Page 27 of Whiskey Splash

It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Exactly what I need right now.

I lie down on my mat in corpse pose: my legs straight out, my arms slightly to the side with the backs of my hands cupped in the sand, palms up in receiving position. I conjure up the image of the sun’s reflection floating on the ocean’s surface and simultaneously focus my breath, filling up my lungs and then wringing them out again, letting my body melt into the softness of the beach at my back.

I hear more people arrive, and some whispers and commotion, but I keep focused on the rise and fall of my chest, only allowing my mind to idle on the heat of the air that mists my skin, or the soft crash of the shoreline as the waves roll and thin with the tide’s constant ebbing.

A soft ring from a Tibetan singing bowl signals the beginning of the class and I sit up, adjusting my yoga pants and tank top. We start in Sukhasana, seated position, and focus on our breathing as the wash of sound glides over us, the low rolling tones from the singing bowl reverberating in my chest and lungs and leeching out the stress of my day.

We move fluidly into our flow, warming up and working through stretches, balance poses, sun and moon salutations. I focus on the asanas and the way my body feels, needing a little extra time with each position to loosen up the muscles.

I’m in such a trance for most of the class that it isn’t until we hold an extra-long spinal twist that I open my eyes and notice the rest of the class behind me. We’re all sitting cross legged with our hips facing the ocean, but our torsos are rotated from the waist toward the resort, stretching out our backs. There are about twenty of us in the class, necks elongated and looking toward the foothills. This asana is one of my favorite poses and I challenge myself to stretch my neck even further, but when I do—

I catch a glimpse of the person behind me who’s male, dark-haired, gorgeously fit, and muscled.

A jolt of panic shoots through my blissful state and I jam my eyes shut again, telling myself it’s not him.

Of course it isn’t!

Desmond would never come to a public yoga class on a public beach. That would be ga-ga-fan-girl central for him and none of us would be getting any meditative yoga peace with all that shrieking. It’s just another guest, I assure myself.

It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.

I chant the phrase in my mind like the words are three clicks of my ruby slippers making it so. I take a deep breath and focus. Tammy guides us out of the twist and then back into it on the opposite side to keep everything balanced. I ease my eyes open slightly and this time I’m looking down the beach, rather than at the whole class. I squint, noticing a small perimeter of people about fifty feet away from us. And the longer I look, the more I realize it’s a bunch of tourists snapping pictures with their cell phones. Not only that; several of the resort’s employees are lined up in front of the crowd, almost like they’re standing guard.

Shit! That can only mean…

As we start to pull out of the twist I snag a look back, quickly, trying to be discreet, and punch-me-in-the-lady-nads itisDesmond.

I whip my head forward, so he doesn’t realize I’ve noticed him, and heck, maybe he doesn’t even know it’s me either. I haven’t said anything to him, and surprisingly he hasn’t either. So, maybe we’ve both been in that perfect Zen space where the rest of the world fades into blurry silence.

Only, I have distinctly recognizable lavender hair, and since he’s behind me he’s had almost the entire class to figure it out. There’s no way he doesn’t know who I am. We move through several more stretches, then push back into downward dog and I sneak a look at him through my legs, which is when it hits me that he’s been directlybehind me all class! That means forty minutes with a prime view of every forward fold, squat, and downward dog with my legs open, ass in the air, and tight yoga pants leaving very little to the imagination.

Oh God! What has he been thinking about this whole class?

My mind flashes to that all-too-hot downward dog image from the night when I first met him and how I refused to do midnight yoga because I kept imagining all the wicked things he’d do with his tongue.

My thighs quake and I can’t hold the position any longer, especially if he’s been sneaking glances at me with my hips in the air, my body extra hot from the image of his mouth tasting what I’ve been waving around like it’s the hot lunch special. I fold down into child’s pose, curled over in a ball, chest on my knees, my arms stretched forward like I’m someone bowing to a king. It’s a resting pose, but the fact that I’m not doing the same thing as everyone else must look suspicious. I may as well have waved at him through my open legs.

I keep my eyes low as everyone comes out of downward dog, following along with the flow, and refusing to look back at him. I do my best to focus on my breath, on proper alignment, on balance, but my limbs feel like noodles and my breathing has shallowed.

Inhale. Exhale.

Focus on your breath, Esme! Not the hot man behind you, who’s gotten enough face-time with your ass to imagine every “from behind” fantasy imaginable. I hope the sweat beading down my back is from the workout and humidity, not the warm trill humming in my core.

Finally, we lay back on our backs, palms up, flat as corpses for Shavasana. It’s the last pose of every session, where you feel the bliss state of your workout zing through your body. It’s supposed to be a tiny hint of enlightenment—pure peace, emptying your mind and opening a silent window into meditation. But rather than stripping the world away and taking me into my happy place, I can’t get comfortable.

My brain is on fire. My body a mix of fluttering sensations and yearning. It’s exactly everything Shavasana is not supposed to be. I try to calm myself for several more breaths, but it’s just not happening. So, rather than lying here filling up with more annoyance and frustration, I decide to leave.

I sit up silently, doing my best to be as quiet as possible and not bother anyone. Standing up, I grab my mat, not taking the time to roll it up, and folding it awkwardly. Sand whooshes off it and hits Desmond’s feet behind me. Shit! It’s the first time I truly look at him. He doesn’t budge, lying on his back, eyes closed and completely peaceful, wearing tight shorts and a long tank top. I try to push away the fact that this is what he was supposed to look like when he flipped over on my massage table—blissed out and relaxed, not humiliated and embarrassed.

He doesn’t stir as I walk by him, despite the sprinkle of sand that floats off of my mat and onto his arms. I keep walking and don’t look back, knowing the absolute best thing I can do is leave as fast as possible so there’s no interaction between us, no awkward hello, no pretending I didn’t see him behind me with his prime view of my butt. All I have to do is act like he doesn’t exist. It’s the perfect strategy.

I speed walk past the cabanas and pool and jet into a private women’s restroom that’s off the side portico. It’s a lesser-known bathroom, hidden by a grove of palm trees and the towel station. I use the bathroom counter to roll up my mat and wash the sand off. I splash cold water on my face and all over my neck, savoring how the cool water drips between my shoulder blades.

Obviously, sunset yoga is out. At least until his film wraps. Heck, I might need to sign up at a completely different studio across town to avoid him!

Did he know I’d be at this yoga class? He obviously made special arrangements with the concierge since there was a line of resort employees dressed in white, creating a perimeter around us. Did Arie tell him what class I’ve been going to? I shake my head and grab my mat. I already know the answer to that question. I storm out of the bathroom, trying to remember where the nearest elevator is with rooftop access to Flambé. I’m going to tear my sister’s head off!

“Your yoga technique is impeccable.”

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