In fact, if Ari asked them to meditate later, Georgia would choose restraint as today’s guiding principle. Control. Distance. Reserve. They were all good words, and she would rhyme them into a mantra if it made it easier to rein in crazy thoughts about Leo Trevi.
He’d sat down on his mat and was currently rolling his wide shoulders, the same ones she’d gripped with both hands while they’d tried to fuse themselves together at the mouth.
Gah! Restraint.
Restraint.
Restraint.
Even if her unruly little heartstrings still vibrated whenever he walked into a room, their former connection was just that. Former.
Luckily for Georgia, Ari brought the class to attention. “Good morning, yogis! Let’s have a seat, please, cross your left leg and then your right. If you have tightness in your hips or lower back, please feel free to sit up on a block or straighten your legs at any point . . .”
Georgia assumed the position, then lifted her clasped hands in imitation of the teacher. Ari began the familiar series of wrist and forearm circles that always began her classes. There was a comfort in this, and Georgia understood why Nate made yoga a part of their routine no matter where they were. Living out of your suitcase was disorienting, and at least once a season Georgia gave herself a bruise or a stubbed toe while trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night in a strange hotel room. But the geography of her yoga mat was always the same. And Ari’s soothing voice and warm-up routine were a pleasant way to wake the body.
The players still joked about Ari’s high-minded language. They felt weird “centering” themselves or “finding inner peace” in yoga-speak. (“I’ll show you my inner piece, babe. Heh heh.”) But that was just trash talk. After they got used to the routine, they always stopped fighting it. An hour from now, everyone leaving this room would have warm, limber muscles and a calm attitude.
At the front of the room, Nate sat comfortably in the Sukhasana position, his lean body displaying perfect posture. Later, when the poses became more difficult, he’d be inverting himself with statuesque form while the highly paid athletes around him shook and shimmied like a pack of wet dogs. The boss man was ridiculously good at yoga.
At the side of the room, Georgia’s father grimaced through a simple forward bend. Georgia looked forward to watching her father try to tackle the tougher poses, but she was suddenly robbed of this fun about fifteen minutes into the class, when the cheater actually bailed. “Please excuse me,” he said to Ari. “I have a conference call.”
She gave him a look that said, Conference call my ass. Ari may be the queen of yoga but she was a Brooklynite through and through. You don’t bail on her class. It simply wasn’t done.
But her father marched through the room with as much guilt as Napoleon exiting Mount Tabor. He gave her a grin, but it snagged when he noticed Leo right in front of her. As he passed, his sneer seemed to say, Stay away from my daughter.
Leo didn’t even glance up at him. Point Leo.
The class progressed to sun salutations, and Georgia managed not to laugh when Leo fell out of the transition into downward dog. It was entirely distracting to have him in front of her, though. His reverse warrior made his T-shirt ride up, giving Georgia an oblique view of his happy trail as his muscled torso twisted to the side . . .
Turn away from the light, she ordered herself.
But there was something about the warm room and her increasingly limber body which began to make her a little crazy. As her body moved and stretched in close proximity to Leo’s, it took only a short leap of imagination to reposition them in fun and interesting ways. His long arms put every perfect muscle on display when he moved, and when Ari invited the class to “find your center,” Georgia felt like begging Leo to find hers.
It was a long hour, and when the minutes of private meditation and visualization arrived at the end, Georgia’s visualizations were much more stimulating than usual.
When the class finally ended and Leo turned around, he gave her a look hot enough to heat the place for a bikram class.
Yowza. None of that. Georgia rolled up her yoga mat and beat a fast retreat back to her room for some alone time. It was bad enough that she’d have to take him to a naked photo shoot in a few hours.
A tepid shower helped. Then she sat down to her overstuffed inbox, which proved to be the perfect libido-killing distraction. It was only nine in the morning, and already there were fires to put out at work. She took a minute to call Becca to check in. “Hey, lady!”
“Hey, babe! How was yoga?”
“Well, I think I’m ready to start dating again.”
Becca was momentarily shocked into silence. “Really. That’s awesome, sweetie! I need to say up front that I deserve details—juicy, juicy details.”
“Good luck with that. Okay. Who should I date?”
There was another silence on the line. “I thought we were talking about Leo Trevi. Georgia? Who is this?”
“Bec! I can’t date a player. I mean—professionally it’s a horrible idea. And there is zero privacy in the clubhouse. Can you imagine?”
“So it’s not the ideal setup. But he’s perfect, right? And that’s what matters?”
Georgia sighed. “I’m really rusty, though. Out of practice. Atrophied. I need a warm-up date. Someone to limber me up.”
Becca laughed. “There’s nothing like dating a guy you don’t actually like to limber a girl up. And a year ago you swore off dating apps for good. So where are we going to find this warmer-upper man?”
Those were good points. “I’m screwed.”
“No,” Becca insisted. “But you should get screwed. Tonight if possible. By a hot rookie forward.”
“Don’t think I’m not tempted.”
“So, God. Just do it.”
“Really, Bec? Of all the people on the planet, that one is the—” She almost said the scariest choice. But Georgia didn’t get scared. “—the riskiest one.”
“Risky how? I thought you dumped him.”
“Oh, I did. But not because I wanted to. I was just accepting the inevitable. He fell out of love with me, but you can’t dump the weepy rape victim. So I did it for him.”
“How nice of you,” Becca said, her tone just barely on the right side of patronizing. “So what the hell was that kiss, then? I saw that boy make his move. Hell, everyone saw it.”
That was true. And confusing as hell. Then there was yesterday’s shenanigans . . . “Maybe he wants the last word,” Georgia suggested. “Leo is competitive. I dumped him, and now he wants a turn.”
“Oh my God. You are the most cynical girl alive.”