order?”
“Steamed fish, green beans and fresh fruit.”
“Are you cra—” He stopped. Evidently, she was crazy. And he could always change the order after he got rid of her. “Sounds great,” he managed to say.
“No, it doesn’t. At least not to you.” She held out her hand. “Before you eat your snack, hand me your phone.”
“You’re taking my phone?”
“I’m turning off the ringer. This won’t do you any good if we’re interrupted.”
In the hopes of getting the whole thing over with as soon as possible, he gave her the phone and forced himself to eat the snack. His evaluation? Organic, no-sugar-added peanut butter sucked. He’d kill for some fries and a cheeseburger. And plenty of salt.
Later, that’s just what he’d have.
“Shall we begin?” she asked when he pushed the empty plate aside.
They started off with their legs crossed, while she taught him how to breathe. Since he had nearly thirty-four years of experience at that, he figured he wouldn’t have any problems. But, oh no, he’d been breathing wrong all this time. Not deep enough or in the right rhythm or position.
Plus, he usually had his eyes open while breathing. How backward can you be?
When he grumbled, she got frustrated, told him his energy was misplaced and he was missing the point.
No kidding.
Cobra turned out to be a position where he had to lie on his stomach, straighten his arms and bend his back in a way it couldn’t possibly be meant to bend.
She encouraged, coaxed and eventually pushed his body into so many odd positions, he didn’t think he’d ever stand erect again. He didn’t see how any of it could help his knee.
“One last cleansing breath,” she said—finally. Then, moments later, she commented, “Now, don’t you feel better?”
He opened his eyes to see her standing in front of him, a pleased smile on her face. “I don’t think I can get up.”
“Try.”
With minimal pain and only a slight grimace, he managed to uncross his legs, then wobble to his feet.His muscles twinged in protest as he straightened. Maybe she planned to make every other part of his body ache so his knee would be the least of his problems.
As if satisfied, she nodded. “In a few weeks, you won’t be able to sleep without going through that routine.”
So much for positive thoughts.
He focused instead on his new yogi—a yoga master, he’d learned—and her compact, subtle curves, shown off by her clinging outfit. Her regimen of torture certainly kept her fit.
Maybe he had put on weight since the accident. He hadn’t stepped on a scale in years. What was the point? His mass didn’t have to be figured into the weight of the race car anymore. So if he wasn’t driving and sweating off nearly four pounds every week, if his limited mobility had added a few pounds, who really cared? If his stomach wasn’t as solid as it used to be, who saw his body anyway?
He’d been mostly celibate for months, which was mostly lousy, but he didn’t want to get involved with anybody. He was busy running a race team and didn’t have time for the drama of a relationship.
But if he did have desire to get into better shape, if doing so would alleviate the pain in his knee, were steamed fish and strange body positions the only way to go? Couldn’t he box or jog or do push-ups?
Remembering the last time he’d done push-ups, hestruck those off the list. And he couldn’t run anymore because his knee wouldn’t let him jog more than half a dozen steps without collapsing beneath him.
It was possible his trainer’s lifestyle had merit.
“You don’t have any problem sticking to this fish and yoga stuff?” he asked her.
She smiled serenely. “Not at all. You won’t, either. You’ll see. It’ll change your life.”
“You don’t ever crave cheeseburgers or brownies?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not.”
“You don’t have any vices? No bad habits at all?”
“Nope.” She crossed the room and picked up her
“Steamed fish, green beans and fresh fruit.”
“Are you cra—” He stopped. Evidently, she was crazy. And he could always change the order after he got rid of her. “Sounds great,” he managed to say.
“No, it doesn’t. At least not to you.” She held out her hand. “Before you eat your snack, hand me your phone.”
“You’re taking my phone?”
“I’m turning off the ringer. This won’t do you any good if we’re interrupted.”
In the hopes of getting the whole thing over with as soon as possible, he gave her the phone and forced himself to eat the snack. His evaluation? Organic, no-sugar-added peanut butter sucked. He’d kill for some fries and a cheeseburger. And plenty of salt.
Later, that’s just what he’d have.
“Shall we begin?” she asked when he pushed the empty plate aside.
They started off with their legs crossed, while she taught him how to breathe. Since he had nearly thirty-four years of experience at that, he figured he wouldn’t have any problems. But, oh no, he’d been breathing wrong all this time. Not deep enough or in the right rhythm or position.
Plus, he usually had his eyes open while breathing. How backward can you be?
When he grumbled, she got frustrated, told him his energy was misplaced and he was missing the point.
No kidding.
Cobra turned out to be a position where he had to lie on his stomach, straighten his arms and bend his back in a way it couldn’t possibly be meant to bend.
She encouraged, coaxed and eventually pushed his body into so many odd positions, he didn’t think he’d ever stand erect again. He didn’t see how any of it could help his knee.
“One last cleansing breath,” she said—finally. Then, moments later, she commented, “Now, don’t you feel better?”
He opened his eyes to see her standing in front of him, a pleased smile on her face. “I don’t think I can get up.”
“Try.”
With minimal pain and only a slight grimace, he managed to uncross his legs, then wobble to his feet.His muscles twinged in protest as he straightened. Maybe she planned to make every other part of his body ache so his knee would be the least of his problems.
As if satisfied, she nodded. “In a few weeks, you won’t be able to sleep without going through that routine.”
So much for positive thoughts.
He focused instead on his new yogi—a yoga master, he’d learned—and her compact, subtle curves, shown off by her clinging outfit. Her regimen of torture certainly kept her fit.
Maybe he had put on weight since the accident. He hadn’t stepped on a scale in years. What was the point? His mass didn’t have to be figured into the weight of the race car anymore. So if he wasn’t driving and sweating off nearly four pounds every week, if his limited mobility had added a few pounds, who really cared? If his stomach wasn’t as solid as it used to be, who saw his body anyway?
He’d been mostly celibate for months, which was mostly lousy, but he didn’t want to get involved with anybody. He was busy running a race team and didn’t have time for the drama of a relationship.
But if he did have desire to get into better shape, if doing so would alleviate the pain in his knee, were steamed fish and strange body positions the only way to go? Couldn’t he box or jog or do push-ups?
Remembering the last time he’d done push-ups, hestruck those off the list. And he couldn’t run anymore because his knee wouldn’t let him jog more than half a dozen steps without collapsing beneath him.
It was possible his trainer’s lifestyle had merit.
“You don’t have any problem sticking to this fish and yoga stuff?” he asked her.
She smiled serenely. “Not at all. You won’t, either. You’ll see. It’ll change your life.”
“You don’t ever crave cheeseburgers or brownies?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not.”
“You don’t have any vices? No bad habits at all?”
“Nope.” She crossed the room and picked up her
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