

    “Nice to meet you, Clyde. I appreciate your honesty and openness. It’s one of the most importantponents of a solid practice.”

    He stares at me with a nk expression. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you then,” he grumbles, before removing his boots near the front, just like the sign asks. When he turns back around, he eyes the wee area warily. “You got any cameras up in this ce?”

    His eyesnd on the dark bubble in the corner just behind me, and I turn to look at it as well. “Only that one out here. None back in the studio.”

    His lips work, eyes narrowing like he might be able toser the device right off the wall. “Don’t like bein’ watched.”

    I wait a beat, considering what to say to that, gauging the best way to approach this man. I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little thrown off by him. Part of me wants to tell him not to worry about it, but that feels dismissive in a way.

    “Can’t say that I me you. It’s unnerving, right?”

    He freezes for a moment, like I’ve caught him off guard. Then he nods, and I seize on his small show of agreement.

    “And really, if you think about it, there isn’t much to see up here. But if someone came in while we were in the back and tried to steal, say…” I trail off, ncing around, before my eyesnd on what are a damn nice pair of winter boots. “Your boots. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to get out front fast enough to greet the person, but the camera would capture it, you know?”

    His scraggly, gray brows furrow as he assesses me. “You know, that’s a great point. Plus, you’re here all alone. Don’t want any weirdos wandering in.”

    I smile brightly to cover theugh that’s lodged in my throat, but I’m also relieved to have put him at ease. I wave him forward and start heading toward the back room. “Well, good then. Follow me back. And we’ll—”

    “Though you know, if someone was desperate enough to steal my winter boots, it strikes me they might need them more enough than I do.”

    His response brings me up short, and I peek back over my shoulder. He’s the most unusualbination of cantankerous and thoughtful.

    I figure he can’t be much older than my father, but there’s a stark difference. My father would have spat some venom about tracking that person down and serving them up a little street justice. He lives in a constant state of forced machismo.

    And who am I kidding? My dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a yoga studio, the ce where I choose to waste my life.

    My nose wiggles as I push the painful thought away. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Clyde.”

    He just harrumphs and follows me back into the studio, the soft shuffling of his socked feet interspersed with the clunk of his cane.

    Once in the room, he removes his coat, and I see it then, a heavily distended abdomen. Based on the shape of his socks, I’m assuming his ankles and feet are swollen too. “Clyde, I know you weren’t keen to write down your medical history—especially in front of the camera—but do you think you could tell me about any major health issues you might be facing?”

    “Yeah.” He hangs his coat on a hook and turns to face me. “I’m in kidney failure, and ording to the white coats at the hospital, that’s pretty major.”

    I nod, processing the information. The fluid retention makes sense. My brain cycles through the best poses or asanas that could benefit kidney health, liver support, and energy flow to keep the swelling from getting worse. I’m well aware yoga has its limits. I won’t be able to make him better, but I’m confident I can make him feel better.

    I can help Clyde Gibbons befortable.

    Turning away, I quickly grab a purple mat to help stimte his crown chakra, a bolster, and two blocks to set up a station against the wall. “Okay, Clyde. Come on over, and I’ll help you get started lying on your back.”

    And so begins my mission to help this funny, strange, oddly thoughtful little man feel better.hr

    A jingle at the front door takes my attention away from sanitizing the mats after myst ss. “Be right there!” I call out, setting the spray bottle and rag down before pushing myself to my feet.

    I’m shaking my hands dry as I round the corner, my gaze lifting to see Clyde standing there. Back again after yesterday. It makes me smile.

    But when my eyes slide up behind him, the smile falls off my face.

    Bash. Looking like he could kill someone. And also looking hot as hell in ck jeans, work boots, and nnel jacket, sherpa cor flipped up to beat the chill.

    I ignore the nervous flutter in my chest—and the way my stomach flips like one of those dreams where I’m free-falling—and focus on Clyde. “You’re back.”

    He shrugs. “Turns out I like yoga.”

    Bash groans and rolls his eyes so dramatically that his head practically follows their motion. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here—especially since he can barely look at me.

    But me? I beam because I knew yesterday’s stretching would make Clyde feel better. “I’m thrilled to hear that. Maybe we can make a more regr appointment?”

    “Sure. I’ll make it for right now.”

    Bash res at Clyde. “Whatever you do, you can’t just drive down the mountain yourself like you did yesterday. Your legs don’t bend well enough after dialysis to push the pedals. You know this. I’ll sh the fucking tires on your car if you do that again. First responders don’t need to deal with the aftermath of your stubborn bullshit.”

    My eyes bounce between them as Clyde scoffs and waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “I’d like to see you try.”

    “Are you two rted?” I blurt, entertained by the grumpy-man face-off.

    “Fuck no,” Bash mutters, but Clyde lets out a high-pitched giggle, like he’s amused by the other man.

    “Sometimes it feels like we are, though, doesn’t it, Bash?”

    “In the sense that I wish I could get rid of you, but I can’t? Yes. Yes, it does.”

    My lips twitch.

    “How long will he be? I’lle pick him up,” Bash says to me, but he directs his gaze to the clock on the wall.

    “An hour.”

    Bash nods, but his eyes don’t move.

    It kills me that he won’t make eye contact. I feel like I’m silently begging him to just look at me. To see the way I look at him. To talk.

    God, what I’d give to talk the way we did that night. Honest and open and unexpected.

    But I also know there’s now an ocean between us.

    Two little numbers.

    One man.

    And not just any man—his son.

    Had I known…

    I shake the thought away, not wanting to feel guilty over things I couldn’t have predicted. What’s done is done. We’re both grown-ups. I desperately want to bridge the gap, but based on the way Bash addresses the wall, I’m thinking I might be the only one.

    It taps straight into every hurt I carry with me. I grew up feeling like I had to bend over backward not to anger my father. Seen but not heard is what he requested of me.

    And I was.

    It can be my default now when I’m feeling off-kilter. It’s a hard habit to shake. So when Bash starts in with, “Okay, I’ll be back to get you—” I cut him off.

    “It’s okay. I can drive Clyde home.”

    He looks at me now, but the nce is so fleeting that it’s almost dismissive. Further proof that I don’t need him back here, sullying my good mood with his immaturity. Or this grudge he’s holding. Or whatever this awkwardness is between us.

    “He’s way up the mountain. The road’s rough. Not well tended. You probably can’t even—”

    “Cool,” I bite out evenly, more irritated by the second as he stands there acting like I’m some incorporeal voice.

    Can’t. That word fires me up. It’s the word that had me walking out of my parents’ house at seventeen and never looking back. My dad told me I can’t live a “proper” life as a yoga teacher, and if I wasn’t going to university or getting married, I wasn’t living under his roof.

    And I said, watch me.

    “I’m a big girl. With a big truck. And above-average driving skills. You can take your bad energy elsewhere, Bash.”

    His head snaps up as Clyde chortles. “Bad energy?”

    I lift my chin and wave a hand over him. “Yes. It’s time for you and your fully blocked crown chakra to go.”

    Clyde nods. “Oh, you’re right. His crown chakra is fucked.”

    Bash res at his friend. “Why are you pretending you know anything about the crown chakra?”

    “Gwen told me about the chakras yesterday. She said one has to do with enlightenment. And you are certainly not acting very enlightened.”

    I blink while Bash scowls.

    “Well, forgive me for not taking lessons in enlightenment from a guy who believes Tupac is still alive.”

    “Tupac is st—”

    Bash barks out a disbelievingugh as he turns to leave. “You two have fun together.”

    I’m a bit stunned by him storming out, but Clyde doesn’t seem affected at all. Instead, he shouts after him, “Go look at something purple! It’ll help support your crown chakra!”

    Bash leaves without a backward nce, stomping out into the chilly afternoon air. At first, I’m concerned that their bickering constituted an argument, but when Clyde turns to me with a toothy grin, I’m not so sure.

    “All right, let’s go do your weird stretches, followed by that Savasa-whatever-you-called-it. It made me feel a lot better.”

    His words warm me down to my bones. Knowing he came hobbling in and left feeling even a little bit better—that’s why I started teaching in the first ce. I may not have any higher education, and I may not be settling down and ying house, but I’vee to believe what I do has value all the same.

    “Savasana?” I gently correct, naming the resting pose we finished with yesterday.

    “You say Savasana, I say nap,” he tosses over his shoulder as he marches back into the studio.

    And I can’t help but chuckle as I follow him, ready to guide him through my “weird stretches” and nap. I lead him through a simr practice as yesterday, slipping into the headspace where all I focus on is breathing and alignment.

    Except my attention is not as absolute as usual.

    Because my thoughts keep circling back to Bash.