This guy’s senses must be dulled by all the patchouli he’s bathed in. There’s nothing beautiful about this. It’s pure, sexual, vindictive frustration.
“Now we end with one more pose that brings you together,” he says.
After releasing each other’s arms, we follow his direction to spin away and sit, back to back. My rotation involves a subtle adjustment in my sweatpants after that camel posing nonsense.
“Spinal twist.” Fabrizio leans over us, drawing us upright until our backs are flush against the other’s. I feel Frankie’s vertebrae, the poke of her shoulder blades, and catch the faintest wisp of her orchid perfume mingled with tantalizing sweat. “Now, both to your right. Your hand to the other’s leg, and lean into it, lengthening your spine.”
Frankie’s hand sits high and firm across my thigh. Mine grips above her knee, since my lumbar isn’t quite as flexible. It’s quiet but for our breathing.
“Ujjayi breath,” he says softly. “In through your nose, and out, like the waves beyond us.”
Our deep breaths sync, the rise and fall of our backs in tandem.
“At last.” Fabi sighs happily. “Peace is restored.”
13
Frankie
Playlist: “The Calculation,” Regina Spektor
“So.” Ren slides the milk my way along with a small crock of sugar. “Fabrizio, eh?”
I dump a heaping spoonful of sugar into my mug and stir, glowering at Ren. The empty ache between my thighs is entirely his fault. I haven’t been this sexually frustrated since I hit puberty. I know I shouldn’t have kissed him last night. I let my heart get carried away by his swoony sweetness, and I kissed him for it.
But I expressed regret. I made it clear it was an oopsie.
Why, then, did he have to get all flirtatious and corner us into doing tantric yoga this morning? Now I have to suffer his absurdly sexual presence all day, walking around with the lady version of blue balls. Just fucking great.
I take a slow breath that does nothing to cool me off, then sip my coffee. “I chose Fabi because I get to keep up on my Italian and stay limber.”
Ren mutters something into his coffee.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He sets down his mug and gives me a look I can’t read. “Want some breakfast?”
“What’s on the menu?”
Ren backtracks to the fridge. I make a valiant but largely unsuccessful attempt not to stare at all the muscles made obvious by his sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his body. “Egg whites. Berries. Turkey bacon.”
“Yuck.”
He grins over his shoulder. “Welcome to hockey season diet, Francesca.”
“Don’t you need carbs? Little bit of fat? You burn insane calories playing.”
“I do.” He closes the fridge door with his hip, arms brimming with ingredients. “But they have to be the right ones. I make smoothies for that.”
Dumping his armful on the counter, he then begins chopping veggies. “I promise, it’s a surprisingly good omelet. I’ll add some cheese for you. We won’t tell Lars.”
I nab a freshly chopped piece of green pepper and crunch on it. Lars is the team dietician and wellness coach. “He’d kill me if he knew how I was influencing you. What do you think Lars eats? Besides wheatgrass smoothies. I think he has one percent body fat.”
“No clue. But I’d bet the minivan he hasn’t had a burger in a decade.” Ren tosses the onions and peppers into a pan that holds the tiniest drop of olive oil known to man. “It would explain why he’s so grumpy all the time.”
“Now, let’s not judge the grumps of the world. We have our reasons.”
Ren glances up and sets down his knife. “You’re not grumpy, Frankie. You’re just…”
I bite back a smile and steal a piece of cheddar. “I’m grumpy.”
“You’re serious.”
“You’re sweet, Zenzero. But I’m grumpy. It’s in everyone’s best interest. Keeps the boys in line and afraid of my hexes.”
Ren grins to himself while he lets the omelet bubble in the pan and blends us a berry smoothie. We eat quickly and in quiet, stealing spare glances while Pazza weaves between us, scarfing down whatever we drop.
When I take my last bite, Ren asks, “So. What’s the verdict on the egg-white omelet?”
I drop my fork and pat my belly. “Delicious. Saved by the cheddar.”
“Yeah.” He sweeps up my plate and stacks it onto his. “The cheese makes it edible. Otherwise it really does taste like cardboard.”
Sliding off my barstool, I take the last sip of my smoothie and set down the glass. “Thanks again for breakfast, Zenzero. Leave those dishes and I can do them after my shower?” My body’s stiff. I need a hot shower before I try to do something as dexterous as dishes this early. If I tried now, I’d end up dropping and cracking everything I tried to hold.
He waves his hand. “Takes two seconds. And you’re my guest.”
“Well, then at least let me whip up something good for breakfast tomorrow. I make a mean microwaved breakfast sandwich.”
With his laugh still echoing in the kitchen, I head for my guest room and hit the shower. I turn the water hot, letting it soothe my joints which limbered up at yoga but then slowly stiffened as my body cooled. Once I’m out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel, then throw my hair up in another towel to make a turban. I do my routine—moisturizer, under-eye concealer, a little loose powder so I’m not shiny. Gabby used to try to cover me in makeup, but any more than this and I feel like I’m wearing a mask.
I wear enough masks as it is.
I’m just capping my vanilla lip balm when I hear Ren’s front door open and shut. Pazza’s in my room and starts barking like crazy. Unease prickles my skin.
“Ren?” I call.
No answer. Pulling open the bathroom door, I call Ren’s name again. Nothing.
Except for a faint rustling noise in the kitchen. Now I’m more curious than anything. Is Ren out of the shower already? Maybe he grabbed the newspaper. That would be why I heard the front door. It’s not like people break into multimillion-dollar beachfront homes, slam the door behind them, and raid the kitchen.
Burglars raided your pantry.
Shit. They did, didn’t they?
I have an overactive imagination. It’s fed my anxiety many years now, but with counseling, I’ve learned to coach it, to help myself focus on rational explanations and calm the nervous, irrational beast inside. And, ya know, weed helps. But there’s no weed in my system currently, only logical thought telling me everything is most likely fine.
Slowly, I walk toward the kitchen. When I clear the hallway and have a good view, no one’s there. But then I realize the refrigerator’s open.
Suddenly, a man pops up. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and stumble back into the hallway wall.
“Frankie!” Ren yells from deep in the house. I hear a door banging open, the pound of his footsteps.
The man grins at me as he shuts the fridge with his butt and shines an apple on his shirt. Which makes him seem much less threatening. Unless he’s one of those smiling serial killers. Who eats a healthy snack first.