Around the room there are more than a dozen people, but they’re all women—believe me, I checked. There are twenty-four boobs in this room, plus the female instructor, so that makes twenty-six and only one cock. Usually that would be like unleashing a kid in a candy store, but instead I feel like a fish out of water.

The instructor begins in a warm, almost saccharine tone. “Raise your arms above your head, lengthen your spine, and allow your body to prepare for this beautiful journey we’ll take together this morning.”

Seriously?

I look over at Emery, and her eyes are closed. She’s standing tall, her bare feet on the yoga mat and a small smile gracing her lips. I think I’ve just discovered her happy place.

As we begin, I push my body into the warrior pose, sun salutations, and downward dog. There should be a special place in hell reserved for the person in charge of coming up with these names. For instance—the plow pose—that’s nothing like what I would have assumed it would be. At the very least, it should be done with a partner.

I can’t help my gaze from straying over to Emery every so often. She’s flawless with her poses, graceful and elegant as her body seamlessly transitions from one pose to the next. I’m intensely attracted to her. But remembering my vow to Hudson, I tamp down the feelings of lust stirring in my gut.

Maybe this morning’s yoga will give me a new outlook on life. I will prove to myself, Hudson, and Emery that I can keep it in my pants and have a meaningful platonic relationship with a woman.

Even as my thoughts wonder, my body continues attempting the poses. I can’t even imagine how I must look. I’m not flexible or graceful, and would rather be in the weight room or jogging on the beach.

At last, the class is done. Emery’s practically glowing; she looks so content and at peace.

“What did you think?” she asks, bending down to roll up her mat once the instructor has dismissed us with a “Namaste.”

I could pull some alpha-male attitude and tell her that men shouldn’t twist into those positions, but instead I offer her my hand and smile. “It was cool.”

She grins widely. “Really? You’d do it again?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Next thing I know, she’ll be trying to get me to go to Jazzercise or Zumba. And I’m not about to turn in my man card. No fucking way.

She chuckles and we head from the studio with a light sheen of sweat over our skin, and feeling energized.

“Oh. They have wheatgrass shots there. And fresh juices.” Emery’s voice is excited as she stops in front of the small café at the front of the building. “You want anything?” she asks.

I shrug. “Sure.”

I discover that juice is a relative term. Because theirs are green, and brown and chunky. I order a bottle of water while Emery gets a little glass of something green and downs it quickly.

We find a table in the café, and sit down. I continue sipping from my water bottle, trying to rehydrate.

“Thanks for bringing me here today,” she says.

“Of course.”

As we sit here, chatting about mundane things like the disgusting wheatgrass she’s currently drinking, I realize that we challenge each other. She keeps me on my toes.

“Tell me more about you,” Emery asks, leaning in toward me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Enlighten me.” She shrugs.

Leaning back in my seat, I cross my ankles. “My job is pretty much my life, and I love what I do. Taking an old run-down building and turning it into luxury units that rent for top dollar is awesome. It never gets old. I love seeing the transformations.”

“That’s amazing.” She nods. “What else . . . surely there has to be more to you than just work.”

“You want to know something deep, huh?”

She nods, eager.

I think about it for a second, and memories of my checkered past flash through my brain. But rather than watch her expression turn to one of sympathy when she learns of my past, I’d rather see her face light up with a smile. “Blow jobs are my spirit animal.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but laughs.

Mission accomplished.

“You seem normal enough. What in the hell did you do to piss off Roxy?” She chuckles as she says this, and suddenly all the blood in my veins turns to ice water.

I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Roxy and I . . . it’s a long story, and not one I care to discuss right now.”

She pouts. “Fine. Regardless of your history with Roxy, you didn’t deny what she told me about you.”

“What exactly did she say?” Now I’m actually curious.

She shrugs, playing with the long strands of hair from her ponytail that rest on her shoulder. “She just warned me to stay away from you. Told me about your man-whore background.”

“Well, your virtue is safe. I made a deal with my business partner. No more sleeping with tenants.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, maybe because it’ll be easier to enforce the friends-only rule I’ve set for myself if she knows that she’s off-limits to me.

“So sleeping around in general is still fine?” There’s a mocking tone to her voice.

“Absolutely. This will be just friends.” I gesture between us. “Unless, you naughty girl, you’re trying to tempt me.” I give her a flirty wink.

She frowns and shakes her head. “Not a chance in hell. I told you. I’m done with men, and you, Hayden Oliver, by all accounts are a piece of shit.”