Page 19 of Cross Check Hearts

“Because he thinks I might benefit from some yoga to help with my hip flexibility. He said you’re the perfect person to help me with that, and you know what? I agree.”

My mind immediately jumps to a million dirty places as vivid memories of the night we spent together assault my senses—his hands gripping my hips, my legs wrapped around his waist, positions that would make a contortionist blush.

Declan chuckles with a knowing warmth that makes my skin tingle. “Coach wants you to help me with my flexibility, not yours. Although I’d be happy to help you with yours too, if you want.”

I wince at being called out like that, and bat Ralph away as she sniffs at my phone like she’s curious who it is. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Still sore from all those months ago?”

“Declan,” I warn, ignoring the way my stomach flips over at his words.

He shouldn’t even be talking to me right now—I appreciate my father sending business my way, and it’s not like he had any clue there was already a connection between Declan and me when he did it, but in this case I really wish he’d asked me before he gave Declan my number so I could think about it before I got put on the spot.

Because I’m not sure I can handle being alone in that kind of environment with him. Not after the night we had together. Not when I can still remember exactly how his skin felt against mine, how his breath tickled my neck, how his voice sounded when he whispered in French.

“You’re already imagining me in my yoga pants, aren’t you?” Declan teases, and I flinch because I’ve been imagining him doing a lot of things, but none of them involve clothes.

“I’ve seen you wearing less,” I retort before I can stop myself, then immediately regret it. “I mean… that’s not what I meant.”

“Nah, hummingbird. You meant exactly what you said.” He chuckles, his voice dropping lower. “And if I recall correctly, you weren’t complaining at the time.”

“That was different,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “That was then, this is now.”

“And now your dad wants you to help me withmyflexibility. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Declan, that was a one-time thing. It was fun, but that’s… that’s all it was ever supposed to be.”

“Okay, great. Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to teach me, right?”

I purse my lips, internally debating my answer.

His persistence should irritate me, but there’s something about his confidence that’s both infuriating and intoxicating. He’s like a dog with a bone, and I can just imagine the grin that must have split his face when my father handed my phone number to him, especially after the way I left him high and dry at the arena a few weeks ago the day we first ran into each other.

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea for me to give you private lessons,” I say quietly. “I’m sure you know why.”

Declan laughs, the sound vibrating through the phone. “Okay. Do you want to explain to your dad why you won’t teach me, or should I?”

He’s teasing me. I know he would never do that. And there’s no way in hell that I’m going to tell my dad anything that would make him think Declan and I already know each other. I don’t even want to think about the hell I’d catch from my father if he ever found out that his baby girl went to a sex club, let alone that she spent the night with his newest all-star rookie while she was there.

Still, although I’d never admit it to him or anyone else, part of me actually wants to give in and agree to teach Declan. Part of me wants to see him again, to test whether the chemistry between us was real or just a trick of the club’s seductive atmosphere.

“You went quiet on me,” he says, his voice softer now, less teasing. “Still there, hummingbird?”

The nickname sends an electric current through me.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Alright, then what do you say? Are we doing this or not?”

“Are you going to behave?” I ask, trying to sound stern but hearing the breathless quality in my own voice.

Declan chuckles. “I’ll do my best. But no promises.”

“If you can’t keep your hands to yourself?—”

“Don’t worry. I remember exactly where the lines are drawn,” he says, his voice a mixture of warmth and challenge. “But something tells me I’m not going to be the only one having trouble with that part.”

My face burns hot enough that I press a hand to my cheek to cool it off—because he’s right. I close my eyes, biting my lip for a second before I ask, “Are you free on Friday?”

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