Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I’m immediately hit by the smell of incense. I smile. The funkier the yoga studio, the better, in my opinion. I fill out some paperwork and rent a mat. In the meantime, several people have checked in. Class is going to be crowded.

The friendly woman behind the counter escorts me to Studio A at the front of the building. Opening the door, she peeks inside, then looks at me and grins.

“One spot left. Lucky you.”

I thank her and step into the studio.

Yep, it’s definitely crowded. Which always makes me the tiniest bit nervous. I’m not exactly a graceful yogi. I wish I could say I’ve never fallen onto my neighbor while attempting crow pose, but that would be a lie.

It takes me a second to find my spot. Ah, there it is. Up front. Beside a man.

A huge, shirtless, tattooed man.

My stomach clenches.

He’s laying face up on his mat, knees bent. I recognize the swirling script tattooed on his upper ribs, just beneath his left pec.

Eli.

Despite the studio’s blaring heat, my blood turns to ice. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The teacher, a smiling, ripped twenty-something man with dreadlocks hanging down to his butt, looks at me and points at the empty spot. “You’re right there.”

“Thanks,” I say, blinking.

“You can take your spot now,” he gently prods. “Class is about to begin.”

I blink again. “Yup. Got it.”

I feel like I’m wading into the deep end of a pool as I head for my assigned spot. Eli is facing away from me, so he has to look up toward his eyebrows to meet my gaze.

When he does, he smiles. A wickedly handsome, utterly masculine half-smile that lights up his face and turns my knees to jelly.

“Olivia!” He sits up. “I’m glad you came! You’re in for a treat.”

The excitement in his voice is obvious.

He can’t be this happy to see me.

Can’t be.

Can he?

“Why am I in for a treat?” I ask, looking away as I roll out my mat. “Because I get to practice next to you?”

He laughs, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, and reaches out to help flatten the rolled-up edge of my mat. From the corner of my eye, I notice the woman beside him checking him out.

I don’t blame her. The guy is gorgeous. And mostly naked.

“That,” he says, “and the fact that Peter is teaching. His classes are hard, but you feel so fuckin’ good afterward. Like your body and your mind are wrung out, you know?”

I sit down on my mat, careful not to let my knee touch Eli’s.

“Exactly why I’m here,” I say, turning my head to look at him.

Eli’s got one arm draped over his bent knee, making his already bulging bicep bulge even more. To an almost pornographic degree.

Can biceps even be pornographic?

I start to sweat. Hope—pray—that I don’t make a fool of myself practicing next to him.

“What’d you have for breakfast?” he asks.

I stick my tongue into my cheek, fighting a smile. “Protein bar. Coffee from the Nespresso machine.”

“Now that’s just plain sad.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Shoulda come to my place. Whipped up a mean fried green tomato eggs benedict. I made enough for two, but since you didn’t show, I had to give your plate to Billy.”

I give up the fight against my smile. “Lucky Billy.”

“Coulda been you, Yankee girl.”

Peter calls the class to attention. Eli gives me one last half smile—one last flash of hazel eyes—and then he’s getting on his knees and settling into child’s pose. My heart skips a beat at the way the muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin.

I begin to wonder if I’m going to make it out of this class alive.

The flow is familiar, thank God. We start with a series of sun salutations. I’ve always struggled not to rush through my poses. I hold all my tension in my shoulders and neck, and it’s easy for my arms to get fatigued from so many chaturangas in a row.

I can’t help but notice how beautifully—patiently—Eli moves on his mat. From the corner of my eye I see him flow from one pose to the next as easily as water coursing through a stream. He’s taking deep, even warrior breaths in and out of his nose.

My eyes catch on the muscles in his arm. They bunch and ripple against tattooed skin that glistens with a fine sheen of sweat.

If my shoulders are burning like they usually do, I don’t feel it.

Peter has us meet in downward facing dog. Underneath the pyramid formed by Eli’s gorgeous body, I meet eyes with the woman on the other side of him.

Wow, she mouths, gaze flicking to Eli.

I suppress a grin.

I know, I mouth back.

“Just a reminder to keep your eyes on your own mat,” Peter says as he walks behind me. “Find your drishti—your point of focus.”