Page 67 of A Wild Card Kiss
Lucky me to get a sneak peek.
Except.
Wait.
Hold on.
What the hell is she doing here in the exercise room? With mats spread out on the floor, and yoga straps and stuff?
Plus, she’s in her yoga clothes, and she’s talking to Lacey, one of the team trainers.
Well, shit.
The answer comes in a flash, and it sucks.
She can’t be our new yoga teacher.
And yet, I’m sure she is.
I groan inside. Pretty sure, too, that a date with Katie will violate the team’s no fraternization policy—no dates or hookups with personnel like team trainers, team docs, team managers, or team anythings.
Katie swings her gaze to me. For a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with excitement, but resignation quickly replaces it.
Frustration swirls in my gut. I try not to let things get me down, but I am more than bummed.
I am seriously disappointed.
All these years, all this time, and now this twist of fate before what was supposed to be our third time lucky?
Jaw tight, I grab a mat, flop down, and listen to our new yoga instructor for the next fifty minutes as she guides us through a series of poses.
These are the poses I want to dowithher.
Only, I can’t.
***
When class ends, the guys filter out, but Lacey calls me over to the front of the room.
What’s that all about? Does she know I already have a thing with Katie? Are we going to be put on some kind of notice?
I haul in a breath, steeling myself for a reprimand for something I couldn’t foresee. I do my best to stay cool, flashing a smile at the blond bombshell I want to take home with me and the brunette pipsqueak in charge of our physical fitness.
The trainer bounces on her white sneakers. “Harlan, I want to personally introduce you to Katie Madigan.”
Lacey, that won’t be necessary. I personally introduced myself to every inch of her delicious skin a few months ago when I hand- and cock- and tongue-delivered four orgasms, but thanks for the formality, anyway.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending a hand to Katie.
Her blue eyes twinkle with a cocktail of mischief and regret as she takes my palm. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Harlan. I enjoy watching you play.”
“And I enjoy posing like a flamingo,” I say, still holding her hand. I don’t want to let go. This may be the only time I’ll get to touch her all day.
Hell, maybe all season.
I whimper inside.
My dick wails a song of sorrow.
