Page 47 of Hale Yes
“Cool. Where are we going next?”
I search my brain to remember. “It’s a barbecue restaurant. My friend said it’s the best one in Houston.”
“Carver’s?” Helix asks.
“That’s the one,” I confirm.
“Great. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
I shake my head, still confused by this entire turn of events. Apparently, I now have my very own foodie tour guide. “Seven?”
“I’ll be there.” Amusement tinges his voice when he adds, “And don’t worry. Carver’s doesn’t even have wine on the menu.”
Smartass.
“I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a yoga class,” I say to Shay Martin, the pharmacist friend I met at the Academy meeting in L.A. earlier this year.
We push through the glass doors to a swanky looking gym, and Shay checks in and adds me as a guest. “Because I guarantee this will be the best class you’ve ever been to,” she replies.
“No lies detected,” the pretty lady behind the desk adds with a glint in her eyes. “You got here just in time, Shay. You got the final two spots.”
My eyes flit around the room, taking in the high-end machines as we walk through to the back, where Shay opens the door onto a beautiful garden. A group of mostly women—though there are a few men scattered in—gathers excitedly on a large covered wooden patio.
A few people wave at Shay as we find a spot to one side of a circular, raised wooden stage that’s in the center of the patio. The aromas of flowers and foliage mix with the palpable scent of eager anticipation swirling in the air. As I people-watch everyone hurriedly finding their spots, I notice all eyes are gazing in one direction, a spot to my right.
“Oooh, here come the yogis,” Shay hisses.
A collective sigh goes up around the space, and when I shift my eyes to the right, I see why.
Oh. My god.
Two men make their way through the adoring crowd and climb onto the stage. They’re both barefoot, wearing cowboy hats and Wrangler jeans that fit so tightly a person could easily determine if a coin in their pocket is heads or tails. Or if they’re circumcised. Both are, for the record.
The blond one is slightly taller and shirtless, and the brunette makes a show of unsnapping his western shirt. I’m pretty sure not a single eye in the place blinks while he shrugs it off, showing off a similar Adonis-like physique as his co-yogi.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, and Shay giggles beside me.
“The world could be on fire, and I wouldn’t miss this class,” she whispers back.
Without taking my eyes from them as they prepare, I ask quietly, “Are these guys qualified yogis?”
“Do you care?” my friend shoots back, and I stifle a laugh.
“Good point.”
The blond, who introduces himself as Atlas, leads us through some meditation and breathing exercises while the dark-haired guy, Duke, walks around the space and blesses everyone with his broody presence. One woman, a petite blonde with a sleek ponytail, looks completely naked in her flesh-colored Lululemon sports bra and matching shorts. She makes a lot of mistakes each time Duke passes her, most likely on purpose, because he bends to correct her.
Then they begin the practice, both men on the stage guiding everyone through the poses. Several women groan when the guys do the bridge pose, lying on their backs and lifting and lowering their hips from the ground. To be honest, I may have been one of the groaners.
Plank pose seems to be another crowd favorite because it shows off the thick bulges of the cowboys’ forearms. When Atlas and Duke show everyone the low lunge, I gape in amazement.How the hell are they doing that in those tight jeans?
From the corner of my mouth, I mumble, “I really need to know what kind of denim they’re wearing. Because that’s some tenacious fabric. They should use that to build the space shuttle.”
I hear Shay snort. “I think we’re all hoping one day they’ll split their britches.”
I double over in laughter, earning me a glare from Duke, which only makes it funnier. Shay gets tickled as well and covers her face with her hands, completely abandoning her pose. I’m too busy grinning at her to notice Atlas approaching until he’s directly in front of us.
His voice is low and rumbly as he rests his hands on his narrow hips. “Ladies, is everything okay over here?”
