Page 6 of Learning to Love

Tomorrow’s yoga lesson is back on again.

Be at the studio by 9am.

We'll need to sneak in the back-way.

Bring food and water, it's going to be a very long session.

E xx

I hit send to all the people in my What's App yoga group, and my phone instantly pings back with messages of support. I'd spoken to many of them earlier about what had happened, so they already know about the upcoming fight.

I get up from my desk and make my way back to my now half-melted ice cream. His Royal Highness Prince Dalton Frederick William Albert of Janastria may have won the battle today, but there’s no chance he will win the war. Before long, he'll be heading back to his country with his tail between his legs, begging them to have him back, and rather than beheading me, I think Janastria will be rewarding me.

Game on.

Four

Dalton

The guard at my side directs me as I read the briefing on my phone about the woman who confronted me yesterday.

Elodie Nash, 27. Originally from the State of Florida. Has been running yoga classes at Serendipity for five years. Lives alone. No previous marriages. Father: David Nash, builder. Mother: Sienna Nash, teacher. Both deceased.

Just the basic facts, nothing of any interest, except the fact both her parents have died. Miss Elodie Nash is a mystery, even to some of the best research experts in the world. I like that—it means I’ll have to find out about her myself.

As I approach the studio I’ve had turned into a gym, I notice all my equipment is piled up outside, and several of my security detail are standing there looking confused.

"What's going on?" I ask the guard at my side, sliding my phone into the pocket of my shorts.

"I'm not sure, Your Highness," the guard replies.

As we get closer, several of my men turn around and bar the way to the gym. Hinchbootie is nowhere to be seen.

"What's going on?" I repeat, this time to the guards in front of me.

One of them, a commander, steps forward and salutes me. I wave his formality away.

"It is nothing to concern yourself with, Your Highness. Mr. Hinchbottom is dealing with it. He suggested maybe you would prefer a run along the beach this morning instead of a workout in the gym," the commander responds and points in the direction of the beach.

"Or, I could be told what is going on and why all my equipment is outside instead of in the studio where it should be," I growl in anger.

I want to know what is happening and not be fobbed off by people who should know better than to try and keep the truth from me. The commander goes to open his mouth again, shuts it, and then opens it once more before finally answering me.

"It appears that there’s a group of people from the local community who regularly use the studio for yoga sessions. They arrived early this morning and removed your equipment before beginning their training, despite being told the premises are not available for their use at the moment. Mr. Hinchbottom is negotiating with them, trying to get them to leave the premises peacefully as he fears that if we simply remove them by force, we may create negative headlines for you, sir." The commander lowers his head when he finishes speaking.

Everyone around me is walking on eggshells at the moment. They know this could be a make or break trip for my future position in the line of succession for the Janastrian monarchy.

I swipe my hand across my forehead in frustration. But then I remember Miss Elodie Nash, the yoga teacher, and how cute her pert little backside looked in those tight yoga pants.

"I'll deal with this myself," I inform everyone around me, and they step back as I push past them and into the studio.

As I walk in, I notice Hinchbootie is sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, staring at his watch. He looks up at me and gives me a look of frustration.

I turn my attention to the rest of the room. All around the studio are men and women lying on mats in a variety of strange poses. Some have blankets over them while others have foam blocks supporting parts of their body. Several have what appears to be a belt restricting the movement of their open thighs. The most shocking one, though, is the woman who is somehow folded through a chair in a position no human body should ever be able to get into. No one is speaking—everything is silent. Elodie is at the front of the group, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her hands resting, palms up, on her thighs, and her eyes are closed.

I look back at Hinchbootie, shocked at the calm in the room. I’d expected him and Elodie to be in the throes of a heated debate.

"Meditation time," he mouths at me and goes back to counting down the time on his watch.

---